The sky was a fiery orange as Jon sat atop a gas station with a scoped rifle in his lap. The sun hung as a glaring, angry eye on the horizon of a boundless, barren highway. The black road gleamed as the sun's awakening wrath caught in the small reflective humps and painted lines. Warmth would soon rob Jon of a homely, night chill. The night had been a quiet one. Since leaving the CDC they'd seen only a handful of walkers, and once the sun had set they seemed to have vanished entirely. It was all quite mundane. But mundane was good. Mundane was safe.
"Perhaps the dead are tired," Jon japed to himself.
The group had said nary a word to each other before retreating to their slumber. They were tired, Jon knew; tired and disappointed. Grief for their old world of luxury and safety – so nearly within their grasp again – sent them all to an early bed. It was only once Jon had reminded him, that Rick had assigned a watch for the night. Initially, he had chosen Daryl for the night and Dale for the morning but Jon had volunteered in Daryl's place. Not out of a lack of faith in Rick's decision, but out of selfish desire. Watching made Jon feel normal again. Watching the night. Watching the road. Watching the woods. Watching the stars. While it was nothing like the wall, it made Jon feel at home regardless.
It also gave him time to think. Of the present and the future. The group had feasted greedily that night. Jon had said naught about it. The group could use a good meal after such a sadness. But the hard talk would have to come. The talk of rationing. Of limits and rules. Rules, in Jon's experience, left a sour taste in most's mouths. But they were important nonetheless. Whether it be among the humid forests of Georgia or the frozen tundra beyond The Wall. Rules forbade chaos. And chaos always killed.
The scraping of steel on stone – or concrete as Jon had heard it described – interrupted Jon's mulling. Dale dragged a ladder from the RV over the gas station's roof. He propped it up so the end sat beside Jon. Jon steadied the ladder as Dale became his climb. He greeted Jon with a smile.
"Hope I didn't scare yah, you looked deep in thought."
"No, you didn't. Was your rest well?"
"I've had better."
Dale sat beside Jon, still smiling. The beard that surrounded his smile – greyed and unkempt – matched Dale's lengthening, greasy hair. Jon's own hair had greased swiftly too. The humidity seemed to stick it to his scalp. Unconsciously, Jon touched his shoulder-length hair and his fingers brushed against something crusty. Dried rot was stuck to his cheek.
"That stuff gets everywhere, I swear. Here, use this to wash your face." Dale handed Jon a plastic bottle of water.
"Thank you."
Jon twisted off the plastic cap and wet his fingers. As he scrubbed his cheek, Dale got two rectangles out of his pocket.
"Like granola bars?"
"I couldn't say."
"You've never had one?! Oh ho, we have to change that. Here. This one's peanut-butter flavour. The best by far."
Jon studied what he assumed to be food. It was wrapped in a shiny, soft, plastic paper of sorts. He tore it off and inside was a bar of grain with a light-brown hardened paste along the bottom. Somehow, the grain was stuck together. Jon felt it and the bar was sticky to the touch. He gave it a sniff and it smelt of sugar. Shrugging, he took a bite. Truly, this land had wondrous secrets. Jon had never tasted anything so sweet in his life. Dale burst out laughing.
"You're a pretty eccentric fellow, you know that?"
"Of all the things I've been called, eccentric has never been one," Jon said.
"Oh? And what do people usually call you?"
"Many things. Most often sullen, I suppose."
Dale chuckled.
"I can see that."
"I appreciate the, uh, granola bar, but going forward we must start rationing our food. Without a consistent source of food, we'll eat through our supplies in a matter of days at this rate."
Dale fidgeted with his granola bar.
"That's true. Sorry, I should have thought-"
"It's no treason. You were doing me a kindness. Don't feel bad. Enjoy your bar."
"Well, if you insist."
Dale unwrapped and gobbled up his bar in three quick bites. Jon took a deep drink of his water. Ever since the CDC, a dull ache had persisted in his bones. For whatever reason, the cool water passing down his gullet soothed it for but a moment.
"You know, for someone so young. You've got a pretty good head on your shoulders, Jon. Better than a lot of grown men I've known… knew."
