August 2010
The sun's drifting west enough that Shane thinks about two hours have passed when the rugged trail finally reaches the edge of a field so similar to the one at the Greenes that he has to do a double take.
But the house in the distance is a little stone building nothing like the ramshackle old farm house belonging to Hershel Greene. As easy as stumbling across the Greene farm might make his mission, he doubts that place will be safe to return to anytime soon.
"Look at that, Sophia. I'm betting whoever lived here owned the cabin."
She looks ahead, curious. She's been a trooper in the woods, keeping pace with him and not asking to stop even when he suggested they share a bottle of water. The day's heat is already compounded by humidity, and he knows she'll dehydrate faster than he will, normally.
"Do you think anyone's still here?"
He shakes his head. "It's overgrown too much. If someone was still here, they would have either cut the grass or there would at least be trails where they went between the house and barn and fields."
Unlike Hershel's farm, with pastures of cattle around and only a personal use garden, this one is set up for growing crops. He can see an orchard beyond the house, probably peaches considering they're in Georgia, and the field they're at the edge of is definitely peanuts. Shane's certainly seen enough of those growing in his years in King County.
"So what are we going to do?"
He likes that she's not rushing off, but checking on the plan before moving onward.
"We're going to take this carefully. Right before the other farm fell, our people came across some real bad guys. Tried to kill Rick, Glenn, and the farmer we were staying with. Not everyone we meet is gonna be friendly, you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
And he can see in those crystal blue eyes that, yes, more than Carl can comprehend at this stage of life, Sophia does understand what he's trying to impart to her. Daryl Dixon was rattled as hell when he came out of that shed, and Shane can still hear the echo of his statement that their women would wish they were dead.
"The man that survived attacking Rick and Glenn said something to Daryl that really scared him about what they would do to women and girls. Men you don't know, Sophia, you run. You run like hell no matter what happens to me, you got it?"
She nods, comprehension advancing from the general strange men are dangerous concept to the one he wants her to have, about exactly what type of dangerous. He doesn't want to terrify her, but he wants her alert and aware.
That accomplished, he scans the fields and farm ahead of them, assessing his best approach. The farm might have a vehicle, if they're lucky. There will be something to identify where they are. He needs more information to make a better plan.
Like many agricultural fields, this one is bordered by a row of trees. He points at the trees to the east versus the ATV ruts that lead to a dirt farm road to the west. "Easy route is to keep following the tracks, but the safer one is to stick to the trees."
"To keep hidden until we know if anyone's here."
"Yeah." With him dressed in the olive green T-shirt and camo pants, he'll blend in easily. By luck, Sophia's clothing choices from her first safe haven are jeans so worn they're more gray than black and a gray JROTC T-shirt that's slightly too large for her thin frame.
She falls in step behind him when he leads them from one treeline to the next. He keeps an ear out for anything approaching, knowing the girl's relying solely on him at the moment. It's a long hike to the farmyard, with the peanut field being at least forty acres. Through the treeline, Shane can see an identical field with its abandoned crop slowly growing toward maturity.
There's no more cover once they reach the fence that surrounds the farmyard. It's a simple rail fence, used more as a border than a deterrent to anyone entering the property. He studies the farmyard again now that he's closer in. There are three buildings: the little stone house, a big equipment barn, and a pole barn further off that holds the really big farm equipment like the harvester.
"What do you see, Sophia?" It's a game he used to play with Carl, teaching the boy to observe a situation through a cop's eyes. Rick never liked it and Lori loathed it, but he knows it teaches valuable lessons now.
"Lots of weeds and tall grass everywhere. No vehicles out in the yard." She squints in the hot sunshine, shielding her eyes. "Don't think there are walkers here, not outside at least."
"Why's that?" He knows what she sees, at least what he would take note of.
"There are chickens loose. If there were walkers, they would be there trying to eat them."
"Smart girl. Always, always pay attention to animals in the area if you think it might not be safe. They'll spook faster and have better senses, usually. Except for cats. Those crazy little bastards will just sit there and stare down anything wanting to eat them."
Sophia giggles, covering her mouth to keep the sound soft. "You don't like cats?"
"I like cats just fine. But they're fearless most of the time, because they're a predator themselves. Never a good barometer of what's going on. Birds and prey animals like deer are always a better bet."
"What about dogs?"
"Dogs are always a mixed bag on that. Some spook, some stand their ground, and some would turn over the family valuables for a belly rub. But if they do spook, pay attention. Something tells me most dogs are going to flee from walkers."
The ones that didn't run? Shane's pretty sure those are probably gone by now under the process of survival of the fittest. Dogs who can't assess the difference between people and the voracious caricatures of them will end up as snacks. No point in telling the girl that.
She absorbs the input about dogs and returns to studying the farmyard. "One of the barn doors is open and it's closer than the house. Would we try there first?"
