It's just past three in the morning.
The Beast's heart is pounding so hard, it feels like it will burst out of his chest at any moment.
His hearing is momentarily deafened by his heartbeat, crashing through his ears, drowning out all other noise – futilely sounding the alarm to his fractured soul about what he's done.
This seedy, hole-in-the-wall establishment is now about forty-five past 'last call'.
It's January, and it's cold.
No other people roaming around out here in the sticks this time of night. No other sounds for miles.
Not even that of this waitress's desperate, laborious breathing anymore.
There's nothing but his heart thumping in his broad chest. And that sickly feeling developing in his stomach.
This is another blow to his soul. Another step into permanent consciousness for his monster.
His anger receding, the red veil lifting from his vision, The Beast loosens his grip on the waitress's throat.
Finally, after all her panting and struggling and crying, he lets go.
He steps back and mutely watches her body go limp, then slide along the brick wall until she crumples over into a lopsided slump in the dirt near his boots. He stares down at her with dread. Anger. Both.
She had it comin'.
She shouldn't have been mouthin' off about him. She didn't know a goddamned thing about him, or where he comes from, or what's slumbering inside him. Her mistake, goddamn it. Her mistake.
His mistake.
His erection is starting to make its retreat as well, as he comes to terms with exactly what he's done.
What it means if he's caught.
He's gotta think quick.
Beginning to panic, The Beast looks up and around swiftly, his red eyes gleaming from underneath his black baseball cap.
The parking lot around the corner is deserted. His eyes dart around the alley where he stands over her, looking for cameras. He finds just one, pointed away from him, directly down at the back door to the bar.
Lucky, you son-of-a-bitch. Real fuckin' lucky.
His heart still pounding, his razor-sharp gaze lands now on the door, just past the dumpster where he cornered her out here while she was emptying the trash after closing time.
No one around.
Maybe the camera caught her coming out here, but it won't see her going back in.
Maybe the owner hasn't come out looking for her 'cause he's preoccupied counting his take-in for the night. Probably downstairs in that basement office for the time being.
The Beast has maybe ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.
Then the owner might very well wander back upstairs and find his waitress gone.
Licking his chapped lips, raking in huge, frigid breaths as pure adrenaline begins to pump through his bloodstream, The Beast's mind starts to formulate a flimsy, desperate plan.
He doesn't want this. He actually thought she was kinda pretty earlier. But she had to go flappin' her gums about shit she knew nothin' about and she unknowingly disturbed his monster.
He feels numb, like he's floating inside a black abyss, as his anger cools.
"Gotta stop doin' that . . . " he mumbles to himself. And he goes to work.
The Beast kneels and grabs hold of her limp, rapidly chilling body. She'll be stiff as a board soon, he thinks as he hoists her up over his shoulder.
Better move fast.
There's a river stream a few miles south of here. It's hidden by a patch of forest, a mile or so off the back road near the highway. It's secluded, so folks can't wander up on it from the road unless they know where to look.
He can load her down with somethin' and dump her in there. She might wash upstream somewhere in a few days or so. Maybe he'll get lucky and she'll empty out into the big river and not be found for weeks.
Maybe it ain't a brilliant solution, but it'll give him time to clear his head and cool it until he can think of what to do next. He scoffs as he sneaks through the shadows, past the camera, and down to the end of the alley where his truck is parked (an earlier incarnation of the monster from Amy Harrison's nightmares, whom he won't meet for another few years).
The tall, broad-shouldered young killer carries the waitress over his shoulder, her hair swinging back and forth soundlessly across his back. He keeps his eyes peeled upward to see if there are motion sensor lights; see if this owner was smart enough to spring for 'em. There's one, but it's far away from him, aimed at the door under the camera, and he's protected by his trusty ball cap.
This is why he loves the sticks sometimes.
The back roads of Georgia give him plenty of hunting territory.
He can't come out here often, but when he does . . .
You get your fool self in trouble, asshole, he growls to himself in his head as he stalks quickly to his destination and gets the back gate of the truck bed open.
He dumps the waitress, avoiding her still-open eyes, which give him chills that have nothing to do with the cold.
He needs to get the hell outta here.
He slams the top of the covered utility bed shut, and then its gate.
There is a reflection of a man standing behind him in the black exterior, watching him.
He's wearing an eye patch, and he's the scariest-looking man The Beast has ever seen.
The Beast spins around, his hand immediately moving for the gun strapped in its holster under his jacket.
"Not so fast, cowboy . . . " the man's deep voice growls through a genteel Southern twang.
He waves something tersely back and forth by his hip.
His heart now pounding faster than ever, The Beast's eyes dart downward to see that the man is holding a gun with a silencer on it in his gloved hand. He's dressed in black, and it takes a few seconds for The Beast to make out the weapon, but it's there, trained on his nuts.
He relaxes just a hair, removing his hand slowly from the inside of his jacket.
"Yeah, who the hell are you?" he demands quietly.
He feels anxious and scared, and he's starting to get angry. He's gotta get the fuck out of here, now.
He's gonna have to take this guy out, somehow. If he can.
He stares at the man, resisting it, but still feeling like he oughtta be afraid. Careful. Like any wrong move will trigger a doomsday device that'll wipe him off the face of the planet. Not just dead, but erased. Like he never existed.
