I wrote this for Winter of Bethyl, prompt Footprints in the snow. A little late but hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading.
He followed the tracks in the snow for at least half a mile. Maybe more. They veered off the main path, what used to be a road, a while ago and he was beginning to wonder if following them was a mistake.
It hadn't taken long to see that the tracks weren't from a walker. They were too straight and purposeful to be the undead shuffling along. By his guess, the tracks were made by a woman, or maybe a teen. Even in his doubt, he followed. He needed to find shelter. Maybe even a community of some kind. He'd been on his own for way too long and really had no idea how he ended up here.
He only hoped whoever the tracks belonged to were friendly enough, or brave enough, to allow him, at the very least, a place to stay until this freak snowstorm passed.
He couldn't get a fire started because everything was soaked with snow and the freezing rain that came beforehand. His fingers and toes were numb. His head pounded. His body ached. His situation was becoming more dire by the minute. He hadn't eaten or drank in days. He knew better than to eat the snow, it was too cold and he'd end up with hyperthermia. The way things were going, though, it looked like he'd end up with hyperthermia anyway. He didn't quite feel the cold anymore and alarmingly he'd begun to sweat.
He zipped his coat tight up around his neck, trudging on, his legs were becoming weak, his mind muddled. The bootprints he followed were further apart telling him the person was moving quicker. Whoever it was was in a rush to get to wherever they were going. Probably wanting to get back to shelter. The footfalls were filling in fast with the downpour of fat snowflakes falling from the sky.
This may be a huge mistake -going off the main road - but to be honest he had no idea where the main path went any more than he knew where this path went. This path at least had some sign of life whereas the other one did not. He hadn't seen hide or hair of the living in months. Hadn't even seen many walkers. The few he came across were ragged with hardly any strength left. Didn't take much to bring them down with a knife through the temple. They must not travel this high up. He wasn't sure why he had either.
He felt as weak as the walkers he'd come across. Wasn't sure he'd be able to fight off any assailant that didn't like his presence on their mountain. Following these tracks was a huge gamble. People weren't exactly friendly and waiting with open arms when they came across a stranger.
The tree branches heavy with snow created a tunnel momentarily blocking the onslaught of snow. As he followed a bend in the path, a clearing emerged. He stopped and surveyed the area, his breath left frozen puffs of vapor in the air. The clearing was too perfect, too purposeful to be a work of nature.
He could almost see how it once was. The path, a driveway before it became overgrown with nature again. The scent of wood smoke hung heavily in the air. His line of vision followed the path and there, tucked up into the snow-filled trees, a chimney smoked from a snow-covered roof. He'd miss it if he wasn't necessarily looking for something, anything. The tracks he'd been following went right up to the house.
Thinking he must be imagining the little cabin in the snowy woods, he closed his eyes tightly and opened them again, thinking it would no longer be there. That it had been nothing more than a winter mirage. Yet it was still there.
He watched the cabin for other signs of life other than the smoking chimney. A yellow-orange light flickered behind the curtained windows. It wasn't dark yet but in the cloudiness of the storm, the light was noticeable.
He tried to take a step. His feet wouldn't cooperate. So tired that all he could do was lower himself down to his knees, the snow soaking through the layers of clothes. Get up, he told himself. Get up! His hand splayed out in front of him, fingers numb in the snow. Now he didn't feel anything. Not the penetrating cold and wetness. Not his aching body. He didn't know if his eyes were open or closed, darkness surrounded him.
A blur of fabric, a brush of a hand cupping his face. A far-off voice. He forced his eyes open a brief second. He had to be dead because the woman that stood above him was all white blending into the trees and sky above. His eyes closed again, in and out of awareness. He felt himself being moved, shoved to his side, flopped back onto something hard.
He tried to fight his way back to consciousness, his eyelids were too heavy. His mind wouldn't cooperate. Eventually, he was lulled by the darkness that lay beyond his level of awareness and he gave in to it.
When he woke again, he was laying on a mattress, a lumpy one but it was a mattress nonetheless. He hadn't slept on a mattress in ages. He felt weak, so weak that the heavy blankets laid out on him held him down. He didn't like that feeling. He forced his arm up and out of the cover that was pulled up to his chin. Then kicked a foot, inching the blanket down a bit, suddenly aware he was shirtless. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light. A fireplace, roaring with flame was to his right. The rest of the room was covered in shadows and candlelight. Sweat beaded his forehead.
"Easy now," a voice came from nowhere. Then the person appeared from the dimly lit half of the room. He shoved backwards ready to pounce, every bone in his body aching with the movement and the realization came crashing down that he probably wouldn't be able to protect himself from anyone in his weakened state anyway.
