if the words that matter reach your face from floor
Malachi awoke from his nap groggy and whining for food around half past noon, and Beth had only just managed to get comfortable on the couch next to Daryl and slow her racing mind. She was relieved when the toddler awoke, finding herself slightly anxious for some sort of distraction from all her nagging worries about Rick Grimes and Jesus and the national news. Daryl had put on a different movie while he and Beth sat together and Mal slept, something she wound up not paying any attention to because she was continuously checking her phone, refreshing her email, and checking her text messages inbox. Daryl had seemed to be close to drifting off for a nap himself when his son began waking up, though if he'd noticed Beth's obsessive phone-checking, he hadn't made it obvious.
By the time they'd agreed to head into the kitchen and make themselves some lunch, there was still no more word from Jesus. Beth set her phone down and told herself that his messages would arrive whether she was there to read them immediately or not, so she may as well try to continue distracting herself from the vicious anxiety welling up inside her chest. Being close to Daryl seemed to ease it at least somewhat.
Part of her was still fighting not to confide everything in him – it was difficult to stand alone when she felt so weak and crumbly. But she reminded herself that if it was too much for her, then it was way too much for someone else. Especially Daryl.
She felt genuine smiles tugging at the corners of her mouth and light laughter briefly lifting the heaviness in her chest while she helped Daryl and Mal prepare lunch. Of course, Mal didn't help as much as he made more of a mess, and that was nothing compared to the mess he made while they sat at the table and ate together. But Beth and Daryl just laughed and took turns helping the toddler to keep the majority of his food out of his hair. Mal rambled on and on about their camping trip, retelling story after story even though they'd all been there to witness it themselves less than a day ago, and Daryl chuckled and nodded and reminded Mal of the snake they'd caught and the fish that he'd helped "Rosie" reel in. Mal's blue eyes widened and lit up and for a second, when Beth looked over at the small boy, she forgot all the terrifying thoughts that had been resting dormant in her head all day.
And for a moment, she was just a part of the family. When she looked over and met Daryl's strikingly-similar eyes and found a recognizable gaze that was focused solely on her, the feeling only intensified.
Jesus's messages didn't arrive until nearly half past four.
Beth and Daryl had spent the first half of the afternoon playing a board game called Mouse Trap with Mal, and then the toddler had wanted to play out a movie-like sequence with his toys, which took up the other half of the afternoon. During bathroom breaks, Beth checked her phone, forcing herself to briefly glance at her inboxes while resisting the urge to obsessively refresh the various news websites. Then, shortly after Daryl had suggested that he and Mal begin cleaning up the toys and preparing for supper, Beth found Jesus's instructions waiting for her.
She briefly slipped away to her bedroom while the boys remained occupied with picking up and organizing toys, rushing over to her bedside table and grabbing a pen and a small scrap of paper. Jesus had sent two emails and one text message, with the emails containing the address and the text containing the time – and an added note that made her stomach churn and her skin prickle with dread. Altogether, his directions read:
NW corner of E 90th and 2nd Ave. Tomorrow, 5:25 PM. Carelessness means death. 2 Samuel 22:38.
Beth felt a chill run through her body and that dreadful coolness at the back of her neck began to form, but she swallowed hard and forced it away. She didn't have to look up the meaning of his final message - all her years of Bible study had ingrained the verse into her mind, amongst countless others. And though it may have only been a coincidence, it so happened that 2 Samuel 22:38 had always been one of her daddy's favorite verses.
She immediately recalled it with a slight shiver, Hershel's voice echoing in her head: "I have pursued mine enemies, and destroyed them; and turned not again until I had consumed them."
Without another thought, she erased all the messages from her phone. She made sure to go back and double-check in a paranoid frenzy, erasing any and all messages from Jesus that were stored anywhere in her phone or mailboxes. She was left with a small scrap of paper reminding her of the time and place.
She began to wonder why Jesus would have her going out in the middle of the day – the middle of rush hour, no less – to a very populated part of the city to meet him, especially after directly telling her how serious any carelessness could affect her (as if she wasn't already more than aware). It seemed terribly out of character considering the extents he'd gone to in order to ensure complete privacy during their first meeting. And a few seconds later, after looking up the exact corner that his messages were directing her to, she realized it wasn't very far from the apartment building, and it was in a pretty busy part of the city.
Was this some kind of test?
She shoved the piece of paper into the drawer and set her phone atop the bedside table, then turned and left the bedroom, willing all of the swirling contradictions and theories that were floating around in her head to stay behind as well. It was a problem for another day – tomorrow, more specifically. Today, she had more than enough to worry about with the news of Rick Grimes's miraculous recovery beginning to make its way around the news circuit. She hoped Daryl wouldn't want to turn on the cable TV at any point, at least for the rest of the night. She needed to focus on calming herself and fighting back the full-blown panic that wanted to consume her all over again, because she was almost certain her body couldn't handle another panic attack like before. Her mind definitely couldn't.
Once again, she felt the strong urge to confide in Daryl. There were a dozen different statements running through her head, a million ways to tell him the truth and admit her guilt and confess all her fears and plead for his forgiveness - for his understanding. But every single scenario ended in disaster and left her feeling short of breath and light-headed. And as she emerged from her bedroom to find the boys rummaging around in the kitchen, he turned and met her eyes and flashed her a warm smile, nodding his head toward her in silent invitation. Her knees became shaky for a moment and she had to swallow back the words that wanted to burst from her mouth.
It's too soon. He wouldn't understand yet.
Another voice piped up, But he loves you. He told you himself. The hook is sunk in and you're letting him flail for no reason.
She quickly silenced both voices before they could steal her balance.
She returned the smile weakly and stepped into the kitchen, joining Daryl and Mal at the counter as they gathered up everything they needed to make dinner. But Jesus's message was still prominent in her brain, whispering constantly while she tried to concentrate solely on the toddler's loud giggles and Daryl's soft, affectionate grunts. Her ears were buzzing with the voices of ghosts and memories, warnings laced in terror, and the smoke from the fire that had consumed her family was slowly and gradually filling her lungs. The Bible verse recited inside her head over and over. Beth breathed in deeply and steadied her hands as she began preparing the vegetables, demanding that her head clear itself so she could pay attention to whatever Daryl was telling her.
"Wait – what'd you say?" She asked, pausing and glancing over at him.
Daryl's brow creased and he gave her a quick once-over with his eyes, lowering his voice and asking, "You alrigh'? Seem kinda out of it – I can handle makin' dinner if ya need t'go lay down or somethin'."
Beth's heart sped up and her cheeks grew hot, quickly turning back to focus on the vegetable she'd been chopping. "No, I'm fine," she mumbled.
She could see his brow knitting together in doubt from the corner of her eye, gazing at her a moment longer before shrugging in defeat and turning back to what he'd been doing. To her relief, Mal appeared at her side, eager for another task, and she managed to avoid Daryl's scrutinizing looks by busying herself with teaching the toddler how to help prepare dinner. And, as always, the small boy was full of long stories and more than enough questions to keep Beth occupied.
