This chapter is kind of a celebration (even though it was yesterday) of my one year anniversary of being on this site! Whoot! It's been an incredible year, you all have been so kind and supportive, and I do not regret joining this site at all.
Let's keep on going for another year and many more to come. :)
*I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.*
"We must be killers,
Children of the wild ones."
~ Mikky Ekko: We Must Be Killers
Chapter 11: Killer
I've always wondered if death hurt.
Not the thing that causes death, for I know that is painful as hell, but the slipping away part.
One of my earliest memories of the old world include running around in my rectangular backyard, chasing a yellow butterfly. I couldn't have been more than five and the long blades of grass tickled my feet as I ran. It was a late summer afternoon and Mom and Dad were watching on the patio . . . happy and – and laughing. I can only guess that the concrete wasn't cracked yet and the garden Mom used to love so much was still intact and not devoured by weeds. The butterfly stopped to take a rest after a few minutes and that was when I reached out to touch it. One of its wings fell off when contact was made. I cried and cried because I killed the dang butterfly – they can't live without two wings – and my parents tried to explain that these things happen.
Why? Because it's nature and things die so others can grow.
I still asked why even though I really didn't care.
All I cared about was that I hurt the butterfly and it was probably in pain, fading out slowly somewhere.
Only animals don't talk so I never knew if that was true.
Darkness lies everywhere. There is nothing else but it. I am scared and alone and lost and gone – yeah – but I don't feel pain.
It doesn't even hurt at all.
The only problem is that I am trapped in a box of darkness with no light source around. I don't like being locked up or confined; that leads to panic attacks. I want to go into the woods, need to be far, far away where everything is truly good and I can practice what I was taught by hunting squirrels and rabbits; deer if I'm lucky.
A clicking sound reels me back in and then I feel it. I feel it all.
I feel the muzzle of the gun and runaway blood trails and pain and emptiness. I also can feel the light burning my eyes as they open; blinking down at my arms reminds me what the world has done to me.
My killer retracts the revolver. He thumbs the chamber, sliding it over one spot, and then it is locked into place again. I find myself staring down the barrel once more and my body stiffens. I'm already the walking dead, so just pull the trigger, stranger, and I'll float up into the air.
He does.
More clicking.
I'm still here.
"Most not be fully loaded," the man observes with some humor added to his tone. He flicks the chamber over another slot. "Third time's a charm, eh?"
Maggie gives in, "The prison." she slurs, shuffling forward while still covering herself. Merle doesn't let her get any closer and I stare wide-eyed at the woman.
Why'd you have to do it, Maggie? I was gonna . . . I was gonna . . .
You were gonna die is what. She just saved your ass.
"The one near Nunez?" Merle asks and I don't – I don't even know. Whatever part of Georgia we stumbled into is where it's at.
Martinez states that our home is overrun. And it was, it really was, but we took it and it was ours and don't take it away, please, don't. Please don't hurt them.
"We took it." more truth from Maggie.
The man isn't shoving the gun in my face anymore but it is still there. He talks to Maggie, "How many are you?"
"Eleven . . . We have eleven now."
"Eleven people cleared that whole prison of biters?"
We had more.
I'm forced to look at him again, gun on my chin now. "Is this true? Huh?"
I give him a hard stare before I answer, "Yes."
He nods, rolls his tongue over his bottom teeth. "Good . . . good . . ."
And then he is backing away, the gun is gone. Maggie gets pushed to Glenn. She cries into his embrace and he just holds her close because that is all he can do. You can't take away the pain, it still stays.
The door slams shut.
My stunned body decides to stop functioning again and I fall back onto the floor.
Maggie's sobs haunt my mind.
Glenn and Maggie join me on the floor minutes later, our backs against the wall. Maggie wears his shirt and she claims that she's okay; how they barely touched her. I stare down at my palms as she talks because they are torn to hell. My head still pounds. The only good thing is the cuts on both my lip and cheek have stopped bleeding for the most part.
