West Georgia Correctional Facility, 25 miles
I blink at the sign in disbelief, waiting for it to change and say something different. My mind hasn't been too reliable lately. I blink again. Still, 25 miles. 25 miles. I can walk that in a day. I can be there today.
Amidst the elation also creeps up the dread. That awful dread that weighs heavy in the stomach, bubbling up like fluttering butterflies before I choke on them in my tight throat. I swallow, pushing past the racing thoughts of what-could-be. The thing is, I won't know what-could-be until I see it with my own eyes. Until I park this rusty old truck outside those prison walls, walk in, and find my brother.
Or not.
Or worse: maybe I will find my brother. Dead. Walking. Screeching, clawing, running toward me. I've envisioned it so many times that it now feels inevitable.
"One bullet left," I say aloud to myself. I hope I won't have to use it.
I take one last glance at the road sign before flooring it, careening this bumpy truck down the cracked road, the sun glaring on the muddy windshield. The rusted metal body squeaks as it shifts over the rough road. It feels like the truck will crumble at any bump in the gravel. I don't care though; I push my foot harder into the pedal and ride this road till the gas runs out.
/
It's late afternoon, judging by the sun, by the time the truck finally gives out, sputtering to a slow stop. With no other cars in sight, I've got to take the rest of the journey by foot. Can't be more than 5 miles now. If memory serves me right, the prison should be just down this road and to the left.
I'd only visited my brother once - 4 years ago. Dumb fuck got himself locked up not one week after leaving home in South Dakota to make a new life for himself down here in Georgia. My mom and sister never visited him. Not after what he did. But my dad wouldn't give up on the kid - couldn't give up on him. And now that my dad's gone, I can't give up on him either.
I rummage through my backpack and down the last of the water I have left. Even after the last drop hits my tongue, I shake the canteen, hoping for one more sip. My mouth is dry as chalk. My lips are cracked and sore. I curse at the empty canteen and chuck it back into my bag before heading down the road on foot.
Hours of walking brings me to an unusually orderly line of trees. My heart flutters at the sight. That must be it. It must be there, behind the trees. My tired body suddenly becomes light, a welcoming surge of energy jolts up my spine, and before I can stop myself, my legs are sprinting beneath me. My backpack shifts wildy side to side with each step. My tight jeans, doused in sweat, chafe against my dry skin, but I don't stop.
Not until I see those fences. That tower. That awful, ugly, beige building that looks like heaven to me now.
"Robert," I mutter breathlessly. "Please be here."
As I approach the chain link fence that surrounds the prison, I take note of the barbed wire up top. The only gate in the fence is locked with a thick chain. Unable to be patient, I drop my backpack on the grass and drop to my knees, plunging my bare hands into the hard topsoil, piercing through the wet grass, and lifting the earth up in chunks. Dirt flies past my face as the dig. Leaves crunch behind me. I freeze, craning my neck backward to see a walker exiting the woods, her decaying eyes locked on me.
"Shit."
I dig faster, my nails peeling away from my skin as dirt lodges beneath them.
"Come on," I curse myself. I dig and dig and dig until the fence pulls away from the earth. It's just a small hole, barely enough to fit my body through. I glance behind me to gauge the walker's distance from me only to see two more following behind her. I grab my backpack and catapult it over the fence then position my body feet first into the hole. As I wedge myself under the fence, I wince at the pain of the sharp metal dragging along my torso.
"Hey!" A man yells. He stands near the building, hands gripping a gun on his waist. I look back, halfway through the hole, to see the walkers gaining on me. Maybe ten feet back.
"Fuck," I say through an exhale, urging my body through the hole. Inch by inch, I make my way through until only my head is left outside of the fence.
I hear footsteps approaching, hoping it's the man coming to help and not the walkers coming to kill me. As I push my head through under the fence, gunshots ring above me, deafening me with a static ring in my ears. When I'm all the way through the fence, I sit up and look toward the woods. All three walkers lay dead not five feet from the fence.
"What the hell was that?" A woman yells near the prison. People exit the building and gather to watch. The man with the gun plucks me from the ground with a forcible grip.
"Get inside, everybody," the man yells to the group. Another man appears, his long hair covering his eyes, a crossbow in his hand.
"Get that cell ready, Daryl," the man commands as he grips my hands tightly behind my back. I wince in pain but am too confused and shocked by the sudden encounter to care. "Maggie, Glenn. Take care of this fence. Should be more walkers comin' now that I fired my gun." A young man and woman nod and walk past us.
"What the hell," I yell at the man, trying to turn to face him, but his firm grip keeps me locked in place. Before I can say anything else, a cold metal bar wraps around my wrists, locking tightly around them with a sharp zip. The handcuffs dig deep into my skin.
"Jesus, man, does it have to be so tight?" I ask, annoyed. I crane my neck to see the man. He's just a bit taller than me and much older. His face is clean - unlike mine - and hidden under grey stubble. His dark hair cascades over his forehead in sweat-dampened strands. His piercing blue eyes bore into me with an air of seriousness.
"I do the talking," he warns in a deep voice, pulling me alongside him with a tight grip on my forearm. We walk up the grassy hill leading to the large, bland prison. It's just as bleak and formless as I remember it. I can't help but dart my eyes in every direction, desperately searching for that familiar face. It doesn't take long before I realize it's just this small group of strangers: the man guiding me, the man named Daryl a few steps ahead, an older woman with short spiky hair, and the young couple at the fence.
