I deeply apologize ahead of time for any typos or grammatical errors that appear in this chapter. Microsoft word is going hinky on me right now but I did my best to read all 8,700 words of this and make sure everything was kosher.
Chapter 5: Say Uncle!
Enjoy! ;)
Ring around the walkers,
Guns are filled with bullets,
Arrows, Axes,
We all fall down.
Even though every Marine is a trained rifleman, as per requirement, snipers gather special training above and beyond simple marksmanship, which is actually far more an innate skill than a learned one. Snipers are finely trained in the arts of navigation, reconnaissance, counter surveillance , camouflage, survival, evasion, escape, detection of where enemy fire is coming from and a plethora of other handy-dandy skills. As it turns out, these skills also come highly beneficial during a living dead apocalypse.
However, no matter the training and the hours of learning and the experience of trial and error, the greatest advantage Lou believes in beyond-a-doubt, is her innate instinct - her ability to process the most microscopic of clues better than Sherlock Holmes himself and then react, all within a mere fraction of a second. Keen enough to be considered a paranormal sixth-sense, her guttural instinct is an infallible compass that always guides her in the right direction via a feeling closest described as a pulling of her stomach. Louisiana's perspicacious personality has proved to perpetually perform perfectly, just like earlier today when somehow she just knew to look at the field when Rick Grime's group was making their treacherous journey to Georgia State.
However, such skill and aptitude is not something able to be simply turned off or tuned out. Once you get into the mindset of seeing every glint as an enemy sniper and every loud noise as a gunshot, it is damn near impossible to stop seeing peril in everyday situations. It also does not help in any way, shape or form that Louisiana carries an ubiquitous hyper-vigilance.
It is that oh-so engrained part of psyche that makes Lou duck behind the Humvee the moment she steps down, simultaneously taking immediate hold of her trusty Glock kept ever-strapped to her thigh, when she catches a reflective glint from high-up in her peripheral vision that makes her heart stall – instinct and training making her react to the interpreted danger faster than the firing of synapses. Instead of seeing an old man, sitting in a lawn chair on the roof of an RV with a pair of binoculars, she sees a sniper sitting in an advantageous perch, the glint from a scope shining as he readies to fire.
Gaining quick control of her heart beat and breathing, strictly forcing regulation upon her body like snipers are also trained to do, Lou realizes her humiliating mistake. It could be the awkward, wary looks from the people in the camp that first make her acknowledge her mental fumble or it could be the reminder that she is in Nowheresville, Georgia – but no sooner than her knees touch grass and she raises her gun to take aim, with a grand amount of clarity she realizes her embarrassing mistake. Rising from the ground, she straps her heavy black Glock back to her thigh then brushes her bangs to the side, succeeding to disguise just how mortified she is by her overreaction. But what makes her blushing that could easily be dismissed as a sunburn so easily waived is that the people at camp have no predisposition to her ubiquitous hyper-vigilance. They don't know, at least not yet – she hopes, that things like this are not unusual for her to do.
Whether it be waking up in the middle of the night, drawing the gun from under her pillow, aiming at Emily who was just knocking on the door because she had a nightmare or accidentally seeing the scope of an enemy target in an old man with binoculars, Lou has more than her fair share of embarrassing quandaries under her belt.
She clears her throat. Shoves her hands into her pockets. Pretends like she just didn't almost shoot an old man out of pure instinct, and for the most part, it works.
Shane is the sole person who notices Capt. Lyzette's reaction and makes a mental connection. Like synaptic bridges forming or gears clicking into place, he remembers how she completely blew up in their faces earlier – the sudden rage coming from nowhere, her hyper-vigilance just now and the darkened way to her amber and blue eyes are all signs Shane recognizes easily, bridging all these instances with previous memories. He has – had – some friends who were in Desert Storm and he understands perfectly the four-lettered acronym that carries such a hauntingly depressing connotation.
Catching the subtle hints of embarrassment, Shane also remembers how the diagnosis affected his friends, how it made them feel sub-par and secluded.
"Damn. They train you guys good in the Marines." He says as a passing comment to Lou, just loud enough for everyone else to hear, as he makes his way towards his tent. Lou's heterochromatic eyes flicker over to him, at first confused. However, when their eyes meet and Shane hones in on her expressive eyes, Lou visibly becomes overwhelmed with a grateful understanding of what he just did. With brown and blue eyes, she thanks him with a for his effortless cover of what Lou's considers her own personal Goliath with a deep and meaningful gratitude that could never be correctly translated into words. And with a subtle nod Shane says you're welcome, then disappears behind a tent, Lou's eyes following him the entire time, taken aback by his silent kindness.
Along with her eyes pulled towards him, so is her stomach – the tell-tale sign of her instinct telling her something. Yet, for the life of her, Louisiana cannot decipher what it means. With every other guttural pulling she has experienced, she has easily been able to tell whether it is a good thing or a bad thing. But not this time. No, this time her instinct is simply pointing her in Shane's direction, like a compass without markings.