"All this time runnin' from walkers – " Maggie sniffles. "you forget what people do . . . have always done." I forgot for a little while and yeah, I'll admit to it, too. When you're with good people and it's just us and walkers, it is hard to remember what was. My eyes travel to the blood smeared all over Glenn, the shaking Maggie – what still is.
"I had to do it," Maggie is saying to me, "I couldn't just let it happen."
She had to give up our family and our home. At first I was just a tad bit upset, but those feelings are long gone now. They are as far away as that Stephen King novel Glenn found for me at the "jackpot store" or my bow. I can't even feel that happiness anymore.
And so I say, "I get it."
"I guess it would be the same way with Beth, y'know? I mean, God – look at what they did to the two of you,"
Glenn says it doesn't matter.
"I tried to fight back." I tell them, toying with the shoelace on my left boot that was once tighter. "I had a glass shard, I was gonna do it, but then it was just over . . . That was it."
The body that has been here since I was returned to this room lies lifeless in the back corner. It was a walker; Glenn told Maggie that when she asked, and Merle threw it in while a member of my family was still duct taped to a wooden chair. Son of a bitch . . .
It's a wonder he's Daryl's brother.
Everything is supposed to get quiet, then, but Glenn doesn't let it. Pushing off the wall, he stands with a groan. I watch from the floor as he stumbles over to the dead walker, his body crumbling into itself. He clutches his side as he kneels down – might have a broken rib or something, can't be sure, though Hershel would know. I miss the old vet. I miss him and Daryl and Carl and Rick and Beth and even – even the wailing baby. Or Little Asskicker. But that's what Daryl called her so it hurts . . . The prisoners weren't that bad either.
I don't really think they're coming anymore; can't really track a car.
Glenn's hands find the long-gone biter's arm and his boot presses down on its chest. And in two painful tugs, that arm comes off the body; all slimy and rotten and bloody and dead . . . I was supposed to be the dead one.
I'm on my feet with Maggie. None of us speak as Glenn breaks the arm by repeatedly stomping on it. I could do that, for I have enough anger to, but my legs are too stiff and numb to move. Glenn digs out the bones in the forearm – I don't know what they are – and I can't help but scrunch my face up at the sight.
"River?" he says my name in a steady tone. It carries over his shoulder, but he doesn't look at me because that would hurt too much.
"Yeah – "
He turns slowly, setting something hard in my hand. "Remember when I said I had a plan . . ." his voice dies off.
I look down to see a sharp bone – which has been mostly cleaned off – resting in the messed up palm of my hand.
Glenn finishes, "They should be back soon."
We've all done the worst kind of things just to stay alive.
Yeah, Rick, we have.
My green eyes glide to the door.
We will.
Three men return, but Merle is the only one I recognize.
Glenn takes them all by surprise when he bursts through the door, pushing the danger back. Maggie and I advance in quickly as the plan goes into action. She slams a guy with brown hair up against the steel wall, shoving the pointy end of the bone into his neck. He screams in agony as blood spews everywhere and that is when I kick the other man – the one with sandy blonde hair – in the knee because I'm not big enough to face him head on. The man falls to the floor and my hand shakes as I push the bone into his neck like Maggie did, trying not to think about it too much. I turn away slightly and squeeze my eyes shut as the blood coats my hands and the struggling and yells of pain from my victim begin. I've never killed someone before and I didn't know this man, but someone did – they had to.
I feel his hand grip onto one of mine that are wrapped around the bone.
Merely hours ago, I was on my knees about to get a bullet in my head from a shiny revolver. The man – my killer – was too proud and sure of himself for his own good. My ears have picked up on the title "Governor" floating around the halls and maybe that is his name, perhaps not. The point is, though, this time around I'm the killer.
And that terrifies me.
I'm sorry.
I add more pressure onto the wound, afraid he might have enough strength left to push me off.