"You've been out for a couple days," the woman explained.
He blinked a few times, bringing her face into focus. She was young, blonde hair tied in a long braid that draped over her shoulder. She wore a green cable knit sweater and dark leggins. The fire reflected in her deep penetrating blue eyes. Her brow was creased with worry or concentration, he wasn't sure which.
He had to be dreaming. Or dead. No, he decided he must be dreaming because if he were dead there was no way he'd find himself in heaven being watched over by the likes of this woman.
"Thirsty?" She asked.
He nodded. His was throat raw and dry.
She took a glass jar filled with a clear liquid from a nearby end table and cupped the back of his head so he could take a sip. He eyed her warily. The water, though, was cold and it soothed his throat.
"Not too much now," she said and took the jar from his lips, laid his head gently back down on the pillow, placed the glass back on the table.
"Where am I?" He asked, his voice raspy with misuse.
"You are in my home. Outskirts of Senoia."
He questioned more to himself than her, "How the fuck did I get here?"
"If by 'here' you mean Senoia, I have no idea. If you mean inside my house, I transported you to the door using my wood cart then dragged you into here. You were completely out of it."
She disappeared into the shadows of the room again, leaving the room altogether. Listening he could hear her rummaging about and when she returned she had a basin and a cloth. She kneeled down next to him and began sponging his forehead and neck and shoulders with the dampened cloth. He wanted to shove her away but didn't have the strength and the water felt good on his hot skin.
"I need to go…" he began, trying to lean up on his elbows. What exactly did he need to do? Where was he going to go? He wasn't sure how he got here and his memory was fuzzy on what he was doing before he got here. He knew he didn't belong here, in this woman's house, being taken care of by a stranger. He felt the need to just… to just go.
"You need to rest," she told him gently, pushing his shoulders back. When he didn't try to get up again, she gave his forehead one last stroke with the soft cloth. Their eyes met, each waiting for the other to speak. Neither did.
His eyes grew heavy again and he didn't have the energy to keep them open. Blessed rest erased his mind momentarily of the rising panic and the need to flee.
When he woke again, there was light filtering through the well-worn fabric of the curtain's. He took in his surroundings. Small, yet tidy. Couch. Rocking chair pulled up next to the fireplace at the foot of the mattress he laid on. Narrow stairs along the far wall led up to what he guessed to be the loft. A railing lined the upper floor. The girl was nowhere to be seen.
The fire in the stone hearth was smoldering. He stared at the embers until his tired eyes burned, wondering why his mind was so foggy. Why he couldn't figure out how he ended up here. He'd gone out hunting and in search of people. Anyone, really. After losing Rick it just wasn't the same. Everyone scattered. Or died.
And then it had started snowing. Apparently, he'd gone further than expected. Blinking he slowly sat up. The jar was filled with water once again and sat on a low stool to his right. Reaching out he took a sip. It tasted fine. Cool, fresh. He didn't think the girl went to all the trouble of keeping him alive for however long just to poison him. He sat up the rest of the way and drank half the cup in three gulps. The water went straight to his bladder.
He kicked off the blankets and slowly stood, his jeans laying low on his hips. Swaying slightly as the room moved. Taking small steps, he made his way through a small darkened kitchen to a door. His boots were neatly placed on a rug. The flannel shirt he'd been wearing for months was hung on a hook next to the door along with his coat. The flannel had been washed, it was stiff from being hung dry. He slipped it over his shoulders and clumsily buttoned it, giving up after the bottom four buttons, and slid his boots onto his feet leaving the laces untied.
Cautiously he opened the door, peeking out. The remaining snow was blinding with the sun reflecting on it. No sign of anyone, including the girl. He went to the nearest tree and relieved himself. Turning back toward the house, a sound cracked in the distance. Instinctively he grasped for the knife that was usually at his hip, coming up with nothing, he turned toward the sound too quickly and his head swayed, his mind swam. His knees buckled.
Out of nowhere, she appeared. Putting her shoulder under his arm, grasping his wrist over her shoulder.
"Where the fuck is my knife?" He asked. Instead of sounding as irritated as he felt his words came out small and diminutive. "My bow?" That bow had been with him longer than just about any other human being. Other than Merle.
She was surprisingly strong, sturdy, as she led him back to the house. "They're put up"
"Put up?" He sneered, grouchily. If she was put off by his attitude, she didn't let on.
She made a noncommittal sound. "Don't worry. You can have them back when you are well enough to leave."
Once inside she lowered him to a chair at the small kitchen table and kneeled to take off the boots that he never laced.