With Shane gone from her sight, Lou waves to Dale on the top of the RV to apologize without apologizing for almost shooting him in the head. Uneasily, he returns the gesture and then begins descending the ladder running down the decrepit Winnebago's fat ass.
"Lori this is-" Rick first introduces Lou to Lori but just like he has been interrupted many times earlier via Lou's mordant nature, he is again. His slender face pulls back, left eye wanting to twitch as he swallows the irritation building in his chest cavity.
"Lou. Captain Lou Lyzette, at your service." She says with a bite of sarcasm so deeply engrained into her Cajun-accented voice it is barely distinguishable as she outstretches her right hand.
Lori accepts Lou's firm handshake, a spark of curiosity in her eyes, "Are you really a Marine?" she asks.
Lou blinks once. She blinks twice. She wonders if the question is meant to be rhetorical, though from how Lori hangs on for an answer with urging brown eyes and raised brows, Lou realizes the woman just must be daft.
"Yes ma'am." Slowly, Lou responds.
Lori smiles, oblivious to Lou's mordant bite, "Oh, I think that is just great – I mean to be a woman and be a Marine - and a Captain no less!" Lori laughs, "My father was a Marine and if he could see this…" Another laugh, a little more uneasy – hinting at the derogatory disbelief her father would have, "Well, as a woman, I have to say I admire you." For whatever faults Lori may have that she will never be aware of, and then furiously deny when alerted of, she is nothing but honest with compliments and Lou can see that. Lou's demeanor changes slightly, relaxing more into her sturdy and stoic stance.
She almost forgot what compliments where, especially those heart-warming sort of ones delivered by Lori, the compliments that pay homage to great respect.
"Thank you." Lou says, visibly meaning every word whole-heartedly.
Carol stands with a soft smile on her face between the slender brunette and a young boy whom is the perfect embodiment of 50/50 homogenization between mother and father, "I think that's just great, too." She says. A reserved woman with a quiet demeanor and a hesitancy towards friction, Carol is rather amazed to meet a female of Lou's stature. Sure, she knew that women were allowed in one of the toughest branches of the military but coming face-to-face with one, especially during these apocalyptic times, instills her with a robust surge of feminism. It makes the now childless widow believe that she could find more strength in her when such a daunting idea seemed previously impossible. If someone as young and rather plain looking as Lou can be so self-confident and effortlessly strong - and serve her country, surely Carol can find the strength to keep pushing on.
A bitter, sad thought lingers in the back of Carol's mind, a longing wish that Sophia had been able to meet Lou. Carol always wanted her daughter to have a strong female role-model, something she pragmatically knew she could not be, and it brings her such a grievance that she has to turn around and walk away when she feels the familiar burning of tears brimming in her eyes. She misses her daughter, her sweet, innocent little daughter so much that it is unbearable. Usually one finely skilled in the art of hiding the larger portion of her deep-rooted despair, Carol is unable to find the strength to simply grin and bear it any longer.
After sharing a look with Rick, Lori follows after Carol with a giddy-up to her steps. For how well Carol tried to disguise her crying, with her back turned, the vigorous shaking of her shoulders renders her retreat redundant.
"Did I say something?" Lou asks Rick.
Rick sighs, shaking his head in gentle denial, "She just lost her daughter."
His words strike a chord with Charlaine, who cannot – nor wants to – imagine the pain Carol must be feeling. If she lost Emily, and damn her for even thinking such a disturbing thought, Lou knows she would fall into a tail-spin down a dismally dark abyss of despair. Her heart goes out to the woman.
Louisiana does not need to ask how Carol lost a daughter. In the apocalypse, the only way someone dies is via the living dead.
As a grateful change of subject, after walking by Carol and promptly being shooed away by Lori, Dale walks up with a slow pace, closely inspecting the woman who almost put a round through his skull the as he approaches closer and closer.
Lou is not sure what to say to the bearded man in a vacation shirt. She does not believe the situation deserves an actual apology because she technically did nothing wrong – she just overreacted due to training and instinct, though that is simply what she tells herself because Louisiana refuses to fully acknowledge that she has such a cowards disease as PTSD.
It is awkward between she and him when he first arrives, until Louisiana soothes the friction she initiated with the first words that come to mind, "Saw a glint off of your binoculars there."
Great, Lou – pin the blame on him. Nice one, dumbass.
Dale shifts between Rick and Louisiana as focal points, deep wrinkles crinkling out from the corners of his eyes as he squints against the sun, closely inspecting Louisiana with a spark of recognition as if he knows her.
"Sorry." Lou quickly counters, the words leaving a sour taste on her pierced tongue because she still believes an apology is not completely warranted – rather, she tells herself that the old man is overreacting.
It is not like she actually shot him or anything…
Dale's shoulders become less tense along with a decreasing intensity in his deep crow's feet as he relaxes, falling subtly more into ease, "Well, I suppose nowadays a little overreaction never hurt."