"As do you."
"Well…" Dale cracked his neck. "It used to be better."
Jon smirked.
"For what your body lacks, your eyes and your heart make up for it."
"My eyes?"
"You're a fine watchman."
Dale shrugged.
"I used to bird watch. If I'm good at anything it's sitting still and being quiet."
"In a world such as this, a trait like that is invaluable."
"If you say so," Dale chuckled.
Jon considered Dale for a moment. Despite everything, Jon had only ever seen him frown a couple of times.
"Do you have hope, Dale?"
"Well, sure I do. Things may be rough right now but we'll get back on our feet. Sure, we'll probably have to scavenge a bit for now. And our supplies might get a little dicey. But it's just a stepping stone towards civilisation."
"I'd like to think so too."
"Then do."
Jon chuckled.
"You say that as if it is easy."
"I never said that. Hoping's hard work. But anything that's hard is worth doing, I always say. But anyway. Enough rambling. So get some sleep, Jon. I'll take it from here."
"I will shortly." Jon stood. "I need to relieve myself first."
"Alright, but stay within eyesight of the road. The woods are thick around here. Getting lost is easy as blinking."
"Will do."
Jon handed Dale back his scoped rifle, climbed down the ladder and headed for the woods.
As Jon pissed against the trunk of a tree, he took in the woods. When he had first been introduced to them back in Atlanta, he had thought of the as Winterfell and the Haunted Forest just without the snow. But now that he had the opportunity to study them more closely he saw just how wrong he had been. The Haunted Forest beyond The Wall was a dark, frozen place. The only semblance of light it allowed was the occasional white rose that grew upon chestnut bushes. Otherwise, it was a void of dark and ice. The forests of Georgia however, were a sea of light. A thin canopy allowed hundreds of orange rays to scatter about the sparse, barren ground. Colour danced everywhere from the lush green shrubs to the tall, thin dark brown trunks of the trees. In the haunted forest despite, the darkness, you could more or less see where you were going as long as you had a torch and as long as it wasn't snowing. However, in Georgia's forests, you couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you even in the middle of a clear summer's morning.
The trees – thin and numerous – came together to block all sight in every direction. Jon stood but a few paces from the road and already he struggled to see it. But some foolish part of him, the part that was still a boy, yearned to explore. He shouldn't, he knew. But yet, he ventured inside anyway. He made sure to keep his back to the road at all times so that when he wished to return he could simply turn around and go back. The air was sweet and pungent. A pleasant smell that was somewhat familiar but Jon just couldn't place it. There was no sound, however. No birds, no rustling of leaves, no calls or cries. Nothing.
Until there was.
A soft, rhythmic, squelching echoed faintly to Jon's left. Against his better judgement, he turned to follow it, ensuring he kept the road to his left instead of his back. After a few moments of pushing past thin trunks, Jon came across a gruesome sight.
A man lay dead on the forest floor. He was completely without clothes, nor supplies, nor anything except the skin on his back. His chest was a bloody mess. The spay of a shotgun blast had littered his front with tiny holes. His face was an inhuman mash of features. Whoever had slain the poor soul had caved his face with something blunt. However, on his chest, sat something that drew Jon's attention away from the man and any questions about his final moments. A raven pecked at his chest wounds, tearing off chunks of flesh.
For some strange reason, the sight surprised Jon. Strangely, he had assumed ravens to only exist in Westeros. Up until now, he hadn't seen one, so he'd never had to consider such an odd question. But now, it seemed a foolish assumption. The raven was odd, though. A scar ran down the length of its body. Any feathers that should have been where the scar was were absent. The scar ran from the top of its thigh, up its side and through where an eye must have once resided. How it could have survived such an injury perplexed Jon. Jon took a step towards it and his foot snapped a twig. In a flash, the raven's gaze was on Jon. It cocked its head and screeched.
"Snow!"
This marks the end of Season 1. A Plague of Sleet and Rot will continue forward into Season 2. This chapter is called Epilogue because on Ao3, each season is a separate fic of a larger series.