It was a damn miracle. Daryl backtracked to the camp—which was full of walkers, both from inside and drawn out from the woods surrounding—and discovered tracks leading off towards the highway, to the north. Towards Mateo's asshat father.
"Only other people been out here is them," he'd said. "Worth checkin' out."
So we did. Autumn found its stride around us, trickling in bit by bit. The temperature slipped lower and lower as the days got shorter.
The first house we came across had been squatted in, and recently. We stayed for an evening and left at first light, finding the next spot two miles away and, much to our chagrin, used-up as well.
"We must be right on their tails," I said.
"Looks like it."
It took two more days—dragging our feet through the thicket of fallen leaves, breathing in the even thicker cool air, sleeping on near-empty bellies—before we found them.
"Daryl!" I grabbed him mid-step, startling Mateo's slumber with the jerk. Daryl spun on his heel, cat-eyes wide and angry. "I hear them," I said under my breath. Pointed to the northeast. "Listen."
He turned a ear to the northeast, from which the wind came, and with a nod (and a few gestures I had come to understand as follow but stay behind me) we trekked in the direction of men's voices and chopping wood.
"Maybe we should make ourselves known," I suggested. "You know, since they have axes."
Daryl shook his head. "Scope 'em out first. See what kinda set up they got. We can camp out nearby, go again first light, and drop off the kid."
"We can't just drop him off," I protested, touching Mateo's warm cheek, his head resting between my chin and collarbone. "We should see if they'll let us stay for a few days. Both of us need to rest up."
Again, that head went to shaking. "Naw. Don't trust 'em not to slit our throats while we're cat-nappin'."
We'd knocked on the cabin door like some old-world Jehovah's Witnesses. Of course, these days, when someone knocks on your door, that's even scarier than a geek scratching and growling at you. A knock meant a person, and a person meant an much more evenly matched fight.
We made a deal. It took a lot of negotiating, and they made us walk over to the clearing twenty yards from the house, as if they were trying to hide something inside. But we made a deal—they got Mateo back, and we got a couple days' worth of their supplies. Food. Water. Two First-Aid kits.
When I got the nod from Daryl, I handed Mateo over to his father, who wrapped the child in his embrace and joyously kissed his head several times over, crying out: "¡Mi chico! ¡Mi chico! ¡Te eché de menos!"
"You got your kid back," Daryl said. "Now it's time you hold up your end of the deal."
Juarez's expression of paternal gentleness molded into a sneer. Cold snaked into my chest, into my veins.
"We can't help you."
Itching to grab my knife and hold it to his fatty throat, I asked, "Can't? Or won't?"
"There's not enough resources to take on two more people. And we don't particularly trust you," the skinny guy hiding behind Juarez declared. When my glare hit him, he shrunk back.
"Because we tied James to a car?"
"Because that guy," Juarez growled, motioning at Daryl. "Shot James in the knee and shot me in the shoulder. Damn near killed me."
"Yeah, well, your boy James did a good job messin' me up too," Daryl snarled, rolling the healed shoulder that he said ached more and more with the cold.
Juarez grinned nastily. "Good."
"So are you gonna help us or what?" I challenged.
"No. Don't matter if you brought my son back to me. You're not forgiven for what you did to our leader. He was our friend and all he did was try to help you, you slut."
"He was going to take advantage of me!" I screeched. "He was going to make me his freakin' prostitute!"
Juarez chuckled. Mateo's sweet face looked all kinds of wrong next to his father's malicious one. "He would've found other uses for you than that."
"That shit-faced bastard got what was comin' to him," Daryl spat. Swinging his arm, pointing at Juarez's chest like his finger was the barrel of a gun. "If I'd had it my way, he'd've been eaten alive."
I grabbed his arm before he actually could grab his .45 and do some damage. "Forget it, Daryl. We're goin' now."
"Naw. Naw I ain't goin' nowhere."
"No use in arguin'," I hissed. "C'mon."