"I'm Louisiana." Along with her introduction, the buxom redhead offers a small friendly smile with a handshake, again from her right hand as is proper form while her left remains wrist-deep in her pants pockets.
"Dale, nice to meet you. So, is that your real name or are you from Louisiana?" He asks.
Lou nods proudly, "Lafourche parish born and raised." Speaking of her home-town, inadvertently trapped in homeland reminiscence, her accent kicks into overdrive.
Looking at the nametag on her wide-open desert camouflage shirt over a blue tank top which bears the last name Lyzette, the familiar surname connects with her face in Dale's mind. With inquisitive eyes narrowed, "Are you by any chance related to an Antoine Lyzette?"
"Yeah – he's my Pa. D'you know him?" Charlaine is visibly taken aback by Dale, but only in the minutest of ways for her father was an infamous gator hunter, something of a local celebrity.
Yet, for as taken aback as Lou was, Dale magnifies it ten-fold – his eyes becoming wide and free of wrinkles as his jaw goes lax. He blinks slowly, visibly trying to correctly string together a sentence as he stands in utter disbelief.
"He was my brother." Dale says, quiet as he is stunned, "My God... You look just like her." He says even quieter, mystefied.
Lou blinks once. She blinks twice. "I met all my uncles." Lou says skeptically although her words are betrayed by how she mimics Dale's disbelief with wide eyes and slack jaw. Although, her shock is for a completely different reason - she is unwilling to believe that her father whom she greatly admired kept something of this magnitude from her. While her father may of had his secrets, family was the most important thing to him and Charlaine can simply not believe that he would have omitted this kind of detail. It is one thing to not mention every third cousin twice removed but to completely bypass a sibling - an uncle - is another.
Rick and Carl watch silently, father and son standing close to each other as they share in observance of the reunion Dale never thought he would see, the very same reunion Lou denies the existence of.
Dale licks his lips, swallowing as he blinks slowly, "I…," He pauses, taking in a deep breath, "We grew up together in Lafayette. We had different fathers, but our mother, Desiree Dupart –" At the mention of her grandmothers name, something a stranger could not possibly know, Louisiana's demeanor changes as she begins to believe Dale, but she does so in a protective way – her arms crossing under her supple chest, "After she died in '71, I went to live with my father in Virginia and Antoine went to live with his. After we moved, we never spoke again... Our fathers really hated each other, look - I know this is a lot, but Antoine Lyzette really was my brother, which would make you my niece." Dale finishes his explanation then uncle and niece are left looking at each other in silence. Dale is pleased with this chance meeting, a smile growing on his thin lips which speaks to the amazement he is caught up in as he feels something he has not genuinely felt for a long time - happiness as he comes face-to-face with a family member, an honest-to-god living Niece that he did not even know he had.
Louisiana, however, is conflicted about the entire coincidence, stuck between happiness and betrayal over her father's omission of facts, and it shows – much to the blatant disappointment of Dale. Looking like he had spent three weeks working up the courage to ask the most popular girl out to prom and being denied in the most embarrassing sort of ways, his face dramatically falls.
Rick places a hand over Carl's small shoulder, directing the boy away to give the amazingly united family members some privacy.
"Louisiana, I can understand where you're coming from but Antoine was always a very…" he struggles to find the right word.
"Private person." Lou deadpans, offering the correct word Dale had been looking for.
Gently, Dale nods in agreement, "Like I said, we never kept in touch after we were separated. He probably just thought it was better to not talk about me considering my absence from his life." Dale takes in a deep breath, Louisiana doing the same. Her eyes dart away from Dale to gaze upon the slow moving river to her left as she begins to digest all the information just dropped on her like a bomb.
Some newbies show up at the prison. She gives them a ride back to their camp and fucking AbraCadaver, she has an uncle.
"I have a picture of us somewhere in the RV with our mother. Would you like to see it?" Dale asks.
Louisiana's eyes snap back to him, staring at him with a blaring intensity that Dale can't decipher because Louisiana is not yet even sure what it is she's feeling.
With her pale brows tightly knitted together, her entire forehead folding in on itself, she licks her dry lips - a curious emulsification of nausea, intrigue and confusion blatant on her round face with soft features and a slight cleft to her chin that reminds Dale so much of his mother.
Her smooth voice obtains a slight rasp, "Yeah, I would."
Dale leads her to his Winnebago, keeping perfect pace as they walk side-by-side so close that their shoulders almost touch. He resists the urge to look at her the entire journey over such a short distance, and so does she.
T-Dog leans against the galley sink, drinking water from a canteen when Charlaine and Dale enter. T-Dog looks over, brown eyes roaming from Lou's head with messy shoulder-length auburn hair to her chamois coloured boots – pausing slightly first on her large breasts with deep cleavage that bulge slightly against an icy blue tank top that is too tight around her chest and then on the Glock strapped to her chest and the seven-inch knife hanging from her belt that remind him her eyes are up there.