By the time they were sitting down to eat at the table, she'd caught a glimpse of a half-smile on Daryl's face and he no longer looked overly concerned for her mental health. She told herself that the tell-tale expressions on her own face would stop giving her away once she met with Jesus and got some peace of mind. And maybe – she silently hoped – something else major would happen somewhere in the country and the media's attention would be drawn far away from the case of the teenaged fugitive. A lot could happen in twenty-four hours, after all. Beth had certainly learned that lesson over the last month.
But what kind of national event could happen tonight that would draw all the attention away from her story? What could possibly attract America's attention enough to make them forget about her family's shitshow of a sensationalized case, especially if Fox decided to blow it up even bigger? She couldn't fathom anything that might hope to compete - at least not anything good. Would it have to be something much worse? A tragedy of some sort? Did that mean she was secretly hoping for something bad to happen to someone else just for the sake of her own chance at safety? Is that who she was now? Someone who wished ill upon others just for the sake of saving her own ass? Her stomach turned at that thought - at the thought of all her family members and closest friends sitting behind bars awaiting certain death while she played House with a man she barely knew - and she shook it out of her head, struggling to pull herself from the depths of her own mind for the millionth time.
This isn't the time to fall apart, she told herself. This isn't the time to start getting weak. I have to be strong like Maggie. I have to be strong for all of us now. Even Daddy. I won't let him see me taken in. Dead or alive. I won't let him see that it was all for nothing.
She quieted her racing thoughts once again and forced herself to focus on the conversation at the dinner table. The sun was dipping behind the horizon outside as the lights of the city began to come alive. Mal was still rambling about the camping trip, unable to talk about anything else. Daryl was eating slowly and leisurely, responding to his son mostly in grunts and nods of the head. Beth could see the long weekend's toll evident on his face and she could only imagine that he was more than ready for a good night's sleep in his own bed.
"Dad, um – I saw – I saw pu'nkins. It's um, it's Ock-bober now, huh?" Mal asked, pushing around the last few bites of vegetables on his plate with his small fork.
"Yep, it's October now," Daryl responded.
"Does that – is it How-oh-ween?" The toddler asked excitedly, looking to his dad with wide, expectant eyes.
Daryl smirked, quickly swigging down the last of his milk before replying, "It will be in a few weeks, bud. And after Halloween, it's yer birthday."
Mal grinned and his eyes got even bigger. He began bouncing in his seat. "Oh my – oh, oh – Dad, I wanna – Dad, I wanna be Ant-Man! I wanna be Ant-Man for twicka tweating!"
Beth giggled quietly and shared an amused smile with Daryl as the toddler dropped his fork and began waving his hands in excitement.
"Wosie, what're you gonna be?!" Mal asked, still grinning as he turned his attention toward Beth.
She paused and pursed her lips, suppressing another giggle. Then she shrugged and returned Mal's excited smile. "I dunno – I haven't even thought about it yet. Maybe you can help me pick out a good costume!"
The look of pure joy on Mal's face made her heart skip and he eagerly nodded. "Yeah – yeah! Oh, I will! I'm gonna – um, I'll help you find a good one!" He turned to Daryl and quickly asked, "What 'bout you, Dad? What're you gonna be?"
Daryl shrugged, leaning back in his chair now that his plate was empty. "I'ono, ain't thought about it."
"We could coordinate – you'd look pretty cute as Danny from Grease.Then I could be Sandy," Beth teased, watching a pink tinge form in Daryl's cheeks as he rolled his eyes at her.
Mal laughed loudly. "Dad, I love Grease! You should be Grease!"
Daryl chuckled and shook his head, looking down sheepishly. "Nah, I'm good on that. It'd take me weeks ta wash out all the hair gel." He looked over to Mal and suggested, "'Sides, if yer bein' Ant-Man, then shouldn't I be Iron Man or somethin'?"
A thoughtful look crossed the toddler's face and he contemplated the question for a moment, glancing over to Beth expectantly. She raised her eyebrows and smiled back at him, then met Daryl's eyes.
"Nah – you'd make a great Captain America, though," she smiled coyly across the small table and watched with amusement as Daryl rolled his eyes again.
"That means yer gonna be Peggy Carter then, right?" He quipped, mirroring her coy smile.
"Or Bucky!" Mal chirped, grinning proudly.
Beth and Daryl burst out laughing and while Daryl was shaking his head, Beth was shrugging.
"Not a bad idea," she muttered, still smiling.
"Rather see ya with a robotic arm than a poodle skirt, anyhow," he mumbled, smirking across the table at her.
She laughed, but that didn't stop the rush of blood from flooding up her neck and into her face. She wasn't sure she'd ever get used to Daryl's nonchalant form of flirting, or if it would ever fail to lift her mind from the darkest trenches at the most unexpected moments.
And on nights like this, Beth wasn't even sure she ever wanted to face the outside world again. Couldn't they have just stayed up in the mountains together forever? Couldn't she just lock herself away and hide here forever?
No, you couldn't, she quickly reminded herself. And no, you can't.
After dinner, it was the usual routine of clean-up followed by an hour or so of reading Harry Potter on the couch. "Rosie" was the chosen reader on this particular night, and she was more than happy to let herself get lost in a world of wizards and magical creatures for a short time. It felt like a reprieve from reality to get swallowed up in Harry's harrowing teenage journey, unable to worry about anything other than the overwhelming powers of evil that the young wizard was going up against. She almost forgot about Rick Grimes and Fox News entirely. The matching mesmerized gazes from both boys as they hung on every word she read aloud was just an added bonus.
Daryl coaxed Mal into preparing himself for the coming morning before they all became too sleepy to care, leading the toddler into the bedroom and helping him gather together his bag and clothes for another day at Carol's. Then it was time to brush their teeth, and after that, Mal talked his dad into letting him stay up "just a little longer" to play with his toys on the bedroom floor. Beth flipped through movie options on the TV absent-mindedly while they had their father-son time, listening to the comforting voices that were drifting down the hallway, smiling to herself at the silly comments that Mal made and the slightly exasperated responses coming from Daryl.
She hadn't let herself touch her phone in hours and she was still resisting the urge. Part of her feared that if she checked, she would only find more bad news. Or more networks that were picking up on her story. The only person she wanted any updates from at the moment was Jesus, and she definitely wouldn't be hearing from him for a little while. So why bother torturing herself with everything else?
She wanted to enjoy the safe bubble that was apartment 3A. At least for tonight. Even if her story went national tomorrow and her cover was blown… at least she had one more night of something that felt like normalcy and peace. One more night to work out in her head how she could explain the truth to Daryl before a news anchor got to it first.
By the time Daryl finally joined her on the couch, Beth had let her mind wander and begin to race while her heart had begun to beat a little too rapidly for comfort. But as soon as he plopped down beside her and scooted in close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and letting out a long and exhausted sigh, her pulse slowed and the nagging thoughts were muffled in her head. The muscle-stiffening aftershocks of her panic attack ebbed away at last. She leaned into him and listened for the sound of Malachi's voice from down the hall, but it seemed that the toddler had finally given in and gone to sleep.
"We can watch a movie if ya want. Can't promise I'll stay awake, though," Daryl mumbled.