Juarez grabbed Daryl by the strap of his bag. Swerving around, the gleam Daryl's eyes took on was one I'd seen all too much of late.
"Wait," purred Juarez, lazy and murderous. "Leave your packs."
"What?" Daryl objected.
"You can't make us do that!" crying out, I felt for my knife—well-hidden under my sweater—and gripped the handle. Things were moving south way too fast. "We gave you back your son. Now let us leave in peace."
"Drop your packs at my feet and you can go in peace. Cross my heart."
Taunting us. Taunting us like children who didn't understand the game of the new, savage world. And maybe I didn't. Daryl did.
I didn't even see him pull his knife. Didn't even know what the plan was till I saw the flash of silver, the spray of blood, heard the guttural scream. The fingers of Juarez's hand that had been gripping Daryl's bag strap now lie on the forest floor.
Jumping into action, I kicked out the legs of the woman closest to me. Her finger had been so tight on the trigger of her AR, the surprise swiftness of my kick sent a wide arc of bullets into the treetops. I dropped on top of her and strangled her blue. Then I stole her gun.
No time to think. No time to feel remorse. Kicking, slashing, parrying, shooting and punching. Clawing my way through, grabbing Mateo from his unworthy father's arms, hollering Daryl's name till my voice was a bleat and all around us was blood and bodies.
We didn't run. When it was over, when every last one of James' camp's survivors was finished off, I rejoined my companion in the middle of it all, clutching the screeching child.
Daryl's chest rose and fell, fast and loud. Rose and fell. Fast and loud. I stared at it, feeling the strangest settling of peace. I'd just taken three people's lives—living people with memories and beating hearts—and I was freaking calm.
"What did we do?" Wondering aloud because I honestly had no idea what had conspired. My body, my hands, my actions. But that couldn't have been me.
Who am I?
He glanced at me, breakneck and heartless, and retrieved his backpack from the bloody ground. Slinging it over his shoulder, he stepped over a warm, messy corpse and towards the cabin with it's still-burning hearth. Our stolen home for tonight.
"What we had to."
Dear Diary,
I'd like to say Mateo and Daryl and I lived pretty happily after that. I wish I could say that after Daryl and I took care of the survivors' bodies, we moved on and found somewhere safe for the coming winter. I really wish I could say that.
What the group had been hiding in that house was sickness. An older man sat near the fire when we went inside. He had the flu. Can you believe that? The flu! With all that we'd seen and been through, someone was dying of the flu. Because he couldn't find anymore antibiotics. Because Walgreens isn't open around the clock anymore.
Daryl almost went right in for the kill. I stopped him. The man was harmless. He could barely lift his arm. He didn't ask either of us about the fate of the group. I think he could've cared less, and told us so. He knew Juarez was lower than pond scum.
The man died before Daryl could even go out to look for medicine that next day. He'd told us a lot about himself. Well, he told me. Daryl had occupied himself with going through every thing he could find in the house and Mateo had finally passed out. He'd been a construction worker and always had a weak immune system. His name was Paul. He had been married twice and had three kids. He didn't know if they were dead or not. They'd been with their mom when the world went crazy.
We buried Paul. The other bodies were burned.
We found and packed what we could and moved out the following day.
It's been days but I still can't get the lump out of my throat, Diary.
Mateo caught the flu from Paul. His immune system was even weaker than Paul's ever was, being so small and so young and malnourished. The flu took him in four days. It didn't matter what we did. His fever got worse and he turned blue. I made him tea like Mama used to make for us, from any herbs I could find. I made sure he was warm and comfortable. I tried to bring his fever down.
We buried him in a field off the highway by an old rundown Texaco.
I couldn't take care of him, Diary. I couldn't save him. And even though I barely knew him, I can feel the loss as if he were my own child.
I hope Judith is okay. I hope she got out with Rick and Carl. I hope we find them and she's healthy. I hope they're all healthy and okay.
Is there nothing good anymore? Am I being an idiot by hoping, Diary?
Because I sure as hell feel like one.