I'm sorry.
My head turns to him and I just watch as the life slips out of the man. It's so scary and I don't like it one bit that I can pinpoint the exact moment he takes his final breath, mouth ajar and eyes just staring at me.
How could you?
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
His hand falls from my wrist and I kick his lifeless body away. His blood stains my hands, all of the red. My kill, I did this, me, me, me . . .
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I am a killer.
Gunshots ring out and I drop down even though I am not sure what is happening. Both Glenn and Maggie are on the ground, Merle is, too. He's still alive. Merle grabs Glenn and pins him down and I try to do something, but I come up with nothing. This is where Maggie steps in, though, and she grabs the gun that was once firing – aims it at Merle. He has the blade on Glenn's throat.
"Let him go!" she screams as the gun clicks. I get to my feet, heat racing and head buzzing.
Merle's eyes wander, he says okay. A tiny twinge of hope goes through me but it disappears when I can feel a gun digging into the back of my head.
And so we lose the game again.
The three of us are dragged back into the room and shoved onto our knees. There are more people than ever in here.
I think it really is game over this time.
Merle circles us in his usual cocky gait, "Glad we could catch up . . ." His voice is drawn out so I can hear him until the circle is complete. I take a deep breath, chest aching. My thoughts that usually spiral down into nothing take refuge in the good section of my head.
"The story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their lands on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way from exposure and disease and starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared. So the elders, they said a prayer – asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, give them strength and hope. The next day the rose started to grow where the mothers' tears fell."
"So this one bloomed for my mom, then, huh?"
"Yeah."
A sack is shoved down over my head. Everything becomes dark again.
"Big Dipper."
My arms get yanked forward and I feel something sticky start to wrap around my wrists, bonding them together. Duct tape.
"I couldn't find it for a while, but I got it now."
The memories get yanked away as I'm pulled to my feet. Poof.
Barking orders from strange voices, "On your feet – move!"
I trip over a foot since my vision is absent, get pushed forward by someone else. "Come on, let's go!"
If only I could see, you know? I have to bite my tongue to hold that one in . . .
Every step is frantic and feels misplaced. My vision is gone, most of my feeling, too – key factors in being a hunter. And then my hearing disappears for a second, too, as an explosion goes off. This knocks me off of my feet, nobody forces me back up, and there goes my breathing as smoke fills up my lungs.
I get grabbed as the whole room goes into a coughing fit and I try to fight back, but I can't even breathe.
The sack is removed. It feels like submerging from being underwater. My vision blurs from the smoke but I can still make out the face in front of me to be Daryl. He cuts the duct tape with a quick swipe.
Wait . . . Daryl?
He helps me up, leads my broken body away. I don't understand and there is no time to either because before I know it, we're outside and the night air feels cool on my skin. We jog down a street, like a street in an actual town, and the buildings look how they did before everything. This can't be real . . .
Oh, but it is. It is because here is Rick with Glenn and Maggie, and Oscar in his blue jumper. They came for us; they saved us – but how? They couldn't have known, shouldn't of.
But they did.
A door is opened and I'm through it before I even realize. Glenn falls to the floor in a heap with Maggie. I don't examine the room like I usually do. Daryl had me the whole way from the torture chamber and he doesn't let go of me now. He quickly looks over my bruises and cuts with a grazing thumb. There is not much time. When his eyes settle on my palms, though, he twitches and reaches back to pull out a red rag from his pocket.
Daryl asks, "Which one is dominate?"
I think for a second. "Right."
He goes to work and swiftly wraps the material around my right hand, covering the sensitive skin. A gun much like the one that was supposed to end my life is nudged into my wrapped hand. I can barely look at it. "Might have to shoot, don't know yet,"
I don't reply because in the rush of everything, I managed to catch a glimpse of something. Something – or someone – is lurking in the back; not completely important but still there.
I think I am seeing ghosts.