"That's my plan. Can see from here that it's more of an equipment barn than one for animals, so hopefully not a lot of hiding places for anything we don't want finding us."
Or reasons for a walker to wander in, since it won't have the leftover smells of farm animals that never leave a barn used for housing livestock. He can see a tractor through the roll-up door that's open, but the other two doors are still drawn down. It's no more than a hundred feet to that barn, so he climbs the fence and waits on Sophia to join him.
"Keep your knife close, alright? If anything does come at you, you've got to hit the head, so try to trip it or knock it down. That'll fix the height difference."
He taps his temple, glad for once that his buzz cut shows skull anatomy better. "This is the softest spot on the skull. Easier to hit than the eye, but that works too. Don't aim for the bony parts like the top unless you have to."
She looks terrified at the thought, but once again, he sees those shoulders square up when she gets information on how to handle a situation. She pulls the knife out of the sheath, even as he unholsters his Glock.
"Stay behind me."
She's whisper-quiet as she follows across the open space. The weeds brush against their clothing and wild blackberry vines grip at the fabric. No one's been here for at least the whole summer, he thinks, not with those so well established.
He pauses at the door to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside, glancing around. He's right that there's really no hiding place for anyone, dead or alive. It's just a big, open room housing the farm's smaller equipment, like the tractor they could see from the field. Toolboxes, discarded parts, and farm implements line the walls.
The other parts of the barn, the ones with the closed doors, provide parking spots for a big fifth-wheel travel trailer and a fairly expensive bass boat. He edges around to make sure nothing's behind the travel trailer that he can't see.
"All clear in here, but we check the inside of this too, if we can."
Sophia's still calm and trusting, so he leads her to where she can see in windows. "This can go two ways. Person probably wouldn't be hiding in there because they would end up dying of heat stroke closed up like that. But a walker?"
"A walker won't care about the heat," she finishes.
He nods and raps on the side of the camper, keeping it fairly quiet. He wants to alert anything inside the camper, not the whole damned farm. After he counts to sixty in his head, he repeats the gesture. When nothing else comes, he tests the door and finds it locked.
"Smart farmer. We used to bitch at people all the time for leaving campers and RVs unlocked in their yards or barns."
"Like how they do the things on the news about not leaving your car running in the morning when it's cold so it can warm up?"
"Exactly that. Always created a bunch of paperwork for thefts we probably weren't going to solve and could have been prevented." He sighs, scanning the barn one last time. His chest fucking throbs, so they need to get a move on.
The barn puts them close enough to the house now that he can get a better look at it. It's one-story, maybe a thousand square feet and probably twice as old as he is, by the architectural style. He can't see the back from the barn door, but the minimal front porch has a pair of rocking chairs and a bunch of dead house plants.
"See any movement in the windows?" he asks Sophia. All of the ones on the two sides of the house he can see have the curtains pulled back. Whoever lived here liked their sunlight, he guesses.
She watches intently for a few minutes and shakes her head.
"We're going to aim for the front door. Just in case, when we get there, you're going to stay just off the porch, to the right, while I go up on the porch, okay?"
"Like on TV when the second cop stays a little behind?"
"Just like that. But remember what I told you about running?" She nods, and he prays she's brave enough to hold to that promise. He doesn't intend to let anyone, living or dead, take him down, but he's injured and nowhere near where he should be mentally.
There's so little cover that he just crosses the farmyard at a run, hearing Sophia keep pace behind him. He reaches the porch, glancing to make sure she stays put where he told her to be, and steps into position to the left of the door before rapping on the glass in the screen door.
Through the living room window, he can hear the muffled sounds of growling. He sighs, but at least a walker inside means probably no one living. He steps to the window and peers inside, seeing a long-dead woman in a pink house dress bumping her way around. She was probably in her sixties or more when she died and looks to weigh about a hundred pounds on her heaviest day.
She's caught in the kitchen area he can see, the long bar dividing the room keeping her trapped due to some sort of microwave cart that wouldn't stop a living, thinking human, but acts like a bit of a stopper to a dead one. He raps on the window this time, waiting to see if anything comes from the hallway opening he can just glimpse, but nothing stirs.
With any luck, she was home alone when she died, but he doubts a woman of that age ran the farm solo. They'll have to keep alert for a husband or farm hand, just in case.
He signals Sophia to come up on the porch. "How much do you really want to learn, kiddo?"
She needs to learn to take down a walker, and this petite grandmotherly type will be good practice. But he's also not going to force the issue. Even he's not that big of an asshole.
Sophia looks through the window, spotting the walker and bites at her lip, knowing what he's asking. "You'll help me?"
"Of course." Since she's agreed, he opens the screen door and reaches up to slide the stopper out to prop it open. If they have to leave in a hurry, he doesn't want it slowing them down. "I'll go in first. I'm going to knock it down and hold it for you. Where should you stab?"
