A/N: A little Christmas gift for all my wonderful readers out there. Here's another short for you all to enjoy. Hope everyone has a good time with their friends and families (and enjoys this short chapter! :D)!
The cold never slows them.
In the beginning, it was the thought of several people, within my first group, that intense cold slowed walkers down. I've long since known this to be false, but looking out over the wall, and the small mass of walkers gathering beyond it, I can't help but remember that ridiculous theory. Next to me is Carl, who covers his eyes from the frigid wind with gloved hands. On the other side of him is Daryl and Glenn. The wall has done a good job, so far, of keeping the walkers out. However, if we keep allowing them to pile up, they will begin to pose a problem. To that end, Carl and I have offered our assistance.
"Who else is gonna help clean them up?" Carl asks Daryl as we gaze out upon the herd.
"Carol." the redneck replies. "Sasha and Michonne too."
Carl nods his approval, then turns slightly towards me.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, his voice suddenly becoming softer. "You wanted to try and live our lives normally."
I consider Carl's words with a sigh.
There's no denying that is what I said. It is still what I want. After Negan… after Rick, I am sick to death with fighting. With constantly living in fear of losing our loved ones at any moment. Still, I am a member of this community and I don't want to lose it again. If more walkers join these, and the walls become compromised, that is exactly what is going to happen. I cannot allow that.
"Yeah," I reply. "I'm sure. This is part of normal life now. Nothing we can do to escape it."
"We'll go get the others." Glenn announces. "Join us at the gate in ten."
Ten minutes later, we are doing just that.
Glenn, Daryl, Carol, Sasha, and Michonne have assembled with Carl and me joining them, bringing our group to a total of seven people. Though clearly we are outnumbered by walkers, all of us have ample experience in taking out walkers in massive numbers. We are simply the best team for the job. Outside the gates, I can hear the hungry snarls of the walking dead, rising like a chorus of tortured souls from the underworld. I'll be happy when I no longer have to hear that.
"Remember." Glenn is saying as we approach. "Stay in formation. Don't get separated. Try to use melee weapons so that we avoid drawing more. Guns are a last resort."
It is a speech I have heard many times. Since long before Alexandria, when Rick was alive, he preferred using knifes, and other weapons of close combat, to guns. Guns create noise which draw the dead. Drawing the dead, in this case, is counterproductive to what we're trying to accomplish. Still, I check the clip in my handgun, just in case I have to use it. If it comes down to lives, I don't care how much noise I create.
Once everyone is prepared, Glenn signals to two of our wall spotters, who begin to open the gates for us. Hearing the commotion, the walkers' snarling becomes livelier, exciting them with the possibility of a meal. Daryl leads the charge out, using his crossbow like a battering ram to smash the skull of an oncoming walker. Glenn and Carol follow, dropping the walkers who get too close to Daryl with long, serrated hunting knives. Michonne, Sasha, Carl, and I burst out last, as a group. With swords in hand, Michonne and I take the front and rear positions of our group respectively.
Our longer weapons, and therefore reach, make us ideal at keeping walkers at least an arm's length away from the other group members.
It has been awhile since Carl and I fought walkers together. Specifically, it has been since Negan was killed. His skills certainly haven't diminished in the months it has been since that event. He easily takes down any corpse that gets too close to the group with short and simple jabs to the skull. Overall, our group dominates. The undead, coming from all directions now, are just not smart enough to get around our tight formation and our battle-hardened skills. Unfortunately, all it takes for our confidence to fall apart is one slip up. One unforeseen danger.
You see, walkers may not be particularly smart, but their ravenous hunger makes them very unpredictable.
As Glenn shifts directions, guiding our group to corner a nearby cluster of walkers, we are forced to climb over the corpses of the ones we have already killed. Or, at least, the ones we thought we'd all killed. It works against us that the cluster Glenn is leading us towards is larger than the others we've faced so far, drawing more of our attention towards them, rather than our peripherals. This mistake is felt almost immediately. One second, Carl is beside me. The next, he isn't. The change is so quick, I barely register it when it happens. Horrified, I turn quickly to see what has transpired.
A walker, lying on the concrete, had seen Carl pass by and seized the opportunity to grab his leg, tripping him in the process.
"Tanner!" he shouts at me just as I comprehend what is going on.
The rotting corpse seems to be incapacitated by a leg injury, forcing it to crawl across the asphalt towards Carl, still holding tightly to his leg. Carl kicks at the dead thing furiously, attempting to bash its skull in or, at the very least, get it off of his leg. A well-placed blow dislocated the creature's jaw, making it release him. He scrambles to get to his feet, but the short lapse of time has already proven deadly. Other walkers have used the opportunity to surround him.
Shit!