"Don't gotta do that," he grumbled, protesting weakly, leaning back in the chair unsure if he could do it on his own. Even talking winded him.
Ignoring his objections to her help, she removed his shoes, lined them up by the door, taking off her own and doing the same. "Come on," she said, putting her arm under his again, helping him to stand. He wanted to argue, to push her away. He didn't need nobody's help. Except now, perplexingly, he did. And he hated it.
She lowered him onto the ratty yet surprisingly comfortable sofa. Taking the knitted afghan from the back of the couch, she covered his lap with it. She eyed his half-buttoned shirt as though she wanted to finish buttoning it for him but stopped herself. Instead, she stood with her hands on her hips. Needing to say something, do something.
"Hungry?" She asked.
He was surprised to find he was a little hungry. He shrugged a shoulder wanting to appear indifferent. Not wanting to put her out more than he already had.
"I'll be back," she told him and she disappeared into the kitchen.
He watched the bits of remaining firewood in the hearth crackle and spark and then die back down… thinking. This was the first time he'd gotten a glimpse of the girl, his apparent rescuer, in the light of day. Her eyes were serious and as blue and as clear as the sky in winter. Her skin was alabaster, as white and pure as the snow. Her hair remained in the braid as he'd noticed before, it trailed out of the green knitted hat. She wore a faded coat, and bib overalls with the knees patched with what looked to be old blue jean fabric. The wool socks on her small feet were also mended - with bright orange thread. This told him she was resourceful. By all appearances, she was here in the middle of the woods… alone.
Soon the room filled with the aroma of spice, garlic and something else? Carrots or some other rooted vegetable. His mouth watered when she returned with a bowl of steaming liquid.
She sat next to him on the edge of the cushion and holding the bowl she scooped up a spoonful of the soup. It smelled even better now that it was right in front of his face. There was no way he was going to allow her to feed him. He held up a hand. "I can do it." He didn't mean to sound harsh, he just wasn't used to anyone helping him.
"Ya' sure?"
He nodded and took the bowl and began spooning the liquid into his mouth as she stared on intently. It wasn't much more than broth, carrots a few pieces of potatoes, and dried rosemary; it was one of the best things he'd ever eaten. He ate almost all of it and she took the bowl before he had a chance to do it himself, even if he could have, back into the kitchen. He was inexplicably tired once again.
When she came back she mumbled quietly yet in a no-argument kind of way, that he needed to lay back down to rest. She helped him back to the mattress and pulled the heavy quilt back up to his shoulders. Before she pulled away he grasped her hand. Her eyes bore into his expectantly. If she was afraid - he wouldn't blame her if she was, being alone in her home with a strange man - she didn't show it. All he read in her boundless blue eyes was curiosity.
"Why are you helping me?"
She rolled her shoulder, in a noncommittal non-answer kind of way.
"Thank you." It was all he could think to say. It seemed so inadequate. Presumably, she quite possibly saved him from freezing to death in the snow.
She smiled, her eyes softening, kindness amplifying. "Get some rest," she told him.
"What's your name?" He asked, forcing his eyes open to see if she'd answer.
Beth.
Either she said it or he dreamt it. He wasn't sure which.
This wasn't the first stranger Beth had taken in. She'd help anyone she was able to. Food. Water. Medical aid. Directions on how to get off the mountain. To her, it wasn't a question of why but why not. Leaving someone that needed help felt inherently wrong.
Her daddy taught her that and a great many other things. She was certain she wouldn't have been able to survive the fall of society if she hadn't been raised by the man that raised her. He taught her everything she needed to know to survive.
Even before… before everything went to shit they'd take in people. A drifter. A family that lost their home to fire. A man fallen on hard times. A woman and her children trying to leave an abusive situation. It was important then to help those they could. Seemed more important now.
So much darkness prevailed over the world. It took her a while to realize it wasn't necessarily darkness. It was a rawness. A truthfulness that wasn't there before. Superficiality and fake pleasantries were a thing of the past. Brutal truthfulness had taken over. It was life or death.
Now all you had was the day, maybe the sun on your face, or the quiet snow swirling from the sky. Covering the ground with its peaceful quietude. There was a deep-seated honestly in the world now that she respected.
Not that there wasn't ugliness, but there had been ugliness before. This man, for instance, was proof of that. While she checked him over for bites or wounds, she saw his scars. Scars on his hands, his face. His back. The ones there on his back were old. The welts, pink, had faded and darkened to red. These were wounds that faded but never fully healed.
There was beauty in the ugly, tenderness in the difficult. Kindness in the pain.