Beth turned her head and looked up at him, the bags beneath his eyes more prominent as his eyelids drooped with exhaustion. She'd scrolled through all the movie options at least a dozen times at this point, but nothing looked appealing, and she had the feeling he was only offering to watch something because he saw her flipping through the menu on the screen. She thought of the long weekend they'd had and how he'd most likely exhausted the last of his mental and emotional energy in assuring that she was okay, feeling slightly guilty for forcing him to stretch so far. Especially for her sake. He needed rest, probably even worse than she did. And she was certainly eager to sleep in a real bed again after two long nights in a sleeping bag.
"Or we could go to bed," she suggested.
"Yeah - that sounds nice," he agreed quietly.
In comfortable silence, they darkened the apartment and made their way to her even darker bedroom. After stripping down to their underwear, they crawled into her bed and cocooned themselves amongst blankets and warm limbs. Daryl wrapped himself around her and heaved a long sigh of contentment, and a few seconds later, his breathing had steadied and his muscles were lax against her back.
She closed her eyes and tried to forget about the clock on her nightstand that told her it was barely past nine, struggling not to grow anxious at the prospect of how few hours lay between her and the unexpected. She was wondering how she could explain her absence to Daryl - there was no way she'd be able to meet up with Jesus and get back home before Daryl returned from work. Could she tell him the truth? Or as close to the truth as she dare tread? She may as well, considering she'd already told the bluff about the "family friend." But what if he tried to pry for details or insist on going with her? What if he wanted to play the overprotective part and she had to put her foot down, or make up yet another lie? Would he get suspicious about her secrecy? Would he start to see through the thin veil?
No, she assured herself. No, he trusts me.
That thought churned her stomach with fresh guilt, a tiny blade labeled taking advantage digging deeper into her flesh. The only thing that eased it and stilled her bouncing nerves was the assurance that she still had these last eight to twelve hours of solace to enjoy; she still had this precious time to lie in Daryl's arms and work out a plan for her next tiny step… or to just pretend Beth Greene had never existed. It wasn't much, but for now it was enough to push out the perturbing thought of Rick Grimes and Fox News and the whole rest of the nation that had seen her face and her family and all their collective sins. She didn't even have the energy to give a thought toward what might come of Jenny Jones with this update.
Beth was almost positive that she wouldn't be able to fall asleep anytime soon. But alas, Daryl's warm and quietly snoring form behind her, his strong arms wrapped around her and his warm breath against the back of her neck managed to lull her into a state of relaxation that she hadn't really thought was possible. Her eyelids drifted shut and her breathing instinctually matched the steady rhythm of his. Without knowing it, she fell asleep.
That was when the dreams returned. Or nightmares, rather.
One moment, she was lying in that big soft bed with Daryl's big soft arms around her. The next, she was back on the farm, staring up at the side of her childhood home, fixated on the shape the trellis had left in the paint. She was looking at an intricate maze of her own suffering, its path leading straight up to the window of her shattered heart. And the longer she looked, the tighter her lungs constricted within her body. Before long, she was struggling to breathe.
Then Jimmy was there. His hands were gripping her arms and he was shaking her violently, a maddened look in his bloodshot eyes. His face - once beautiful and sun-kissed - was pale and pock-marked and scabbed, and he seemed nothing more than a thin layer of skin stretched taut across the skeleton of a boy she'd once loved. His voice was angry. He yelled in her face, spittle flying from his lips and dampening her cheeks.
"I am the only one who knows what you really come from and who you really are, Beth Greene. I'm the only one who could've helped you. What the fuck makes you think you could ever escape this?! You need me! But you killed me!"
Her eyes were filling with tears and she blinked. Jimmy was gone, but the tears weren't. The farm had disappeared. She was in the middle of a street in New York City. It was busy and teeming with people and traffic. For a second, she wondered where her family was. Then she remembered they were all locked up. Or dead.
All the traffic disappeared. Rick Grimes appeared on the other side of the street. He looked exactly as he had the night of the bust, except the side of his head was bloody and caved in. His blue eyes were full of malice and set intently on her. He was approaching her with long, angry strides.
But just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he morphed into someone else. His face changed, his body evolved. The man striding toward her was carrying a far darker shadow in his wake. She had to squint and stare, but then the realization sunk through her bones like the pain of electrocution.
Simon.
"You think you can run away, li'l girl?" He laughed loudly and the echo shook the earth around her. His voice was one she didn't recognize yet feared all the same. "You can hide, but not forever. There ain't no running from this."
She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Her eyes popped open and she found herself back in bed with Daryl warm against her back and snoring near her ear. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she reached a hand up to roughly wipe them away.
She glanced at the clock and saw that it was just past midnight. She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes, every muscle beneath the blanket feeling weaker than before she'd gone to sleep. She was contemplating getting up and stepping outside for fresh air when the next wave of sleep took her under. Consciousness evaded her and the blackness consumed her mind once more.
This time, she was back in the closet at home, staring through the slatted door and watching moonlight drift across pools of crimson blood. She could feel the dampness of urine along the inside of her legs and soaking through her pajama pants. Then the door was yanked open and cold air hit her face like a freight train. Maggie was standing before her, a wild look in her green eyes, brown hair disheveled and pale cheeks wet with tears. She reached out and grabbed Beth by the wrists, yanking her forward painfully. She gripped Beth's left wrist and turned it over, holding it up between them. The thick scar looked fresh again, red and grisly and bordered with stitch marks.
Maggie screamed at her, "Open it up, Rosie! Let everybody see how weak you are! You did this, you let Mom an' Shawn die because you're too stupid! You killed a cop - you're a fucking murderer! You should've never been a Greene."
And when Beth looked back down at the wound on her wrist, she could see it slowly opening up to reveal the fat and muscle and tendon beneath her pale skin. The dark red blood seeped out and dripped onto the carpet beneath her feet. She felt sick to her stomach, the urge to vomit suddenly overwhelming.
"Go on," Maggie urged harshly, her face rigid with fury and her fingers tightening around Beth's wrist. "Open it up! Show them all who you really are!"
She wanted to scream back, I can't, they'll all leave me and I can't be alone! I tried, I did the best that I could!
But her mouth wouldn't cooperate. She couldn't seem to find her voice. And the urge to vomit wasn't receding.
Then she woke up again. Her chest was heaving and her cheeks were damp with more tears. The clock told her it was nearly three. She wasn't shocked or distressed to find that Daryl had disappeared and his side of the bed was quickly cooling - she was almost relieved because she was afraid she would've disturbed him otherwise. But there was a thin film of sweat across Beth's entire body and a cramping in her stomach that wouldn't go away. The urge to vomit had seemed to follow her into consciousness.
She lay uncomfortably for several minutes before finally deciding to push herself up and out of bed, leaving behind a tangle of sweat-dampened blankets. This nausea wasn't anything like the morning sickness that had so ominously haunted her. It was somehow worse. Her emotions were taking over everything, dictating every reaction from her body that she didn't want and didn't need. At this point, not even Daryl's strong arms could warm the chill that had spread through her veins and settled beneath her skin nor the faint sensation of chronic seasickness that worked to turn her guts into mush. She tiptoed through the dark quiet bedroom and out into the hall, assuring herself that the boys' bedroom was dark and the door was half-open at the end of the hallway like it usually was. She could faintly make out the sound of Daryl's snoring from somewhere inside.