"T-Dog, this is my niece." Dale says, subconsciously overjoyed with his newly discovered relative to the point where is not even aware of his word choice until he says it aloud.
Dale referring to her as such makes Louisiana a nudge more uncomfortable as she remains unsure of what to make of this predicament. But quietly, in the back of her head, a thought zips through her mind.
Holy shit. I almost killed my Uncle.
T-Dog's brows raise high, stretching to the top of his smooth forehead, "Niece?" He asks, coughing on the water he had been trying to drink but instead ended up breathing when he was surprised.
"Louisiana." Lou says in introduction with a vague wave, barely even recognizing T-Dog standing there.
Dale gestures to the table, "Take a seat and I'll find that picture." He smiles kindly while directing her, barely succeeding in containing how thrilled he is. Even before the apocalypse, he had thought all his family was dead and this chance encounter has him all caught up in a rush of joy.
Silently, Lou sits down. She rests her hands on the table top, her eyes become downcast as she despondently watches herself wring her own hands.
"It's really nice to meet a relative of Dale's. You know, your uncle is one hell of a guy." T-Dog says, sliding into the bench seat across from her.
Louisiana looks up at him, her two-toned eyes pleasantly surprising T-Dog for how unique they are – aside from Huskies, he has never seen someone with eyes that are so vivid and so different in shade. One amber and one aqua, each smoothly so and her aqua eye glittering with flecks of gold.
"I wouldn't know," Louisiana says honestly, "I didn't meet him until today."
T-Dog is now greatly confused and visibly so, "Huh?" He asks.
"I just met him now… I guess him and my Pa were brothers." With her left hand, she again brushes back her bangs, tucking the long ends behind her ear – the scarred bite-mark on her wrist shown.
T-Dog freezes, staring wide-eyed at the scar, "What's that?" He asks, pointing at it.
Lou looks down at her own wrist - still quiet and somewhat despondent, the gears in her mind too preoccupied with processing her newly discovered uncle to understand what T-Dog is talking about. She presses her back against the wall, slouching down slightly in her seat as she places her hands in her lap underneath the table, "It's a scar." Lou says with a tone that very clearly signals her desire for the inquisition over her immunity to be done. Suddenly, she is feeling too tired and worn to offer any more of an explanation.
Obviously, the mark circling over the outer side of her left wrist is a scar and T-Dog did not need Louisiana to state the redundant. Even though he wants to question further, he does not – not necessarily because that is obvious what Lou wants, but out of respect for Dale that is extended to her.
So, instead, he crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back in his seat, keeping his eyes keen on the busty redhead.
Dale comes out from the RV's bedroom, a small four-by-six inch photograph in his hands and a wide grin on his face as he gazes upon the memory frozen in time printed on paper that has yellowed and bent from time.
"Here." He hands the picture over to her, standing at the end of the table. Louisiana gingerly takes the photograph from him, swallowing back a lump in her throat before she looks at it.
But when she does, Dale's affirmation of relation is cemented as there is no doubt about the blonde boy sitting in a boat next to an older brown-haired boy, whom is obviously Dale who now stands before her. Louisiana holds the treasured photograph cradled gently with both hands, fondly looking down upon it as she recognizes the young face of her father, trapped on the picture paper in all his blonde haired and ten-year-old glory. The two little boys sit on either side of a mid-thirties woman with long wavy auburn hair, recognizably her Grammy Dupart, who has a wide grin on her round face as she wraps an arm around either little boy. They all smile up in the camera, sitting on an air-boat with swampy cypress trees covered in bright green moss fill the background, lining a near-placid bayou the winds around a distant corner.
Whenever Lou sees her grandmother, it never fails to surprise her how much they look alike. She could be a carbon copy of her paternal grandmother if it weren't for the eyes.
For the first time since Dale told her of their relation, a smile cracks open Lou's lips.
"That's my Pa and la grand-mère Dupart." She whispers, mainly just talking to herself. She traces a finger pad over his young face, feeling a fresh sting of sadness over his death eighteen months ago. However, her sadness over the loss of her father quickly turns into an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness because her father had the luck to die a year before the apocalypse hit and never had to see the God forsaken cannibalistic abominations that roam the earth. Instead, he just passed away from lung cancer one night while he was asleep – he went out peaceful, knowing his daughter was serving her country in Iraq and her brother was running the family business while raising his two beautiful children with his wife. Her father died happy and just in the nick of time. Even though losing him is not something she ever thought she would be happy about – she is. She is wholly at peace with his death now, realizing that he was spared all the horrors she cannot forget - nor will ever be able to.
"I know this may be terribly out of place, but can I keep this? I don't have any pictures of him." Louisiana asks, looking up at Dale.
Dale nods, smiling softly, "Of course."
Louisiana smiles back, soft and friendly as she accepts Dale as her uncle – causing Dale's smile to grow into a grin.
"Go figure that it takes the fucking end of the world for me to find out I have an uncle." Lou says.
