There's no surprise in Rick's glare when he sees me return with Dad, which means he figured out I sneaked off before I could sneak back. I lower my head in a little apology, but he doesn't mention it – something's up. The group is huddled. Why? I tense my shoulders as Rick hands Dad a piece of paper. FROM A FRIEND, it reads in black blocky letters, and then I see the problem: Water. Ten bottles, four jugs, sitting neatly in the road.
I scrape my cotton-ball tongue around my mouth and go to Carl, who's holding Judith. I touch her back, wonder how much water babies are supposed to have, and gather that Carl's pissed off at me with one look. I left without telling him, we've been through all that before. It's tiring.
"What else are we gonna do?" Tara says. She eyes the water hopelessly, like it's a trophy she knows she'll never win.
"Not this," says Rick. "We don't know who left it."
"If that's a trap, we already happen to be in it." Eugene is staring at the collection of water like – well, exactly like you'd expect. Like a man dying of thirst. "But I for one would like to think it is indeed from a friend."
"What if it isn't? They put something in it?" Carol asks. No one has an answer. I mean, we all have an answer, but none of us want or need to say it. If someone put something in the drink, we could die, or get sick, or fall asleep and wake up in another Terminus or another Woodbury. We can't risk it.
Not most of us.
But Eugene, he decides he can, I guess, because he swoops in and snatches up one of the bottles and says, "Quality assurance," before unscrewing the cap, lifting it to his lips – and having Abraham knock it right out of his hands. Water splashes across Eugene's face, but he didn't get a real gulp in. His mouth hangs open and his eyes are just as wide. I don't really get it, because I thought Abraham was through with Eugene, but fine. All things considered, I don't want Eugene to die. But I do want water. I'm jealous that he's covered in it. I'm only covered in sweat and dirt.
Abraham moves back, eyes on anything but Eugene, mouth tight, and Rick tells Eugene, in a final way, "We can't."
Before Eugene can argue, or anyone else can speak, we're interrupted by – of all things – thunder. I realize I have no shadow. Black specks start to pop up on the asphalt and cold drops begin to streak down my face, and I lift my eyes up to a gray sky just as it really begins to pour.
. . . . .
We take shelter in the barn Dad and I found. We stay there through the night. It's a rough one. There's no way we could have gotten just enough rain to hydrate ourselves, and then not have a rough night, no . . . That would have been too easy. The place was already clear, except for a walker holed up in a feed room in the corner. It was a woman. She died alone.
The rain, the wind, it all comes down on this old barn, and I try to sleep, we all do, but I know it's hard for most of us. Because of the storm, and other things.
My head's next to Carl's, but he's not talkative. He made sure I drank enough water, and he hasn't said anything mean, but he's hurt, again, that I did something without telling him, again. I can't blame him. I spend most of my time doing stupid things that don't amount to much and that hurt him. I'd be angry, too.
Though I like to think I'd at least try to understand, if whatever stupid thing he did was something he felt he had to do.
Late in the night, when I almost feel like Carl and I are alone because of how muffled the rain is making everything, I ask if he's awake. His eyes open immediately. We're lying facing each other in the back of the barn, but a couple of feet apart, since we're not allowed to touch when we're sleeping. Actually, I don't think anyone, even my dad, would care right now. But Carl and I didn't even talk about it before we lay down at a distance.
"I'm sorry I left without telling you," I whisper.
He just watches me, and I'm wondering whether or not he heard me when he says, "Did it fix anything?"
"I don't know."
"You haven't talked to him since."
"I think we're better than we were before . . . Are we okay? You and me?"
"We're always okay," he says before rolling over. I say his name. He doesn't look back.
At one point in the night, walkers start trying to come through the double-doors. I think they want to stay dry, too. There's a chain on the doors, but enough walkers could break through it, or break through the wood itself, and from the groans I hear when I'm jolted up by pounding and shouting, the herd that wants in here could do it, could push right in.
Dad, Maggie, and Sasha are pushing against the door when I wake up, just the three of them trying to hold back the walkers fighting to get in, but everyone but Judith is at the doors before the worst part of the night is over. We press against the wave of walkers with all we have, our boots scraping in the mud below us. We slip, we recover, we push some more, grunting, gasping, crying out, as loud as the walkers, as loud as the storm. Carl and Noah press against the door right beside one another. So do me and Leah. No time for fighting amongst ourselves right now, only time for survival. Rain and sweat fly and mix as we push, desperate.
That's how we live our lives. Desperately. Just getting by, every time. Is this how it's always going to be? Desperate?
I'm totally on board with getting to DC. Because it's a shot. Because I don't want to spend the rest of my life feeling like this.
Eventually, the storm lets up.
It goes the way summer storms usually go, which is to say the same way they come – all of a sudden. The rain lets up. The wind quiets. And the walkers drift back. As they shuffle away, so do we, one by one, our legs dead and our arms, backs, everything aching. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a stabbing pain in my left hand and I touch my bandage. It's soaked through.
We have to get to DC. We have to get somewhere. Fact is, I probably don't have a choice.