In the bathroom, she tried to splash cold water on her face and rinse away the salty tears and cold dread that her nightmares had left behind. But then she happened to catch a glimpse of the scar on her wrist and it turned her stomach. The anxiety-induced nausea returned full-force and all she could picture was the gruesome image from her dream. She couldn't stop imagining the scar slitting wide open and bleeding, revealing fatty tissue and tendons and weeping crimson tears. She couldn't stop remembering what it had looked like when she'd sliced her own wrist open, how she'd cut so much deeper than she'd meant to, and how it had filled her head with black stars and stolen the breath from her lungs. She couldn't forget the sharp pain of the needle and thread penetrating her skin over and over again, and how shaky Maggie's hands had been and how it had only made it hurt so much worse. It all made her want to slam her eyes shut and vomit.
She couldn't stop asking herself how she could ever have been so goddamn stupid.
She fought back the urge for a good amount of time, but once her face was dry and she was facing the prospect of returning to bed, it overtook her again. She wound up crouched in front of the toilet, dry-heaving and spitting and trying her best to be quiet about it. She managed to keep down most of what she'd eaten for dinner.
When she finally overcame the nausea and rinsed her mouth, she composed herself and returned to bed. The big empty space had dried and cooled while she was gone and she let out a sigh of relief as she sunk down into the mattress, willing her body to relax and stop eating itself alive. She struggled to get comfortable for several long minutes and attempted to replay the weekend over in her head: flashes of Daryl in the woods and lying next to her beside a campfire, his gruff voice whispering out spine-tingling confessions. It was the only thing that kept her heart from beating out of her chest.
She didn't want to fall asleep again, but her eyelids were heavy and her muscles were weak. A small part of her wanted to pick up her phone and scroll through the news sites and scour the internet for her name, even though it would be nothing more than a form of self-torture. She stared at the clock for as long as she could, watching the minutes tick by, reminding herself that Daryl would be getting up for work in less than two hours and that she could just lie there and wait instead of having to suffer through more nightmares. If nothing else, she could even get up extra early and make breakfast.
Yet her body seemed to be working against her as usual.
She didn't realize she was dreaming until she'd already taken three long strides across a dusty wooden floor, eyes set on a flickering candle in the distance. Even then, she wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't skipped ahead in time to her meeting with Jesus. It was another abandoned building, dark and musty and void of human life, but she had the feeling that she was not alone.
Sure enough, with one more stride forward a shadowy figure came into view before her. He lifted his head and pushed back his hood to reveal a black beanie covering long brown hair and the familiar bearded face of Jesus. His emerald eyes were cold and his mouth was set in a thin line.
"I have bad news," he told her simply.
Oh no, she thought. Maggie's dead. Daddy's dead. And Daryl knows who I am. The police are on their way to lock me up forever.
But before she could ask what he meant, he said very matter-of-factly, "You have to die, Beth Greene."
The candle behind him flickered and the flame jumped, casting large ominous shadows across the wall behind him. The air left Beth's body in a soft huff of defeat.
"I'm already dead," she said. She didn't know where the words had come from.
He shook his head and frowned. "No," his voice grew agitated. "You're not. You're not supposed to be living when we've all sacrificed so much to keep you that way. It's time to die."
She started to argue, "But Daryl and Malachi - "
"Run," Jesus interrupted, his voice booming around her and echoing off the empty walls. "Or die! Make the choice, Beth Greene, make it now!"
She turned and ran.
Beth awoke with a jolt and for the briefest moment, she could feel Daryl lying beside her again. But when she opened her eyes and rolled over, she found the bed empty and his pillow cold and she realized that she'd only been expecting his presence after waking up beside him all weekend. Then she heard the muffled sounds of footsteps in the kitchen and the hallway and Mal's high-pitched voice from outside her closed bedroom door. The weight of reality crashed down upon her head and chest and she groaned under her breath, her head already filling with a million stressful thoughts. The clock told her she'd lost nearly two hours to another restless nap full of nightmarish images and a racing heart.
She lay completely still beneath the blankets for a few minutes, contemplating two dreadful options: either get up and face the world and what she knew was coming today, or close her eyes and try to drift back to unconsciousness and an onslaught of terrifying dreams. It seemed like a long time before she finally made the decision and forced herself out of bed. The room was dark and cool, and she thought it felt somehow colder without Daryl beside her. But the sound of Mal's voice just outside the door urged her onward and helped motivate her to slip her clothes on and rub the sleep from her eyes.
When she emerged from the bedroom, she found the kitchen light on and the makings of breakfast laid about on the counter. She turned and walked out toward the living room to witness Mal still clad in pajamas at Daryl's side, holding up a banana and asking his dad to peel it for him. Daryl's back was to her, though, and all she could see was his motionless form standing frozen by the couch, his attention completely set on the TV. Her heart skipped and she glanced past him to see the news on the screen.
Her stomach plummeted down to her feet and she wasn't aware she was stepping forward until it had already happened. Then she was standing less than a foot away from Daryl, staring with wide eyes at the anchorwoman on TV, listening intently to every word she said and struggling to read all the headlines that were popping up at the bottom of the screen.
For a second, Beth thought she might be dreaming again. But she knew she wasn't. If it were a nightmare, the story being reported would've been vastly different. The words she'd expected to hear weren't the same as the words that were currently reaching her ears, and the headlines she was reading were nothing close to the headlines she'd been dreading and anticipating.
3 Dead and 27 Injured in Las Vegas Shooting; Suspect(s) Unknown and At Large.
"...and this number is not final, there are still more updates to come. Keep in mind, this happened just hours ago, first reported shortly before eleven p.m. in Las Vegas, making it just before two a.m. here in New York. Sources are reporting there was trampling during the panic - and again, this was a music festival with children and adults of all ages in attendance, when a shooter - or multiple shooters - suddenly began firing rounds into the crowd during the headlining concert of the night. The Las Vegas Strip has been closed off until the suspects are found and apprehended. There's still no confirmation on whether it was someone in the crowd, or how many active shooters the police are searching for, but we're getting numerous reports about injuries and possible fatalities, and emergency rooms are currently overflowing in their attempts to help all those who need medical attention. Our social media team has reported hundreds of posts about the ride-sharing service, Uber, being utilized - and drivers are voluntarily driving the injured victims to nearby hospitals while ambulances continue to struggle to reach the scene…"
Daryl sensed her presence and glanced back at her to give a slight nod of acknowledgment. She could see that his eyes were still glassy and bloodshot from sleep, his hair a tangled mess. He was frowning when he turned back to the TV. She took another step forward to stand beside him and Mal, reaching down to help the toddler with his banana, when she saw the remote in Daryl's hand. Her heart skipped as he pressed a button and changed the channel. A different news broadcast popped up on the screen, and its headlines and anchorman were reporting updated numbers: 5 dead and 63 injured, unknown shooters still not apprehended. Mal crawled up onto the couch with his banana, groggy and focused solely on the fruit in his hands.
