A funeral home.
What fuckin' irony. The only place for miles that can shelter us from the dead's a house of death. It's well kept with clean white walls. The white's almost overpowerin', like it's too pure for this world. I look over at the equally pure girl behind me an' realize there ain't ever such a thing as 'too pure'. This place may just be what she needs. I scan the rooms, Beth stays down by the door. I'm not gonna lie: This place is fuckin' creepy.
One room stood out the most to me, off to the side of the entrance with vases full of fake flowers on shelves. There's only one other item in there. I walk over to the shelf under the window an' pick up the picture book. Flippin' through it I see photo after photo of dead bodies. Not the dead bodies you come 'cross now. Naw. These were the type of dead from a normal world. Tucked away in half-opened caskets, dressed in their Sunday best. The women in these pictures were covered in gaudy jewelry. The gold bangles adorned arms as a means of beauty. But, in my mind, it looked like a couple of slit wrists soakin' in golden blood. The rings were stacked on each other. Warm sweaters wrapped their bodies. I roll my eyes. The fuck good'll all that shit do in the grave? I notice the men were much plainer; ties an' cufflinks. The only similarity between the sexes is the putty shit spread 'cross their faces. I toss the book down. What sick fuck keeps pictures of dead bodies?
After what I assumed to be a thorough perimeter check, I discover a bathroom, two bedrooms up the stairs, a parlor with a piano an' empty casket, the flower room an' a parlor with an occupied casket. Beth's resumed her place behind me. We approach the coffin an' look in. The body of a man lays still as sleep. He's got that muddy shit all over his face an' I wipe my fingers through it. It takes only a second to register, but I know this weren't no livin' person laid to rest. The decayed skin under the putty's my only sign, but it's all I need. Someone killed a walker, dressed it up an' gave the fucker a wake. Bile rises in my throat. I have to get outta this room. I head out an' take the stairs down. I don't even know where I'm headed, nor do I remember there bein' stairs that went down. Course I would end up in the damn embalmin' room. An' course there's two made up walkers on slabs.
I clear my mind enough to know there's gotta be gauze or bandages somewhere in here, an' Beth's ankle needs wrappin'. I comb through the cupboards an' find a bandage, still in its packagin'. I turn to show Beth what I got, only to see her studyin' the bodies. I walk 'round to the side just in fronta the exit. Now, I ain't goin's far enough to say I'm claustrophobic, but I need the proof of my potential escape to be in plain sight. Old habits die hard, an' all that shit. Liftin' the corner of the pack to my lips, I tear it open with my teeth an' keep my eyes trained on her. I glare back down at the ugly fuckers, followin' her own gaze.
"Looks like somebody ran outta dolls to dress up." I meant it to lighten the mood, but she stood firm an' held tight to my eyes. She tells me how it's 'beautiful' an' I'm startin' to wonder just how much pain she's in. She goes on to say that someone obviously cared enough to make sure they got a proper funeral, they remembered these things were people...before. I just look at her now: The fiery girl who battles to remain a good person. She has an appreciation for the possibility that there're others out there who share her spirit.
"Don't you think it's beautiful?"
I can't bring myself to look away from her. I know she's askin' me 'bout dolled up walkers. But, in that moment, I'm overwhelmed with a different beauty. The kinda beauty that sees through the glacial shell of a pained man an' holds him together as he falls apart. The kind that dreams an' hopes. It shines a light at the end of a dark corridor, a promise of a brighter day. This beauty upholds behavior that is kind an' carin'. A funeral for a walker don't taint it, that's not even what it focuses on. The bigger picture is that someone still cares 'bout the way things used to be. It still catches glimpses of a lost, distant world. In this small speck of time, I do see what's so beautiful 'bout this scene. An' she's standin' right in front of me.
I clear my throat an' walk back over to the counter. "C'mere. Let's wrap up that ankle." She does as she's told, no fuss. I slip the boot off as easily's I can. She shudders from the pain. It's swollen, alright. Beneath the sock I find delicate skin, once a beautiful porcelain, now blotched an' splattered in varyin' shades of blue an' purple. I do my best to be careful wrappin' it, but I ain't exactly got what you'd call gentle hands. She stays strong an' thanks me with a sweet smile after I replace the sock an' boot. I'm startin' to wonder what I wouldn't do for that smile. We head back upstairs, Beth insistin' she can make it up on her own. We turn the corner to another door an' step into the one room we been needin' the most.
The kitchen is the same whitewash as the rest of the place. White walls, white cabinets, white appliances. This house don't fit in the world 'round it. It's perfectly kept an' cared for. The livin' quarters have me chewin' on the inside of my cheek. Who could possibly live in a funeral home? Surrounded by nothin' but death, day an' night. I stumble over the thought that it ain't no different from the woods or fields out there. 'Cept it's got walls an' that means protection. Protection's hard to come by out there. Looks like this is our new camp for a little while.
Our search of the kitchen turned up a whole cabinet of food. There's sodas an' canned fruit, peanut butter an' jelly, an' jars of pigs feet. We came 'cross a white trash brunch. I freeze up as I pull the jelly jar out, somethin' ain't right.
"Hold up. There ain't a bit of dust on this stuff. This is someone's stash." We look over the rest. Just as I figured. It's all fresh an' stockpiled away. Someone put the effort into this, but who? Where were they now? I suggest we only take a small ration an' divide it between the two of us. She gives me a pleased look an' says, "I knew it! There's still good people out there." I roll my eyes at her, open the jelly an' shove my fingers in, lickin' 'em clean when I bring 'em to my mouth. Beth just stares at me an' says I'm gross. While she fumbles through drawers lookin' for a spoon, I tip the jar up an' lick more out. Jelly ain't ever tasted so good. She finds a spoon an' helps herself to one of the peanut butter jars. I point back to the cabinet an' tell her the pigs feet are mine. A look of disgust masks her face, an' I can't help it. I smile at her.
Right here, right this very second, life don't seem so bad. We're lighthearted an' jokin', completely comfortable in each others presence. I cave just a little to what she's been goin' on 'bout all along. The strange, fuzzy feelin' blanketin' over my mind. It's hope. For the first time in my life I feel hope. I look over at Beth standin' in this kitchen an' my mind's playin' a different story. In my deepest thoughts, I see us here. We're safe an' sound. We can spend the rest of our lives with each other. It's the most stable home since the prison fell. Shelter, food, beds, each other. My heart snaps like a rubber band. We can make this work. This really could be our home.
There's only one flaw in my plan, an' it remains to be unseen, even though it weighs heavily over my thoughts. A black cloud cast above a beautiful scenery.
Where are the people who run this place? An' when should we be expectin' them back?