"Right here." She taps her temple, imitating him from before. He eases his backpack off and sits it on the porch, and she follows suit with her bag. He reaches for the long-handled hand cultivator left against the porch rail after tucking his gun in his holster.
She tightens her grip on the knife as he tests the knob. It turns, not surprising on a country house, and he eases it open, keeping a close eye on the walker granny. Once the door's open, he enters first, drawing the attention of the growling creature. With meals on legs coming its way, it finally hits the gap just right to get past the cart and stumbles toward them.
Before it can be a danger to either of them, he flattens it onto the floor by sweeping its legs with the handle of the tool. Its head strikes the bar with a sickening crunch, but it's still moving. He plants one boot on a flailing arm and uses the tool to pin the other arm. The walker can kick, but she can't fight his weight.
"I got her, Sophia. Try it, if you can."
Convincing her she can put a knife in what once was a living being is harder than her shooting it, but it's the more important skill. She may not always have a gun or ammo, but picking up something that can bludgeon or stab? That's a lot easier to find, but harder on the psyche to actually do.
She stumbles forward and tags the walker right where he told her to. The hunting knife sinks in easily, and he sees her shudder.
He knows what she's just felt: that indescribable moment when the knife breaks through bone into soft brain matter beyond. It's enough to stall her, even endanger her, to experience it in a fight.
"You okay, Sophia?"
She nods, not quite looking up at him, and pulls her knife out of the dead woman's skull. She reaches for a roll of paper towels on the bar counter and cleans the blade, tears slipping down her face.
"Shit, kiddo, don't cry." He fucking pushed her too far, too fast. She's a damned little girl, not a rookie cop.
"S'okay. It's just…" she sighs, unable to find the words. She rubs at her face with a clean paper towel. "Gross sounds like a little kid. I know she's not alive anymore."
"First time I had to kill one that wasn't with my gun, I vomited right outside the front door. No shame in your instincts telling you it ain't right to put a knife in someone." Hell, shooting them's no picnic either, but at least then you don't feel the reverberation through your body of the weapon's impact into rotting flesh.
She studies the walker on the floor for a minute, and he moves the cultivator and his foot so he's not crushing the body. "Sure it wasn't the smell that made you throw up?"
That's when he's more sure that the kid's going to be alright. If she can push past the discomfort and crack a joke, she's already halfway to the coping mechanisms first responders use.
"That might have been a good part of it," he admits.
Sophia looks around the small living room and goes to fetch a little afghan from the back of the couch. She drapes it over the walker's head and upper torso with a sigh. It doesn't really hide the damage, but it disguises it enough that they aren't staring right at the poor corpse.
"I guess she's the only one in here or we would know by now, right?" she asks.
"Yeah. Made enough noise to alert anything." He hefts the long-handled tool anyway and steps into the narrow hallway opening. There's just two bedrooms, one on either side of a pristinely clean bathroom.
He clears both bedrooms, glad that the residents weren't clutter collectors like half the old folks he's come across. There's nothing dangerous in either, not even the closets and he sees no movement aside from chickens outside any of the windows. He shuts the front door and locks it after sliding their bags inside. It'll give them a bit of a respite to search the house. He leaves the cultivator near the door.
With any luck, the woman is the type who never tosses old meds and forgot to finish an antibiotic prescription at some point.
"I can hear the fridge humming," Sophia says, head tilted as she listens.
"She must have had a generator out here. Probably propane if the fridge is still running after this long." He steps to the kitchen window and sure enough, he can see the beige metal box that commonly houses non-portable generators and a big propane tank beyond it. He can also see the corner of a screened porch.
He flips a light switch, but those don't work. "Must have it hooked up to just run the essentials to save on fuel."
Just to be fully safe, he carefully opens the back door, but there's nothing on the screened porch but wicker patio furniture on one side, and a big chest freezer on the side nearest the generator. He lifts the lid and sure enough, it's still working and about half full of food.
When he steps back into the house, Sophia's running water in the sink, just idly watching as it cascades over her finger. When she snatches her hand back with a grimace, he realizes she was testing the hot water heater to see if it was working.
"I know we need to get on with searching, kiddo, but if there's hot water, we might need a good cleanup while we've got it." She's been making do with sponge baths for days, he suspects, and he can't imagine using that bucket and towel got him anywhere near clean enough with an open chest wound.
When it earns him a bright smile, he knows it's the right decision.
"How about you go see if the shower works?"
She grabs her bag and scampers into the bathroom quickly enough to confirm she wanted the temporary luxury of hot running water, but wasn't willing to ask for it.
They can't stay, both because they need to look for the others and because farms like this are bound to be targeted by men like Randall's group. But he can at least give her this much of a break from the hell she's survived the last few weeks.
With a sigh, he sets himself to a thorough search of the house for clues on where they are and where they need to go next.