"I was just lookin' fer a weather report, but this is on every damn channel," Daryl muttered, his voice deeper and more hoarse than usual. His eyes were fixated on the TV screen. "Feels like I'm watchin' the Twin Towers all over again or somethin'…"
Beth shuddered, unable to do much more than nod meekly.
He flipped through a couple more news channels to reveal similar broadcasts, all of them showing footage of the chaos outside a venue in Las Vegas, each network differing in their reports of the numbers dead and injured. She noticed it was jumping higher and higher with what seemed like every minute that passed.
According to the reports, the shooting had taken place mere hours ago. And from the looks of it, she was guessing that the media coverage wouldn't let up anytime soon, especially if it had been hours without any news of a suspect. The nation would want to see justice come from this story, and there was nothing like a tragic shooting in a major city to draw all of America's attention.
For an extremely blissful and extremely fleeting few seconds, Beth could feel relief washing through her whole body. My prayers were answered, she thought as she watched Daryl flip through every single news network to find the exact same story being endlessly reported. Fox News will forget about me and Rick Grimes so long as they have this to focus on. I have just a little more time to figure out the next move.
Then the overwhelming sense of self-abhorrence came crashing down upon her and the bliss was gone. How could she be so selfish? How could she possibly be so vile and downright evil to be glad about such a tragedy occurring? She should be ashamed and disgusted, not only with what happened, but with how relieved she felt about it.
She hadn't wanted a tragedy. Not like this. Never like this. But… goddammit, she did have more time now. As long as the media focused on this instead of the miraculous recovery of Detective Grimes. Nevertheless, her stomach twisted and turned with a million tiny knives of guilt, shame, and regret.
Holy shit, I really am a terrible person, she thought, her heart dropping down into her stomach. Do I even deserve this second chance?
She wondered what Jesus would have to say about it. Would he tell her to take advantage of this blessing in disguise? Or would he tell her that she'd already been too reckless and fucked herself over, that there was no chance of redemption anymore no matter what she did? What if he ended up cancelling their meeting altogether because of this sudden media takeover? Should she check her inbox for a "crisis averted" message? By her realistic estimate, she wouldn't get that lucky; she assumed he would still want to lecture her or try to urge her to move on to a different city.
Or did he have some other kind of terrible news to add to the already back-breaking load she was constantly carrying?
The weather in the city was a drastic change from the mountains. By the time Daryl and Mal had left for the day, the sun had risen and the last traces of clouds were drifting out of sight. Breakfast had been more quiet and uneventful than usual, and Beth could tell it was a mixture of exhaustion from their long weekend and Daryl's dread at having to go back to work. With the Las Vegas news reports still lingering in her head, she'd decided against informing him about her little excursion that was planned for the evening. Once the apartment was empty again, she assured herself that it would be easier and much more casual if she let him know via text message and assured him to expect her for dinner. At least that way, she wouldn't have to worry about facing an onslaught of questions or overprotective comments. And she wouldn't be lying - not really.
She opened up the windows in the apartment and let in the crisp autumn air and the aroma of city life mixed with dead foliage and the remnants of morning humidity. She stood by the window and gazed down at all the people on their Monday morning commutes for a while, a warm mug of coffee cupped between her hands and a distant, far-off expression on her face. Her eyes were watching everything and nothing at all, and her mind was racing nonstop. There was no reprieve from the anxiety that constantly boiled beneath her skin. The nightmares kept replaying in her head on a loop, refusing to fade away with the morning mists.
It was during the moment that she'd decided to step away and turn on the TV in hopes of finding more news reports that it suddenly clicked in her head: Irma and Dale were in Nevada. The conversation Beth had with Irma before the camping trip had nearly escaped her memory entirely, but just like that, it had returned and she immediately panicked. What had the older woman said exactly? Didn't she say that they had planned to head to Las Vegas within the next couple of days? And if that was on Friday, then that meant they could've been present for the shooting. Or - God forbid - they'd been involved.
Without a second of hesitation, Beth rushed to her phone and snatched it up, then found Irma's number and dialed it. To her relief, the older woman answered on the third ring, and she sounded perfectly normal. Beth sighed audibly and asked Irma if everything was okay. She could hear from the other end of the phone that the couple had heard the same news and were very distraught. But they assured Beth that they were perfectly fine, although they had a friend who'd gotten caught up in the tragedy. Beth expressed her remorse and offered condolences before Irma assured her that everything would be okay and that she and Dale would be in contact once things had settled down.
Once she'd hung up, Beth didn't feel much better. Sure, Dale and Irma were fine, and her own story wasn't going national anytime soon. But at what cost? And how long could this breath of relief actually last before Jesus interrupted it with whatever devastating news he had? She couldn't bear to tear herself apart over it much longer because the anxiety was making her physically sick and all she wanted was to relax and prepare for her upcoming meeting.
She checked in on the news reports on TV for several hours, switching back and forth between that and checking her phone. The numbers kept rising in the Las Vegas tragedy, and by mid-afternoon, they were reporting it as a "mass shooting." A pang of guilt shot through her every time she thought of Dale and Irma and their injured friend. There was still no hint of Rick Grimes or Beth Greene on any of the networks, and the articles online had already been overtaken by newer headlines and breaking reports about Las Vegas.
Just like that, the nation was fixated on who could've possibly taken dozens of lives in Nevada during the late hours of Sunday night, and Beth could already tell that it would be the only thing anyone would be talking about for the next week. Maybe longer, depending on how long it took to locate the shooter(s).
She tried to distract herself but to no avail. Her hands were too restless for the guitar, her mind was wandering off too often to focus on a book, and she couldn't sit still long enough to watch anything besides news reports on TV. She couldn't even manage to eat more than a couple of pieces of toast as her appetite had suddenly disappeared. She wound up drinking too much coffee and making herself more jittery than usual. And amidst it all, she kept thinking about Daryl and Mal, and her stomach kept filling with heavy dread every time she wondered what Jesus would tell her and what it might mean for her current living situation.
Would she have to lie to Jesus, too? When it came down to it, would she have to assure him that she was heeding all his advice - even if it meant fibbing about disposing of the gun, omitting the little detail about how attached she'd actually gotten to her roommates? Would he even believe her?
She was prepared for whatever the case may be. Yet still, she couldn't help but entertain the idea of telling Daryl the truth, retreating to a place she'd visited countless times during their peaceful weekend retreat. The first step to assuring her continued safety in the city would be making sure that the man she… loved… knew just how dire the situation was. But there was no conceivable way to do such a thing that she could possibly imagine, no possible way to fully express the breadth of the matter and how much regret she was constantly filled with. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to string together the correct words to explain everything to him without shattering every last piece of trust she'd managed to scrounge up, without making him hate her… or without losing him and Malachi forever.
She began to wonder if that was the only solution. Maybe Daryl would inevitably hate her and that would be what she needed to finally break away and leave New York, to finally take Jesus's advice and stop being so fucking reckless and selfish, to finally admit to herself that she was alone - completely alone - and that she had to be alone in order to survive and prevent the suffering of others. Maybe that was the sign from God she really needed, the sign she'd been subconsciously waiting for ever since that first fateful kiss. Maybe that was His plan all along. Perhaps Daryl and Mal were nothing more than a lesson, no different than all those horrific lessons she'd read about in the Bible.