"Are there more of you? Is there a man named Robert here?" I ask without really intending to - the words just fall out of my mouth. Months and months of travel has led me here. Countless sleepless nights, hundreds of walkers, some run-ins with less-than-savory groups of humans. But I pushed through nonetheless. For him. For me. For my dad's honor.
The blue-eyed man stops and squeezes my arm, his jaw clenched as tight as his grip on me. "I said I do the talking." He eyes me up and down before stopping at my gaze and holds there just long enough for me to feel uncomfortable. I bite the inside of my lip, looking away, and he continues walking us to the prison. It's not like me to back down, but I would be a fool to disobey at this point. I'm sorely outnumbered.
Inside is dark besides the tiny streaks of sunlight that pool in from holes in the ceiling and cracks in the high windows. It stinks with a metallic sting that lingers in my throat. A few more people stand huddled in the corner of the large room, staring at me like a zoo animal: an old man leaning on a crutch, a blonde girl cuddling an infant, and a young kid with shaggy brown hair. No sign of Robert. My heart drops at the thought of him not being here, but I shouldn't be surprised. I've always known my chances of finding him are extremely slim.
"Who's this," a voice asks. I turn to see the voice has come from the brown-haired kid in the corner.
"Nobody," the man gripping me answers. We approach one of the many barred cells that line the walls. Daryl unlocks one with a key and the man throws me inside. I stumble across the concrete and brace myself before slamming into the brick wall. Daryl pushes the sliding door shut and it locks with a loud bang. The blue-eyed man kneels and begins digging through my backpack.
"Hey, what the fuck," I begin to protest. He looks up at me as his hands pull out piles of clothes. He tosses them onto the floor without care.
"Carl, Beth, why don't you two head back into the commons for a moment," the man says as he tosses my metal canteen onto the floor. The sound echoes through the large room. The kids shuffle out, peering behind them with curiosity as they leave.
I clench my jaw, trying to contain the rage building within me. The invasion of privacy of this man tossing all my belongings onto a dirty floor in front of a group of strangers spectating pisses me off. But I can't do much about that now, staring down at him through a literal cage.
"I don't have anything you want," I yell, poking my face out through the thick steel bars. My face feels burning hot against the cold metal.
"Is that so?" He mocks as he pulls out my Glock pistol, twisting it around in the dim light.
"There's only one bullet in there," I say, as though that makes his discovery of it any more innocent. The man removes the clip, eyes it, and nods.
"My bullet now," he says in a low tone. The old man with the crutch steps forward.
"Hey now, Rick, you can't just take her belongings," he says. Although his voice is slow and shaky it still holds an inexplicable power. "We don't know her," he adds.
"Exactly," the man who I now know as Rick shouts, lifting his gaze to eye the old man. "We don't know her. We don't know what she wants or what she's capable of." The rest of the room tenses up at his sudden anger.
I roll my eyes and sit on the floor, defeated. The old man retreats out of the room as he shakes his head. Rick continues his scouring of my backpack. He pulls out my journal and flips through the pages, skimming each one with a determined stare. I say nothing even though I want to shout at him for it. Those are my words, my thoughts. I swallow the lump in my throat when I remember some of the more embarrassing diary entries. Rick closes the book shut and throws it on the floor. Once the backpack is empty, my things strewn about like they're worth nothing, Rick declares it safe. The rest of the group trickles out of the room, all heading toward the door opposite of my cell, where I assume the "commons" are located. When it's just me, Rick, and Daryl left, Rick carelessly grabs my things and shoves them back into the bag. He nods at Daryl who opens my cell door just long enough for Rick to throw the backpack inside. After they lock my cell, they both begin to walk away.
"Hey," I yell, shoving my shoulder into the bars to make them rattle. "Can't you at least take these cuffs off?"
Rick stops and turns on his heels, his eyes like a snake's zoning in on me, analyzing my fear. Daryl lingers by the door before Rick waves him away.
"I got this," he whispers to the man. "Tell Beth to start dinner."
Daryl nods and exits, leaving me alone with the man who locked me in here. After only seeing a handful of living humans in the past eight months, I catch myself staring at him, at his features. His straight brows, his high cheekbones, his casual white shirt draped loosely over his body. His boots clank slowly against the cement, each step echoing in the silent room. I'm caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Should I be happy to be around the living? To finally be where I've been searching for this entire time? Or should I be angry, enraged, that this man has sorely misunderstood my purpose here, threw me into a prison cell, and tossed around my few precious belongings like they're trash?
"Turn around," he demands as he lifts up a small key from his belt loop. I do as I'm told and place my cuffed hands at an opening in the bars. He grabs my wrist, inserts the key, and catches the cuffs that fall off of me. I sigh in relief and wince at the lingering pain from the tight metal. It takes a few pulses of my fingers for the pain to subside.
Rick begins to turn back toward the exit.
"Wait," I say, desperately. He stops, turning on his heels. I reach behind to pull a photo from my back pocket and lift it to his face. "If you see a walker who looks like this," I begin, my chest rising and falling with my shaky breath - the thought of Robert being dead knocks the air out of my lungs. I swallow and push past the fear. "If you see him, can you please use that one bullet and put him out of his misery?"
Rick looks at the photo, then at me. His eyes shift from distrust to pity. His once sharp features begin to relax. The tightness of his jaw is replaced with a gentle, barely visible frown. He offers only a nod before leaving. When the door slams shut behind him, all I'm left with is the echo, the setting sun, and my racing thoughts.