I take off running, Carl's shouts already alerting the rest of the group to the danger. My blade sings through the air, decapitating some walkers, dismembering others. I pay no heed to the burning of my leg muscles. If those walkers are allowed any closer to Carl, he's walker food. As I run, Glenn's words from earlier come back to me. Guns are a last resort. Well, I'd say this qualifies. I start to draw mine when a particularly bulky walker materializes from my left, forcing my sword arm up to intercept it. A reflexive reaction, my strike misses the dead thing's skull, instead connecting with its throat. Unfortunately, walkers don't feel the pain that humans do, and the creature continues to push me back, gnashing all the way.
"Carl!" I roar in frustration, still fighting off the large walker. "Your gun, Carl! Use your gun!"
That may seem the obvious reaction, but adrenaline goes a long way towards clouding one's thought process. As though a light bulb has snapped on, Carl un-holsters his gun and puts a well-placed shot right through the front walker's cranium. Unfortunately for him, the other five are not in front of him. I see him whip around to shoot the others, but loses his footing on the collapsed corpse of the first walker, misfires, and trips backwards, sending his gun clattering across the asphalt in the process.
"NO!" the roar of defiance rises from the very center of my chest.
By now, the others are shooting too, doing what they can to clear the walkers around them so that they can make an attempt to rescue Carl. I don't wait for them, though. In my desperation, I feel unnatural strength fill up my arms, allowing me to shove back the dead creature, ripping my sword out through the side of its head: killing it. The other pursuing walkers around Carl have kneeled and now make their move to feast on their shellshocked prey. Carl desperately attempts to crawl backwards, but one of the leading walkers grabs his ankle, pulling it closer to sink its rotten teeth into.
My feet carry me nimbly across the street, every second marking another one closer to losing my Carl. I reach the scene just as the walker's teeth prepare to sink into Carl's captured leg. Using my free arm, I seize the undead monstrosity off of him, ripping it off of him with all of my might and then shoving it into the other four approaching us. This causes the cluster of walkers to stumble backwards, giving me enough time to un-holster my own gun and plant four well-placed bullets between their eyes.
I'm not done.
The gunshots attract more walkers from nearby. At this point, fear and rage have swallowed me up. I can't remember feeling this infuriated since my final confrontation with Negan. In a blind rage, I can remember every time I've ever felt this way: the night after Rick took us back to Hershel's farm, the time Nat had nearly killed Carl, the funeral home, the night on the road when Joe's gang attacked, Terminus, Negan. It's almost like this world is trying to tear Carl and I apart by killing one of us. Almost subconsciously, I channel every ounce of that rage into destructive power.
Raising my gun, I empty the entire clip into the advancing walkers, then toss it aside and charge with my sword. My swings lack grace, like before, ruthlessly clobbering the undead one by one. On one occasion, I fail in killing the creature, so I turn to its fallen form and beat its skull into a pulp with the blade of my weapon. Eventually, I can hear the others around me; see the walkers getting struck by bullets and falling before I can reach them or them me. Within a few moments, it is over.
The herd is gone, now a street full of rotting bodies.
My muscles ache from the exertion, my lungs quicken for oxygen. With the end of the fighting comes the return of my senses. Looking down at my arms and shirt, I can see that I am totally covered in walker blood. I can feel it on my face and in my hair. It doesn't escape me that this is the result of the rage-induced rampage I just went on. I suddenly feel a touch on my shoulder.
"Tanner?" the familiar voice of Michonne says.
I glance back over my shoulder.
While I know I must be a gruesome sight to behold, something about seeing the look in my eyes causes Michonne to physically take a step back from me. I've never made her do that before. Realizing how I must look, I take a deep breath and exhale, composing myself before standing to my full height.
"Sorry." I say to Michonne.
She purses her lips and casts me a knowing glance. We've all had our fits of uncontrollable rage at some point.
I turn my attention to Carl who, by this point, has gotten up off the ground. A quick glance over tells me he is alright. Other than a few scrapes on the exposed skin of his arms, and one particularly nasty one on his cheek, he seems free of any worrisome or fatal injuries. That allows me to sigh again, this time in relief. Ignoring stares from the others, I cross the street to where he is and lay a hand on his shoulder. I would hug him, but I doubt he wants all of this walker blood on him.
"You alright?" My voice is shaky, still breathing heavily to regain lost oxygen.
Carl considers my bloodied form for a moment and then, slowly, nods. "Yeah, just a little scraped up. Thanks."
"Those shots will have drawn more." I hear Glenn say somewhere behind us. "We should post extra lookouts on the wall tonight."
"We can worry 'bout that later." Daryl replies. "Let's get everyone back in."
####
"What was that?" Carl asks me later, while we both shower.
Maggie had kept Judith while we were dealing with the walker situation and we have since put her to bed. Michonne has already called it a night herself, so all that is left is for us to finish showering and go to bed ourselves. So far, our shower hasn't been the normal jovial time it has become since Negan died. A time we spend together and talk about the sweet nothings of our days.
"What was what?" my voice is as distant as my thoughts are.