Maybe she would have to burn the bridge in order to keep herself from crossing back over it. Even if that meant suffering the burns and scars it would inevitably leave behind… for all parties involved.
Just another lesson for them both, she reckoned. Daryl should've never trusted her. Although that didn't make the pain any less worse. The guilt throbbed within her muscles with a new intensity. She thought she might collapse from the weight of all her horrible decisions. But she'd come too far to slow down, too far to stop or give up. She had to keep going, keep hiding, keep running. It was all she knew anymore.
Four p.m. came and went, leaving Beth dry-heaving in the bathroom and covered in a cold sweat at the prospect of her coming meeting. She would have to leave soon if she wanted to make it on time but the fear of seeing Jesus again was making her physically ill. Nonetheless, she forced herself upright and managed to compose herself long enough to overcome the crippling anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her at any moment, ignoring the way it knotted her guts into a jumbled mess. There was no way she could handle another attack like last night, especially not now and especially not alone. She reminded herself that she had a job to do, that she wasn't the only one relying on herself.
She could almost hear Maggie's nagging voice in the back of her head: "You're a Greene. Now act like one." So she got dressed and gathered her bag together. The Beretta fit snugly into the little pocket on the undershirt, as though it remembered its place. For a second, Beth thought it felt foreign, but then she realized the tight fit of the concealing undershirt and the presence of the gun back in its usual spot was comforting. Almost like holding an old baby blanket again. She slipped on skinny jeans and a baggy black T-shirt with her black boots, shrugging the black leather jacket onto her shoulders before pulling the white knitted cap on over her head. She pulled it down until all the frizziest and waviest parts of her dyed-black hair were tucked under or pressed down to her neck, then slipped on her sunglasses and stuffed her phone into her pocket. Last but not least, she double-checked her bag: all her cash, her daddy's pocketwatch, and the photo she'd pulled back out from beneath her pillow.
She wanted to have everything on her. Just in case.
As she was heading out her bedroom door, she paused and glanced back at the crucifix on the wall, but then her eyes immediately drifted over to settle on the drawings pinned above her bed. A surge of pain shot through her chest and she swallowed hard, taking one last long gaze and trying to preserve a mental photograph. A part of her wanted to pull the drawings down and tuck them into her bag along with the photo of her old family. But she quickly decided against it and turned around, leaving the bedroom without a second look backward. She pushed away all the images of the adorable little blond toddler that wanted to invade her head and halt her in her tracks.
And a short time later, through a haze of fear and dread, she was hailing a cab and riding in silence to the address she'd scribbled onto a scrap of paper. Halfway there, she sent a text to Daryl that she'd been composing in her head all day: "That family friend I told you about wants to meet up for a bit so I'll be home a little while after you get home. Don't worry, I'll be safe. See you soon."
Then it was an excruciating three minutes before her phone vibrated with a response from him, and she read it over at least five times in an effort to calm herself:
Okay. If you need me just call and I'll be there in a heartbeat. Be extra safe. Can't wait to see you babe.
Her heart reactively skipped and she felt the slightest sense of reassurance, a sudden upbeat of confidence rushing through her veins and the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. She reread the text message at least five times during the drive, her stomach fluttering wildly every time.
She reached her destination at exactly 5:19 and quickly paid the driver before getting out and seeking the most-shadowed nearby corner to stand in. It was difficult to feel invisible among the rush hour traffic and slew of pedestrians, and just as she'd feared it was one of the busiest parts of the city during the busiest time of day. It felt like a million eyes were upon her at once, even though she was looking around and realizing that everyone was far too wrapped up in themselves to notice the little dark-haired girl huddled against the side of a building. She kept her sunglasses on and avoided eye contact, though her nerves were still bumping around clumsily. The gun felt hot and heavy beneath her arm and beside her breast.
Nonetheless, she clutched the strap of her bag in one hand while her phone was held tightly in the other, and she checked the time repetitively while glancing around and searching for any sign of Jesus or the curly-haired man from before. The entire situation was so vastly different from the extreme confidentiality of their first meeting that it was jarring. She had her doubts that they would meet her out in the open during daylight hours, but she also had her doubts that they would involve anyone else unless absolutely necessary. All in all, she had no idea what to expect. After three minutes of waiting, she'd convinced herself that she should logically be expecting - and searching for - the curly-haired man. She figured he would most likely be the one to escort her to wherever Jesus was hiding.
She watched the time tick over to 5:25 on the screen of her phone and her eyes immediately shot up to dart around in search of any signs or arrivals. For thirty long seconds, nothing changed. People continued to pass her by without so much as a glance and the cars in the street didn't stop or slow down. Then she spotted it: a shiny black sedan with dark-tinted windows slowed near the curbside directly in front of her and rolled to a stop. She glanced around nervously but no one seemed to take note of the vehicle. Or Beth.
Her phone vibrated in her hand and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked down to find an incoming call from an unknown number. Without hesitation, she pressed Answer and put the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Get in."
The call beep beeped in her ear and the line went silent. She was staring through her dark sunglasses at the black sedan the whole time.
Her heart felt like it had stopped inside her chest as she shoved her phone into her pocket and strode forward on numb legs, crossing the sidewalk without ever taking her eyes off the car or taking a breath. When she approached, the back door opened to reveal an empty backseat, the interior made of all leather and even darker than the outer paint. Her knees were beginning to tremble so she climbed into the car and shut the door before they had a chance to buckle beneath her.
She didn't breathe or blink until she was sitting inside the car, black leather squeaking quietly against the fabric of her clothes. She pulled the bag from her shoulders and set it aside before buckling her seatbelt. The car began moving and she could see traffic flowing around them through the windows, but all she could see of the driver was a head of black hair and a pair of broad shoulders. He was wearing dark sunglasses and facing forward, both hands gripping the steering wheel, never so much as wincing in her direction. He breathed silently and didn't speak a word, and the inside of the car was eerily quiet as they drove through the city.
They drove for a long time. The sun dipped behind the horizon and the moon appeared faintly from behind tall buildings, stars twinkling to life around it. The car rode smoothly through congested streets and intersections, passing through a tunnel here and crossing over a bridge there. They were halfway across before she gazed down into the deep blue waters of the East River and realized she recognized the bridge: it was the Tri Borough Bridge. By then, she knew that they had to be heading to the Bronx, although she had momentary doubts when she remembered that she didn't exactly know the city all that well and she could very well be on her way to somewhere farther past the part of New York that Carol had introduced her to.
It was an hour later when they came to a complete stop, and Beth checked her GPS to be sure that they were in the Bronx. The driver remained silent but she knew they'd arrived at their destination because they were parked beside a curb once more, though it was far less busy in this particular neighborhood - and far more sketchy. The areas they'd driven through had looked far different than what she'd seen on her trips with Carol, and this part of the Bronx was certainly not a part that she was anywhere close to being familiar with. It was shadier and darker, dimly lit and more run down and desolate with less greenery to offer and more graffiti and broken-down vehicles than anything else. Without a word, she opened the door and exited the car, shutting the door gently behind her. As soon as she stepped up onto the sidewalk and away from the black sedan, it drove off and disappeared from sight down the long street.