Lou stands at the river's edge with her feet firmly planted far-apart into the sandy terrain, her arms crossed under her busty chest as she watches the languid river flow. She breathes in the heavy, humid air and tunes the thoughts ripping through her mind down to white-noise, simply allowing herself a sparse moment of peace.
Running her fingers through her shoulder-length light auburn hair, she yanks out the few knots she finds and then carelessly ties her hair back with a blue-grey elastic tied to her right wrist. On the base of her neck, just under her hairline and barely visible over her shirt collar, an amateur tattoo inked into her tanned skin there – USMC 603.913-13 is scrawled in faded black ink, messy and sloppy with uneven characters. It is not a tattoo Lou willingly set out to get. After being injured during a fire-fight while on a transport, she woke up in a military hospital with the pain of fresh ink in her neck. She was told it is an identification tag and nothing more but that was little more than a bold-faced lie and she knows it – hell, even the doctor who told her was aware of it. None of the other injured soldiers sitting in the hospital cots that smelt like bleach had sloppy tattoos on the back of their necks.
Out of absent-minded habit, she scratches gently at the back of her neck as if simply scraping short and blunt-edged nails against flesh is enough to dig out ink pushed down through five layers of skin. All the time she used to wonder about the tattoo, ponder the meaning behind it, but that passed practically the second she left the hospital. She barely even thinks about it these days, except when she gets high with Alice and becomes completely enthralled by its enigmatic origins.
When Lou hears the heavy footsteps someone approaching from behind she snaps to attention, twisting her torso and stretching her neck over her right shoulder to see who it is. Shane closes the distance between them with wide, yet relaxed strides, both his hands shoved deep into his pants pockets.
"You guys ready to move?" She questions, making assumptions as to why the stalky man has sought her out.
"Hell no. It'll probably be another hour before they're," he spits, clearly distinguishing himself with contempt from the rest of the group, "ready to go."
He comes to a stop by her right side, joining her in watching the river for a calm moment in which Lou watches the brooding man closely from the corner of her eyes. She takes him in, every miniscule detail – from his posture that cements him to the sandy beach to the microexpressions in his face, weighing every singular aspect of his composition; sizing him up, discreetly taking stock. As a good judge of character, it does not take Louisiana long to firmly grasp that Shane is the type of person who always has the best of intentions but constantly finds himself led astray; while he is confident and relatively stoic – a sturdy oak, there is also something disturbed, something haunting about him. There is a distinct darkness to his demeanor and while most people would find this hidden yet discernable knavish way off-putting, Louisiana has never been one who conformed to the majority. She is a connoisseur of the sinfully esoteric; someone who can appreciate a little darkness in a person considering she is a woman with her own convoluted complexities. She is damaged, he is damaged – and not just in the way that every Apocalyptite is. Damaged in the slightly psychotic sort of way.
She likes it, approves of it, and finds herself drawn to such a person because of the similarities they share. It doesn't hurt that Shane rather embodies her physical preferences in the opposite sex – hard features, muscular and stalwart.
Just as her thoughts begin to venture south, Shane opens his mouth, thus pulling Lou out of her mind and back into reality, "Whut?" he asks, voice deep.
Apparently, Lou was not as discrete with her staring as she thought she was, "You're fucked up," She says blunt with her honest words meant to pay compliment – finding absolutely nothing wrong, morally or otherwise, with her phrasing, "I like that." She finishes, holding his gaze for a lingering second before returning her heterochromatic eyes to the slow-moving river just beyond their feet.
"Am I supposed to say thank you to that?"
With a smirk on her plush lips, Lou responds without skipping a beat, "That is the appropriate response for a compliment."
Shane's brows raise, "You call me fucked up and that's a compliment?" He stretches out the word compliment, putting a disbelieving emphasis on the otherwise harmless word.
"I said I like that after."
Shane releases a perplexed breath that sounds very similar to a huh and then with a subtle cock to his head, he finally finds a fitting reply, "You're fucked up." He says, a little harsher than how Lou had but with relatively the same connotation.
"Thank you." Lou smiles, dramatically over-emphasizing her gratitude to illustrate her point.
Shane laughs lowly – just once, not enough to be considered laughter, instead only a breathy murmur of amusement and more discreetly approval.
So, as Lou stands next to him with her arms crossed under her chest, Shane takes his opportunity now to examine her every aspect like she did just moment before. For the most part, the tall redhead appears rather plain with her smooth round face and slender features coupled with her buxom but strength-holding physique. Yet, with the shocking and intriguing beauty of her two-toned eyes and the palpable air of keen aptitude she is anything but ordinary or plain. A Glock strapped to her left thigh and a KA-BAR which has a seven-inch blade tough enough to cut down trees and bone alike act as personality exclamation points, probably accentuating a warning to most people. But Shane has never been most people. Charlaine's danger, her steely toughness and perfect blend of masculine strength of feminine beauty, though not in an androgynous way, is immensely attractive to him – her personality exclamation points screaming something different entirely to him.