"Earlier." he clarifies. "I haven't seen that look in your eyes since…"
Since Negan. Carl doesn't have to say it for me to know. Negan made us all different people. Fighting him wasn't just fighting for our lives, but for the lives of three entire communities. We lost more than we ever thought possible. To say that Negan scarred me would be a gross understatement. After I killed him, I was able to bury it. Carl and Judith have been my inspiration to push the darkness back. Seeing Carl nearly bitten, though, had briefly reawakened it. It was as if my mind had stepped back in time to when Negan was still alive.
"I know." I finally reply to him. "I should have listened to you. We shouldn't have gone out there today."
Carl wraps his arms around my torso, hugging me comfortingly from behind. His cool skin against mine, under the jet of the shower's water, is tremendously soothing.
"That's not who you are, you know?" he continues. "Yeah, you had to protect me, but you stopped yourself when you saw Michonne."
"No." I argue. "That's who I am. Underneath." I shift around, allowing me to rest both my hands on his pale shoulders and bring his eyes to mine. "I'll do anything to prevent our family from falling apart. To keep you and Judith safe. That isn't all of who I am, but in that moment, seeing you almost killed, that's who I needed to be. For your sake."
Our conversation dies off after that and we finish washing ourselves shortly thereafter. We dry ourselves, do a final check of the house, and then begin to ready ourselves for bed. Still, though we remain silent, my thoughts won't stay quiet. I believe what I told Carl: that I didn't regret flying off the handle earlier in defense of him. Equally, though, he brought up a reasonable point.
What if that hidden rage slips the wrong way once?
As I stroll through the living room, on my way to Carl and I's room, I spot my sword sitting up against the nearby wall. Every time I see it, I think of her. The woman who gave it to me. Natalie, whom I just called Nat. Thinking back on what she became scares me. She was originally a very kind woman who took me under her wing and looked after me. After reuniting with her, Carl now at my side, she was completely transformed: a woman consumed by bitterness and hatred for the world around her.
Is that who I want to become?
Without realizing it, I've cross the room and picked the weapon up. No doubt, over the years, this weapon has saved me countless times. I kept clinging to it like I clung to her memory. In the end, though, it is just a tool. A tool which represents the person who gave it to me: someone who, originally good, allowed the world to change her for the worst. Glancing around the room, my eyes fall upon the door to the backyard. While not quite sure what I'm going to do just yet, I strap the sword around my shoulder and stroll out into the night.
There, in the corner of the yard, is a shed that Carl and I use to store our tools for farming. I quickly cross the yard and pull open the thin metal sheets that make up the shed's door. The shed is small, its shelves disorganized and cluttered. Setting my sights on the highest shelf, I climb atop a nearby stool and sling the sword around off my shoulder. From there, I take the weapon that has so often accompanied me, and push it towards the back of the shelf. My sentimentality won't allow me to completely get rid of it, but at least here I won't be able to get to it easily.
"What are you doing?"
The voice that comes from behind me startles me, nearly causing me to lose my balance as I leap down off of the stool. Carl, ever the sneaky bugger, is leaning in the doorway, watching what I am doing calmly. My response takes a moment to formulate, but eventually I am able to give him an answer.
"I was thinking about what you said earlier." I explain. "And you're right. That's not who I am. I don't have to be that to be there for you."
Carl folds his arms, his expression exuding understanding, and resolves himself to listen to what I have to say quietly.
"Every time I see that thing, I think of her. Of who she was… and what she became. It wasn't 'till you said something, but… slowly, that's what I was allowing myself to become." I continue. "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I should just stick to our original plan. No fighting the dead unless it's life or death and don't go outside the walls unless there is a great need to. I'd begun to regret not helping with the walkers. That's why I volunteered us to go earlier."
Carl nods, my sign to keep going: get it all off my chest.
"My place is with you. With you and Judith." I oblige. "We're growing food here, so we're still contributing. Plus, Judith needs us alive. You're her only blood relative alive and together, we're all the family she has left. In short… we're needed here."
My husband takes a moment, searching my expression for truthfulness. Seemingly satisfied with what he sees, he lets a small smile slip.
"I agree." he says. "Does that mean you're retiring that sword?"
I nod without hesitation, "It's about time, don't you think?"
If he thinks so, he doesn't say.
Instead, he silently offers me his hand, which I take enthusiastically. With that, he pulls me along behind him, out of the shed, through the yard, into the house, and, finally, into our bedroom. That night, he snuggles up close to me, as usual, and lays a short, quick peck on my cheek. Carl is the type of person that will tell you straight up if he doesn't agree with something. That being said, his actions would suggest he supports my decision, which relieves me. For the now, I look to the future, which holds promise so long as we work as a team towards it.
I think back on my sword only once that night.
I don't need you anymore.
My eyes fall on Carl, whose eyes are slowly fluttering shut for sleep.
All I need is him. As long as I have him, I can make it through this hell of a world.
Falling asleep that night is easy, given my great fatigue. But with sleep comes the promise of a new day. Another chance to better myself; to better this place for the people I love who live here; another day to find new ways of showing my love for Carl and my family. Smiling widely at those thoughts, as I close my eyes, I slip off to sleep quickly… heart full of hope.