Note: I can't watch nude scenes in movies without getting all embarrassed, so, while I wanted to get the point across for the origin story, I wanted to do it with a level of tact. The title comes from an Anne Bradstreet poem ("Upon the Burning of Our House"). Give it a read!
There was an uneasy quiet about the night. The only sounds the three could hear were the distant hoots of barred owls and the soft crackling of the twigs in the yellow campfire around which they were huddled. Hosea looked beside him to his daughters. What he wouldn't do to protect them. Nearest to him, his eldest adjusted the tightly knit blanket swaddling them, hiding her face from the warm glow of the fire. The younger repositioned her head on her sisters shoulder.
"Jody" The youngest looked up at her father as he spoke, the light dancing in her eyes. "You did a good job today. I always knew I raised a strong baby girl. . . . You're going to be fine out here."
Her older sister looked at her without moving her head much, so as not to disturb her. "If you keep that up, you'll outlive Dad and me."
Though the statement was meant to build her confidence, Jody focused her eyes back on the flames with a frown and a furrowed brow. The small upward-tilt at the top of her nose turned noticeably red, and her lips drew in tightly. ". . . I don't want to outlive you," she managed, a distinct lump in her throat.
Hosea gave the eldest a look of gentle disapproval which she attempted to avoid by averting her eyes to the blanket beneath her nose. "I just mean that I'm proud of you. You can take care of yourself. . . . You don't need anyone to protect you," she explained, desperately grasping at words that might assuage the aftermath of the unpalatable remark.
None of them spoke again, deciding that the eery silence of the night was better than another perfunctory comment on the day's horrors. The three still-saddled horses shifted behind them nervously. Leaves rustled in the bushes right of them, and all three weary campers jumped to their feet. Hosea thought quickly and elected to reach for his machete in favor of his revolver; it wouldn't do to call more walkers to the area than was necessary by firing a shot in their vulnerable position.
A figure appeared in the darkness, with an arm raised. "Whoa, easy there," it said. It was a man's voice. It was a pleasant tenor, soothing to the ear, but his accent was not a colloquial one. Something silver glinted in the outstretched hand. "My gun is drawn and ready to fire. Please put down your weapons. All of them. Sir, that means both that machete and the gun I see in your belt."
The girls looked, terrified, at their father, who nodded slowly. Hosea's machete dropped to the ground, and, with one hand in the air, he pulled his pistol from its place using his thumb and index finger, laying it on the ground gently.
"We're gonna come out," the man stated. Four of them, including the one with the aimed gun stepped out from behind the hawthorne. The tenor man had short, brown hair and, though he was an average height, stood slightly shorter than his companions. One came to collect the weapons lying in the dirt; he was a burly man with a black beard that was cleanly kept. His lower lip puckered out over his chin slightly. 'Three' began to frisk each person in the family, and found no weapons that had not been turned over. He was by far the tallest, with a skinny build akin to that of a basketball player and blond hair that had not been cut in a while. The fourth was a few years younger; there could not have been a very big age difference between Jody and him.
The two that had taken the weapons, added them to a black zippered backpack that rested on the young one's shoulders. When they were finished, Hosea spoke. "I'm Hosea. These are my daughters, Mila and Jody. You can lower your weapon. We've complied with what you want."
The tenor man bent his elbow so that the barrel of his gun pointed towards the treetops, but said nothing. He seemed to think a while until the bearded man elbowed him and whispered something in his ear. They both laughed and the tall one grinned. Hosea shifted uneasily; there was nothing funny about the situation.
"It's a good thing you've complied. It makes what happens next easier," he said, smiling. His tone had changed; it was no longer polite and firm but menacing and austere. He looked at the girls who had taken a few steps back, Jody's hand on Mila's wrist. "Nice to meet you," he bowed his head.
"If you come any closer, I'm going to kill you," Hosea threatened, stepping between the men and his daughters. Blood pumped loudly in his ears and his arms and legs started to tingle as his anger and fear rose hot into his throat.
The silver semiautomatic colt clicked in the tenor man's grip as he pointed it at Hosea's nose. "Really? You gonna stop us with your bare hands?" His companions drew their weapons, too. Hosea looked at each of them, his eyes lingering on the younger boy with crooked teeth who looked unsure of everything happening around him. A small black gun in his hands shook slightly. Hosea stumbled backwards a bit, his heart dropping to his toes. The bearded man reached in the backpack where they had put the stolen weapons and pulled out a handful of long, black zip ties.
There was a long pause before the tall one asserted, "I want the blond one."
"Get on your knees, old man. Randall, zip tie him. . . . Make him watch. If he moves . . . shoot him," the tenor man commanded.