Dale, who had been walking by the river as he helps the others pack up the few remaining objects laying about, notices Lou and Shane standing close together, talking with that look tell-tale look in their eyes which makes his heart jump up into his throat.
He may only have known Lou as his niece for a half-hour yet he knows with righteous conviction deep within him that there is no way in hell he is going to let his niece and a murdering bastard become a pair, if even only for a night.
Dale puts down the two lawn chairs he had been carrying and walks over to Lou and Shane, clearing his throat as he approaches the sandy shore to alert them.
They both look behind them, Lou offering a friendly greeting while Shane reserves himself to silence in the face of the man who called him out on his Otis-bluff.
"You and my niece getting along, Shane?" Dale asks while stealing Shane's gaze, as menacing as he can muster, intending to intimidate the black-haired man but instead he inadvertently ignites Shane like throwing kerosene on a fire. Dale has been keeping Shane in check with the knowledge he has of Otis' murder, keeping him under his thumb. Shane only follows along and does what Dale says because he really has no choice, well, aside from leaving the group all together which would leave Shane to travel through a walker-infested wasteland alone. Until now, Shane gritted his teeth and danced along to Dale's tune, begrudgingly so but smart enough to realize that there is safety and numbers. Shane is no fool. Just like he knows that he is better off living with the group, he also knows when a woman is flirting with him and thus he is pretty damn sure that he has a good chance with her. She even said it herself, she likes him for being fucked up.
Shane has been left with a bone to pick with Dale and the old man has just granted him the best way to retaliate; Shane can pick his bone by boning Dale's niece, a grand opportunity the off-kilter man appreciates more than one should.
Dale calling her his niece still makes Lou uncomfortable, if only for how new it is to her. It feels too weird; still over-powered with that brand new long-lost relative scent. She soothes down her bangs while forcing her eyes back upon the calm river.
"Lou's your niece? Imagine that, only a few handfuls of people left in the world and you find your niece," Shane says, feigning a surprise that lacks poisonous and mischievous intentions which his eyes clearly display, "That's incredible." He finishes, perverse glee twinkling his dark eyes. Dale knows how fake Shane is being, he is able to plainly read through the lines and see Shane for the vile man he is yet all of this, the entire deeper meaning to this interaction is completely missed by Lou who remains oblivious as she fishes a cigarette from her shirt pocket.
Lou nods, "Yeah, it's pretty… incredible." She sticks the cigarette between her lips then ignites a lighter, marrying flame and tip, then taking in a deep inhale. She honestly cannot fathom just how incredible – and not just figuring out she has an uncle in her mist. She honestly cannot fathom how incredibly lucky she has been throughout the whole apocalypse. From being immune, to being able to save Emily, to finding Georgia State and then finally to finding Dale… While she may remain oblivious to the fact that there is something more going on between Dale and Shane, she is not oblivious to how lucky she is.
She has to fight the urge to check the bottom of her boots, wondering if perhaps she stepped on a leprechaun at some point.
Wait... Would that be good luck or bad luck?
Dale and Shane hold a look, each trying to intimidate the other to back down. For Dale's threat of exposing Shane, Shane in-turn counters with his own threat of sleeping with the only family member Dale miraculously has left. Neither threat is hollow and neither intimidator is willing to back down.
Meanwhile...
Cleaned up after vigorous use of some moist-towelettes, Alice sits cross-legged on her bed, going through the rhythms of grinding up buds of marijuana in a grinder and then sprinkling them into a rolling paper, all the while explaining with intricate detail the strict regimen she adheres to that allows her plants to flourish. Stoned in a way that he never has been before, and with his back turned to Alice, Daryl only listens with half-interest as he stares with ruby-red eyes and mouth partially agape at the four plants lining the wall opposing her cot. The four plants that reach up to his chest are fragrant as can be, filling not only Alice's room, but the entire hallway beyond with a very strong and distinct scent, like dried marijuana only a thousand times stronger. Above the plants there is are four long, heavy duty cylindrical grow-light is affixed to the ceiling but they are currently off – apparently as per Alice's routine. Her set-up is pretty advanced given their unique situation for there are even small tubes that curl into the base of their pots filled with fertile soil which automatically deliver water to the plants from a bucket and pump with a clock attached to it in the corner.
Leave it to a German to figure out how to engineer an irrigation system from catheter tubes and a breast milk pump.
Part of the reason why Daryl only listens with half-interest is that he can only understand half of the things she says. Her accent has become thicker as she becomes too lazy to actually fully articulate how different the sounds are between German and English, and not only that but every now and then she gives up on using English completely, always using Schieβe in place of shit and referring to her plants as meine kleine Lieblings, which apparently means her little darlings – or quite literally, my favourites.
Daryl reaches out, touching one of the nine-pointed leaves, rubbing the thick leaf between his thumb and forefinger, wondering at the sensation felt by the nerve endings there as he touches the plant. He's so stoned, it is almost like his fingers are having little tiny orgasms.