Beth found herself in a foreign neighborhood surrounded by looming buildings and faded signs, accompanied by a haze of intimidation and fear. The establishments before her sat on a corner and were tucked away amongst larger buildings, walls made of brick and stone and covered in graffiti. There were a few run-down vehicles in the small parking lot and one lone motorcycle. She took an unsure step forward and looked around, heart racing. Then she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. It was a text message from an unknown number:
Enter the bar.
She glanced around and realized the business she was facing was, in fact, a bar. Although it looked to be the sketchiest residence in the vicinity. There was a chipped and faded sign hanging above the heavy steel door that read: "The Kingdom." Beth walked forward with shaky legs, phone gripped tightly in her hand and pulse thumping against her throat.
When she approached the front door, she instinctively reached out for the handle but stopped as soon as she noticed the sign posted on the brick just below eye-level: "Members Only. Press Button For Entrance." Then she spotted the button next to the door handle. Tentatively, she pressed it. And waited. She grasped the strap of her bag with one hand like a security blanket, the other hand flexing and itching at her side with anticipation.
There were no windows to see inside of the bar but she'd already taken note of the tiny security camera tucked into the corner of the awning above her. She made sure to keep her head low and her hat pulled down over the majority of her hair, sunglasses still covering her eyes despite the complete lack of sun. A second passed, then three more. Her heart was beating erratically and she was debating on turning around and walking far away. What if this wasn't even the right bar? It said members only, but she wasn't a member. Would she be turned away even if it was the right bar?
Then a loud buzzing sound filled her ears, causing her to jump, quickly followed by the click of a lock. Reflexively, she reached out and yanked on the door handle. The heavy steel door pulled open and she slipped inside.
All she could think was, They were expecting me.
Smoke filled her nose and the door fell shut behind her with a decisive click as it relocked. The inside of the building was even darker than the early evening outside and she had no choice but to slip her sunglasses up to rest atop her head, then it took her eyes a moment to adjust and another moment for her lungs to adjust to the stale air. But when they did, she strode forward cautiously, following a narrow hallway of bare brick walls and hard tile floor. There was a slight ramp at the very end that led her upward before opening up to a large dimly-lit and smoke-filled room made up of the same old brick and scuffed tile. It was barely big enough to be called a business - probably the same size as the entire first floor of her old farmhouse back in Senoia. But it seemed to serve its purpose because she saw a bar set near the back, small and modest, and a pair of doors off to the side labeled "Restroom" and "Authorized Entrance Only." The rest of the area was filled with tables and booths, some of them so large that they could fit Beth's entire family with chairs to spare. The lights in the ceilings were dim and there was a smoky haze hanging in the air, stinging her eyes until she fully adjusted to the change of atmosphere. And there was no jukebox, she noticed, and no TVs lining the walls or hanging above the bar. There was only one TV sitting off in the far corner, and she could see from where she stood that it was tuned to a news channel with the closed captioning turned on and the volume so low that it was inaudible. The whole place smelled of stale cigarette smoke, rich tobacco, and an odd mixture of aged liquors and pungent colognes.
The people that filled the bar were a whole other story. There was one lone bartender behind the bar, apparently busy organizing liquor bottles and counting money. The rest of the establishment was filled with a wide variety of men - white men and brown men and black men, men with short hair and long hair and shaved sides and dreadlocks and shiny bald heads, hair that was white-blonde and bright red and black as night, men wearing dark sunglasses and darker suits and ties, some of them sporting nothing more than jeans and T-shirts and modest jackets, men who looked far too wealthy to be in a place like this sitting close with men who could pass as homeless. And she couldn't help but notice how low everyone was speaking amongst one another, how they leaned in close across tables and squeezed into booths, how some of them spoke animatedly with excessive hand gestures and wild facial expressions while others appeared to be whispering dark secrets over wine glasses and whiskey tumblers and lit cigars. And all the languages - a little English, some Russian, some Spanish, some Japanese, some French, and… she couldn't be sure, but maybe some Italian and even a bit of Creole? The foreign accents hit her ears harshly and she struggled not to whip her head around in every direction to stare at them all with wonderment and curiosity. She'd heard a lot of new languages since she'd been in New York City, but never so many vastly different regions in such a small area.
Most of all, she'd never seen such a wide variety of extremely intimidating men in one place before. Nor had she felt so small and helpless and utterly out-of-place. She glanced around anxiously and searched for Jesus or his accomplice, but she could barely recall their faces. Would she even recognize them if she saw them? And what if this was some kind of trick? What if they'd lured her here under false pretenses? It certainly didn't seem like the kind of place Jesus would want to meet her at. But then again, they'd only met once before, so she wasn't sure if she should expect an old abandoned building every time or not. Could he really be blending in amongst this mind-boggling crowd of strangers?
She was about to turn and leave before any of the men in the bar took notice of her (she was still surprised that not a single head had turned at her entrance), but then a man was approaching her from the right. He'd stood from a small booth tucked away in the corner and was walking with intent in her direction. She inadvertently froze until she found herself standing face-to-face with him. She remained frozen for a split-second, taking in his appearance: short cut curly brown hair, round azure eyes, high forehead, and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard covering full lips and a narrow jaw. He was towering at least a foot over her. Then he offered a warm smile and the recognition finally clicked in Beth's head.
He looked different in decent lighting and without his hoodie, but it was Jesus's friend. This time, he was wearing slacks and a baby blue blazer over a light gray button-up shirt. Relief flooded through her and she felt her jaw unclench. He must've read the expression on her face because he raised his eyebrows and smiled a little wider, lighting up his seawater eyes.
"Beth," he said simply, his voice soft and surprisingly reassuring. "You made it."
She nodded hesitantly and blinked, glancing around and subconsciously searching for signs of suspicion from those that occupied the surrounding space, trying to ignore the unsettling sound of her real name spoken aloud. Yet it repeated and rattled around inside her skull like an off-tune melody, reminding her of someone she barely recognized anymore.
Not Rosie. Beth, she thought. It rhymes with meth.
She eyed the booth in the corner from where the tall man had appeared before meeting his gaze again. For some reason, she couldn't figure out what to say. Her mouth opened but nothing came out so she quickly snapped it shut. She could feel the blood draining from her face and suddenly, the whole thing felt too real. She wasn't so sure that she was actually ready for whatever this meeting was about to bring. There were brief flashes of Daryl and Malachi flickering in her mind's eye, along with Clem and Tara and Rosita and Carol. An imminent dread was making her blood thick and heavy in her veins.
Was this it? Would she finally be coming face-to-face with the decision to flee all the people she'd grown to love over the last month? Would this be her punishment for finding undeserved joy in a time of utter despair?
He gave her a chance to speak and shrugged it off when she didn't, probably recognizing the hesitation on her face by this point. "It's okay, you're safe here. You're amongst friends," he assured her, his voice low and calm.
