She felt like a deer in headlights even though she was the one who clicked on the flashlight again. Then off.
He sat up. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just pants. Bare feet.
"Carol?"
She felt like crying. She was so embarrassed. She clicked on the flashlight, pointed it on the floor of his cell, letting it lead her inside.
She stood before him, then kneeled. Put the flashlight down on the cement, the light flooding sideways. Set the walkie on the floor beneath the bunk.
He was still. Frozen. Watching her do this, he looked almost scared. She saw him swallow, then, and she knew it wasn't fear but nerves and she didn't say one thing, didn't listen to any of the rushing words in her brain - no, no, no what are you doing? you can't, stop - just leaned toward his neck and kissed it.
She expected him to object. Maybe even knock her away. She braced for violence and that made her want to cry again, how long it'd been since anyone had put her in that position: waiting to be tossed away like trash. How easily she fell back into that role.
But he just took her hands out of the pockets of her med smock and held them. His hands warm and callused. Hers the same now. The nails cut short.
Would he tell her no? Be gentle? Send her away? She pictured running toward the fence and out into the woods and into the mouths of whatever was there.
He let go of her hands. His hands went up her arms, over her breasts, around her shoulders, along the straps of the tank top she wore. His fingers slipped under her chin, lifting her head.
"Come here, girl," he said.
His bunk smelled kind of bad. Like dirt and body odor and cigarettes. And it wasn't comfortable, or really big enough for even one person.
But it didn't matter. He held her so tight. She was so relieved he didn't tell her no, didn't make her leave, didn't smack her - for the love of god, would she ever get over Ed? - that she kissed him like she was trying to thank him without words.
He had a taste that was tangy. No minty toothpaste or beer breath. Just salty good. He lay back and she pressed herself over him and he just took it. Everything she gave him, he took it and took it, his hands slipping under her shirt, soft on her belly, on her back. Like he was being punished and he wouldn't fight. But he groaned and sighed. Pulled at her hips to straddle him and she could feel him, hard, beneath her.
She could have shouted in surprise when he did it; she was smiling in the dark.
"What," he murmured, between kisses. He could tell something was up. He'd always had been good at reading people.
"Nothing," she said. Kissing him harder. Trying to be normal, like they always did this. Trying to make it seem like this was nothing.
Though it was everything. It had been years since she'd made a man get hard like that, and thrilled at it, too. It had been high school. A boy named Aaron Crowther. His father ran the corner store by their house.
He kept rubbing her down on his hard dick. Kept taking her kisses. His hands threaded under her shirt, untied the med smock. God, the med smock! She looked like a mother or a cook! She tossed it on the floor and the flashlight rolled crazily on the cement, light flickering in circles around them.
He laughed, then. Low. She remembered him laughing; how long it took for him to relax and let go with it back in the early days. Why had she fallen away from all of them, the original crew? Why had it been so long?
Now he was kissing her breasts, pushing her bra out of the way to get at them. Soft. Slow. Sucking. When he nipped at one, she started.
"Sorry!"
"It's okay," she said.
"Sorry, though," he said. "I don't...You feel so good," he added. Cupping her breasts, squeezing them. Then pressing her hips to grind her down on his dick.
Good. Good was good. This felt good. He felt good. Even his scruffy beard scraping at her skin felt good.
Aaron Crowther had felt good, too. First boy she bothered to kiss more than a few minutes. They made out behind the store when he was supposed to be breaking down cardboard boxes for his dad. Aaron Crowther may have been shy, not so popular and outgoing, but he hadn't been a bad looking kid. She'd been quiet, too. It was sort of a miracle the two of them had even made any moves toward the other. But when she was sixteen, she'd not been so afraid. And she'd been pretty. Long legs, nice smile. Long hair. It was only Ed that made her cut it. Why did she still cut it?
And why was she thinking of Aaron Crowther now? And Ed?
The walkie squawked beneath them.
She jumped and pulled her shirt up. Scrambled for the walkie and listened: the pregnant lady in E Block was bleeding.
Daryl stood up as she grabbed for the med smock and flashlight. Ran his hand through his hair. He looked strange, a little helpless with no shirt and bare feet, no weapon in his hands, his arms crossed over his chest like he was cold.
"You want me to come with you?" he asked.
"No, it's okay," she said. "See you later."
The pregnant lady lost the baby.
She and Herschel and the med shift person, a guy who'd been a paramedic, couldn't do much but clean up the blood and try to keep her alive, too.
By morning, the woman was stable. Herschel prepared a raspberry tea for her when she woke. The paramedic guy went on a run with the foraging crew to look for some supplies Herschel thought might help. Carol stayed behind. Drank the raspberry tea, talked with Herschel about blood loss. Transfusions. Medicines they were running low on.
"It's all around us," Herschel said. "Everywhere. Hanging off trees. Hiding under moss. It's funny how quickly this knowledge could be lost to us. But we can get it back again. We just have to look."
She nodded. She was exhausted. She took the bloody laundry down to the washing area, which was abandoned. The day was hot and bright and a little wind kicked up. Perfect time to pin up clothes. She filled a bucket with water from a rain barrel and pitched a little bleach in it. Pushed the bloody sheets and towels down into it.
A baby was dead. Or what could have been a baby was dead. And the woman who'd lost it hadn't been much older than Beth.
She remembered spotting once while pregnant with Sophia after Ed shoved her into the dresser in their bedroom. She couldn't find a shirt he wanted. She spotted and worried and couldn't even bring herself to go to the doctor. Part of her wished the pregnancy would just end, right there.
That was not a thing a mother would ever admit. Ever. Especially the mother of a dead child.
She watched the bleached water bloom spools of blood. She remembered being in Daryl's bed, just a few hours ago. Everything felt in motion, getting away from her, like a team of horses splitting off from the wagon. Why was this happening now? Why not earlier, when the original group was so solid and tight? Life had intervened from all her earlier feelings about Daryl and Rick. Life had to be attended to, helped along, smoothed over, fought for.
Enough with the star-gazing, you, she thought. No more moony nights. No more babies. No more young girl dreams. Just stop.
But that night, while she tossed in her bunk, lecturing herself, thinking the same annoying, agitating things, over and over, he came to her.