And it couldn't be with a more beautiful plant.
The plants are all ripe with massive buds, sticky and dense with a white sheen – glorious White Widow plants. He glances over his shoulder to Alice, finding that she is wholly preoccupied with rolling a joint, yet still talking. But – she is not looking at him, which is what is important. Turning back around, Daryl smirks to himself as he sneakily takes out his pocket knife and cuts off a large bud from one of the plants that is easily the size of a banana. Pocketing it, he turns back around and leans against a nearby wall, relaxing with his arms crossed over his chest.
As soon as he moves away from the plant, Alice can tell that a large bud is missing – he wasn't exactly trying to be discrete, but waives his thievery because she views these plants as communal. Everyone is welcome to them granted they do not get greedy.
"Zo, that's how it done." Alice says – both referring to how she grows and to the thick joint she now pulls through her lips in order to securely seal it.
With a jerky nod of his chin in her direction, "Why do you do it?" Daryl asks.
Confused, Alice freezes, her eyes widening as her jaw goes slack while the joint is clamped between her lips, the flame of a lighter held just beyond the tip, "Do what?"
"That fuckin' wall, man – why do you spend all day drawing on it? I'm just curious is all, never much understood shit like that."
Alice's face changes as she realizes what Daryl is referring to, not becoming offended but rather looking like she has heard the question a thousand times before.
"Art makes me people happy. It always has and it always will. It is actually chemical, you know. We are biologically conditioned to like symmetrical, beautiful things and when you look at good art endorphins are released in your brain and you will get a feeling of pleasure. So, if I can give people some pleasure among all this Schieβe, while reminding them how beautiful life really is… Well, then, it is my job to as an artist." She brings flame to tip then takes puffing inhales to get the joint smoldering properly.
Huh, Daryl muses nearly slightly. Alice takes a long hit and then passes it off to Daryl who takes a seat beside her on the squeaky cot shoved up against one wall. Holding in her breath, Alice leans back against the wall, sliding down to settle like a crescent against the thin mattress.
She releases a cloud of smoke with a small sigh, "You probably think I am a dummkopf," colloquially an idiot, "for believing life is still beautiful."
Daryl shakes his head from side-to-side while holding in his breath and after releasing it, "We're all still alive. That's pretty fuckin' beautiful."
She turns her head, stealing Daryl's gaze with her hazel eyes accentuated by the sleek frame and subtle flare to the ends of her glasses. For a moment, it seems something meaningful but then Alice busts out into a laughing fit
Alice giggles, crinkling her petite nose, "But all the zombies suck. Fucking Thriller was a lie!"
Daryl chuckles along, doing his best impression of the thriller walk while sitting down. Soon their mutual laugher grows until it becomes uncontrollable, both Daryl and Alice clutching their throbbing sides and their bountiful bout of hysterical laughter fills her cell to the brim – filtering out through the open door into the hall and traveling down the hall.
When their laughter gradually begins to subside, Alice's chuckles have mixed with high-pitched whines as her cheeks burn and she struggles to breath but it all hurts in the best of ways, so she really doesn't mind – not really, anyway.
Daryl has never been much of a joker but through the whole apocalypse he had forgot how to laugh – and more importantly he forgot how good it feels to lose yourself in the best of ways while in the company of the finer sex.
It feels normal.
It feels like relief.
It feels like the start of a beautiful friendship.
Not intentionally trying to flirt but also not intending it to be completely innocent, Alice lays down and places her head on Daryl's lap while her boot-clad feet hang off the wide edge of the cots metal headboard. She twirls her right ankle around, spinning the un-tied boot around her foot in slow, sloppy circles. Daryl has his head rested all the way back against the wall, his eyes only open a sliver as he hangs suspended between sleep and alertness – not half-baked, or fully-baked, but baked twice like a fucking Biscotti. After taking a hit Alice hands the joint back to Daryl, having to tap his upper arm to gain his attention. With a dopey smile, he takes it then inhales, all the while wondering just how much more weed he can smoke before he completely passes out.
Alice looks up at the ceiling without directly seeing it but clearly staring at something she sees in her mind, identical to the way she looked earlier while mentally sketching on the wall in the main hallway.
Daryl holds his hit, looking up at the ceiling while trying to see what she does – but he can't. All he sees is white. A flat, white surface with a few dimples and nothing more.
"What the hell are you lookin' at?" Daryl asks.
"This ceiling could be something great. Just look at it and tell me what you see." Alice holds her arms straight up while fanning out her fingers as she brushes imaginary paint with her palms on the blank canvas above her.
Daryl rolls his eyes to himself, thinking demeaning thoughts about women, more specifically those creative types who put twelve different types of potpourri in one room and assume men have all these deep, intense feelings that they need to talk about.
…Which they don't.
When she catches his disinterest, Alice nudges him playfully in the ribs with her elbow, "Just humour me. Look at the ceiling like it isn't even there and think of something….something beautiful…something peaceful, instead."