She swallowed hard but it only made her mouth drier than it already was. She couldn't begin to explain that being recognized was one of her least worries at the moment. His smile remained and he turned sideways, gesturing in the general direction of the booth.
"Jesus is waiting for you."
He motioned for her to follow him and led the way back to the booth, passing by a few tables full of men conversing in foreign languages. Beth kept her eyes straight ahead, fear coursing through her veins like ice water, trying hard to ignore the cold and malicious tones of some of the overheard conversations. Even though she couldn't understand the language, she could understand the message. All the conversations sounded like the ones she'd overheard in her daddy's study time and time again, full of ominous malice and unspoken promises. It made her second-guess the curly-haired man's confident words.
Were these her friends now? Men who looked no different than the men who'd hovered over Momma and Shawn's funeral and staked out the farmhouse in the months before the bust? Was she nothing more than one of them now?
Or was Jesus one of them? Had he been an enemy all along? Was she about to be completely blindsided by the cold hard truth?
She was suddenly realizing that she hadn't put nearly as much thought into the whole situation as she should have. She'd blindly followed Maggie's written advice without ever giving it a second thought - maybe it had been a mistake, or maybe Maggie had forgotten she'd left the message inside the money because things had changed so quickly. Maybe there was a reason she didn't mention Jesus or any of the actual escape plan before they fled the farm that night. Maybe Beth was never supposed to have found those directions, maybe Maggie had only meant for her to hide and stay hidden. Maybe Maggie had intended for Beth not to trust anyone.
Her strained voice echoed in Beth's head: "I planned for this."
It was too late for any of that now, though. Beth was already approaching the booth, sliding in to sit on the empty side of the table with unease while the curly-haired man took the empty spot on the other side next to Jesus.
She was already trapped. And she was face-to-face with Jesus once again, surrounded by men she'd never seen before yet feared all the same. Now was not the time to begin questioning loyalties.
Jesus looked paler than she remembered, but she figured it could be attributed to the difference in lighting and setting. Other than that, he appeared unchanged: the same long brown hair and matching beard, the same round and lively blue-green eyes and high cheekbones, even the same beanie on his head pulled low to his eyebrows. He wore a dark leather jacket over a black shirt with a pristine white bandanna hanging loosely around his neck, and cupped a tall glass of amber liquid in one hand atop the table. To her surprise, he smiled at her and leaned back in his seat.
"Beth Greene," he spoke, his voice calm and almost unsettling. "I can assume you read all our warnings and prepared yourself for what may come next?"
The sound of her real name was so jarring it made her wince. Again. She had to consciously remind herself of who she really was.
Not Rosie. Beth, she thought. It rhymes with death.
Her mouth was full of cotton but she forced herself to swallow and find her voice. She struggled to pull it up from the depths of her throat, unable to tear her eyes away from his intense gaze. After what felt like several long seconds, she managed to speak. "Yes - and I thought we were being extra cautious. You said I'm in danger."
Jesus's smile turned to amusement for a brief moment. He glanced out toward the other tables and other men in the bar before assuring her, "You are. But not here. The Kingdom is a kind of refuge for people like me - and people like you. There's no need to disguise ourselves for the moment. Every person in here is wanted by the police… whether the police know it or not."
Beth's breath hitched in her chest and she looked out across the bar with sudden recognition. Criminals, every one of them. Just like Jesus.
Just like her.
The words burst out before she could stop them, though she didn't dare speak louder than a whisper, "Murderers? Or… what, like the mafia?"
The curly-haired man snickered but didn't say anything. Jesus's smile widened and she could see him stifling a chuckle.
He shook his head, blinking slowly and speaking with an abundance of patience as his smile faded. "Not exactly. The mafia is practically non-existent these days, and the few families that remain have chosen to lay particularly low in an effort to stay under the radar of law enforcement. These people around us might be labelled mercenaries and hitmen and fugitives and criminals, but they're really not - a criminal is a threat to innocent life... That's not what any of us do. We protect innocent life. The real criminals are the ones holding political offices, the ones who wear badges and guns to work everyday, even the ones who sit behind benches and dole out sentences. There's no place for the old factions anymore, or things like 'the mob' and 'the mafia' - those who cared for their communities and enforced the people's justice. My colleagues and I are the types to work underground and move silently. The only problem is that means that everything we do takes much longer than we'd like… because we have so many forces actively working against us. And we all have a lot more at stake."
Beth took all this in and blinked. She wasn't quite sure she understood, though. "So… what does that have to do with me? What're you tryin' ta say?"
His face fell and he frowned. "You're well aware that Rick Grimes woke up. And I know you must be scared for what that means when it comes to the authorities' search for you… But he's not the danger here."
She stared back at Jesus quizzically. She was doubting herself as she guessed, "No - it's the media, right? The national news putting my face everywhere. They're risking my whole cover."
He shook his head and her stomach fell down to her feet. Before he even said it, she already knew that it was going to be bad.
"The media is not your enemy. The FBI and the cops and even the people prosecuting your family - they're all minor threats at this point. There are ways to evade them, even to escape them." His voice was low and ominous, sending chills up and down her spine. His eyes darkened to match his tone and he was leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on the tabletop as he explained, "There's someone else a million times more dangerous, a million times harder to evade... and a million times more intent on finding you and finishing what your father started."
His statement triggered something inside her. The panic button flipped and she felt her heart begin to race. A cold sweat formed on the back of her neck.
No, no, no please no, she thought desperately, begging God or whoever might be listening. No no no no not him, please don't say it. Please not him.
The curly-haired man had gone completely silent and he was staring downward with something that resembled dread, though Beth was paying very little attention to him anymore. Jesus's voice had lowered to barely more than a whisper and he leaned across the table, staring at her and right through her all at the same time.
His words penetrated her skin like a million microscopic penknives. "You know who ordered those men to murder your mom and brother… don't you, Beth?"
She wanted to push the thought out before it could invade her mind, wanted to deny the very reality and stand up and flee, to refuse to accept it as fact. But it was too late. A million locked-away memories of Maggie's grief-stricken voice and her daddy's angry shouts were filling her head, invading her mind and taking over her emotions, sending cold chills down her spine and spindles of dread through every muscle of her limbs until they were snaking around her lungs and constricting tightly. She could hear Shawn's angry hisses of a name that very few dared to speak, and Glenn's quiet mumblings of prayer or regret or sorrow or whatever it was that he'd felt once he realized they were in way too deep to ever come out again. She could hear Simon's cold laughter echoing in through the second story window of the farmhouse and her momma's last wailing cries of anguish. And police sirens… so many sirens.
She couldn't push any of it out, couldn't force it back into the dark depths it had emerged from. The name shoved its way through just like all those memories, all those mental photos and audio clippings, all those haunting fears and abysmally dark playbacks.
It was the first and only name that popped into her head. And it poured from her dry lips on a shaky breath.
"The Governor."
Jesus nodded. And Beth hadn't even realized there were tears in her eyes until she felt one sliding down her cheek.
to be continued...
A/N: Chapter title comes from "Blood Red Summer" by Coheed and Cambria.
Sorry for the 7 month wait. I have... nothing to say for myself. Hope you enjoyed the update!