Begrudgingly agreeing to at least try, Daryl scoots down and throws his head back. For the first couple of minutes he has nothing but heavy, impatient breaths as nothing but pure white glares back at him.
"Breathe like a normal person." Alice says gently.
Eyes fluttering closed with irritation, Daryl takes a few deep breaths and then reopens his eyes, breathing slowing and steady.
It does not happen instantly but it happens gradually, constantly growing one more degree stronger until it is as if his mind becomes a view-finder and clicks to the next slide. He sees it as if it were actually there and with great detail – the view from a distant memory he was not even sure he had.
He recalls the time he lay on the grass behind his house as a young boy, no older than six or seven. It was springtime and while all around his house there were nothing but evergreens, cypress and oak there were two white dogwoods just at lawns edge and they were in bloom. Daryl lay there on the grass, warming himself under the bright sun while looking up at a crisp blue sky, all the while those two flowering white dogwoods just at the bottom edge of his vision. He could smell their fragrant blossoms – he can smell their fragrant blossoms, a faint phantom whiff in this very instant.
Daryl shakes his head, not willing to admit what he envisioned as Merle's gravelly voice condescendingly rings loud in his head
Alice groans, "I let you get away with stealing that bud, the least you can do is tell me."
Daryl sighs, stalling for just a moment while he stares down at her, taking in her as a sight - Alice's blonde hair lying in a halo pile around her head on his lap, her hazel eyes staring right at him with two pale blonde eyebrows raised high on her forehead, urging him on.
Finally, Daryl admits, "Dogwoods… Dogwoods with white flowers, like you're looking up at the sky and there they are."
Alice smiles, a genuine warm smile that erases Daryl's Merle-induced thoughts of un-manliness.
She nods once, "White dogwoods it is." She then shifts her eyes from him to the ceiling, her smile fading only slightly, "I like dogwoods." She says in quiet agreement.
Daryl continues looking at her with his blue eyes with his brows subtly furrowed together in fond bewilderment at her personality. Not so surprisingly, he finds himself approving of this person, this oddity who is neither like the women he knew before the apocalypse nor bearing any resemblance to the few he has met since. Daryl used to prefer women in short, high-energy bursts – one-night stands with wild passion but without any sort of lasting connection, but now that walkers roam the earth those sorts of interactions aren't exactly feasible.
Necrophiliacs are probably having a blast, though.
Lou leads the convoy back to the prison, keeping a slow pace in the Humvee ahead of Dale's RV with her left arm out the window, her hand rolling up and down in gentle waves as she feels the breeze pass by. The prisons lurks on the horizon, tall buildings and twisted metal looming over the rolling hills washed with the warm wildflower hues of pink and purple. Even during daylight hours, Georgia State stands menacing as it haunts the serene scenery, seemingly ripped straight from the pages of a Poe story and then placed amongst a pristinely peaceful setting.
Georgia State has always conjured feelings like Alcatraz or Eastern State Penitentiary and the thick acrid scent of burning death in the air does little to quell such haunting images.
Just beyond GSP's main gates, tall flames that turn black as they lick they sky stretch high, violently roaring. A quiver to the air clings around the tall pyre, much like a mirage in the desert, as intense heat ripples over the ground. Through the apocalypse, she has learned that there are two distinct smells of cooking skin – that of the freshly dead and that of the severely decomposed, those pesky walkers who are abandoning zombie classification and encroaching upon mummification territory, and this certain smell she smells is very clearly the latter. Decay and decomposition. Slightly woodsy, ashy – dusty and old.
Burning the corpses of the permanently-dead living dead has proven itself to be a less-traveled path that should be traveled. Where there are a lot of corpses lying around, it draws more. The distinct scent of decomposition and death which the walkers find so familiar entices them to roam in hoards, a pack of rabid animals united on a flesh quest. Much like walkers can track down loud noises, they follow the scent of their fellow dead. However, that is not the only benefit to burning the bodies. With less infected corpses lying around, it keeps away the animals and removes a food source for scavengers who eat the tainted flesh and then contribute to the spread of the disease.
But the stench. The God awful stench.
No matter how hard she fights the feeling tugging at memories stored deep in her hippocampus, the instantly recognizable smell thrusts her back through time, back to when Hell first started to erupt on Earth. Instead of grassy green hills with GSP on the horizon, she sees an ablaze Monroe Street before her; vividly reliving her midnight ride through the inferno that was once Tallahassee. Swallowing back the rush of memories, Louisiana bites on the middle knuckle of her curved index finger, smelling the gunpowder and tobacco on her hands instead.
She doesn't let her bother her, at least not in the visible way. Because, in the apocalypse, that is all you can do. There is no time for wallowing or PTSD; there is no time for mourning or fear; there is only time for accepting reality and remembering how to survive – or else this new world will quite literally eat you alive.
Long chapter, I know, but I hope it was enjoyed and realistic with the whole Dale/Lou relationship thing.
Please review! :)