The man seems impossibly tall and dark, shadowed against the nighttime backdrop of a deserted back road leading to nowhere. Beyond it, there are rows and rows of trees punctuating the midnight gloom.
The man lets The Beast stare at him, a small smirk turning up the lines in his stern mouth. The eye that isn't covered by a black patch does some examining of its own.
"Don't worry, cowboy," he ignores the question to sneer in the darkness, causing The Beast's anger to flare up again. His breath is visible as he speaks, whispy and phantom-like as it floats from his mouth on his every word and disappears. "There's no footage from that camera anymore. And I took care of your mouthy waitress's manager. You're welcome."
The Beast frowns, his heart still thumping, stunned. And feeling sort of . . . pulled . . . by the sound of the man's lilting, Savannah-bred accent. It's the cold, calculating confidence radiating from this man's one visible eye that really pins The Beast where he stands, though.
His intellect catches up with him, and he has to ask: "Why'd you do that . . . ?"
The man chuckles, mocking him. Regretting his curiosity, he thrusts his chin up at the man, maybe revealing a little too much of his face from underneath his cap.
"Who the fuck are you, man?"
The man grins now, looking about as evil as anything in The Beast's childhood nightmares. Like the Devil himself. Or The Man from that Johnny Cash song.
"I'm your new best friend, cowboy."
"Stop callin' me that," The Beast growls, the red veil blinking across his vision again.
He doesn't like being patronized. He ain't nobody's boy.
The man doesn't even flinch. It's like he can sense that right now, in a panic about getting caught doing bad things, The Beast's bark is worse than his bite. He can't show he's nervous, though. Hell no. Fuck that.
"What do you want? Why shouldn't I break your goddamn face?"
"Oooh. So ferocious," the man's grin only spreads as he gestures with his silenced weapon, letting it swirl a trail in the air along the length of the Beast's broad body. "That's good. I'm gonna need that."
The Beast takes a step forward, lowering his cap to hood his eyes again, clenching his jaw. The red veil falls slowly. He's about to kill this motherfucker. He's already put a crack in his soul tonight. One more ain't gonna matter.
The man tilts his head and watches the Beast advance. The seconds tick by. He doesn't look afraid or threatened at all. Instead, he looks merely curious. A little disappointed. He starts talking again suddenly, halting The Beast in his tracks.
"You're messy. Easily provoked," he growls. "That's why the girl in your truck is dead tonight, isn't it? Mmm, and she could've lasted so much longer." It's not just the bass in his voice that momentarily stuns The Beast's momentum. "Look at you – about to get killed, or caught, just because my little pet naaaame got under your skin, cowboy."
The Beast lets his almost sing-song words sink in as the tall, dark man with the eye patch shakes his head and makes a low, 'tsk-tsk' noise with his mouth.
"So much potential. Wasted."
"Potential for what . . . ?"
The Beast can't help feeling confused, and panicked by the inexplicable sensation that he is being slowly, yet surely reeled into a trap. A trap that he might never escape from. He quickly masks his curiosity again, panic seizing him.
"Hey, man, this was just an accident. S-she's my girlfriend, a-and we were fightin' - "
"Save it, boy!"
The Beast is angry again just that quickly – for falling for this tough mysterious guy bullshit, for doing anything other than lunging at this prick and rippin' his goddamn throat out.
Except that he's . . . compelled. Desperate. Alone.
This guy looks like he can see all that, and more. So much more.
"Get in the truck. Let's go for a ride."
The dark man takes unabashed steps toward the brooding murderer who had been seconds away from attacking him. The Beast stands back, his breath misting in the frigid night air. All he can will himself to do is watch from under the rim of his cap as the man folds his tall body into the passenger seat of his truck. He shuts the door behind him, and that is that.
The cold, dead silence surrounds The Beast again as he tries to decide what to do.
He already knows what he's gonna do.
His jaw clenched, his world closing in on him, he stalks around to the driver's side and gets in.
"I wanna show you my little collection. The girl's invited – though I doubt she'll get as much out of it as you will."
The tall man with the eyepatch smiles over at the shadows dancing across The Beast's face as he pulls out of the parking lot and heads down the dark, dusty road.
In the truck bed, the dead waitress stares up at nothing.
The sun pounds relentlessly through the windshield of Lori Grimes' gray Hyundai Tucson as she cruises slowly along the rocky, earthy road.
She is surrounded by trees and both her sun visors are down, but somehow the sun finds her.
It follows her in harsh, flickering beams as her midsized SUV inches closer to Shane Walsh's secluded cabin.
A spotlight she is hiding from. It is relentless, the Georgia sun.
Lori looks around cautiously, driving at practically a snail's pace. She's checking to make sure she doesn't spot his truck anywhere, or see him returning from hunting in the woods that surround the cabin.
Dread also follows her, like the glaring sun, because she does not want to see him.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for a little while.
She just wants to get the rifle, leave a note, and take Carl to this pool party. Then get her ass home to wait for her husband so he can get rid of those damn raccoons.
Or have a couple of glasses of wine and take 'em out herself when they come rootin' around the trash tonight.
She's still mad at Rick – at him and Shane both. She's also still confused, and she doesn't think she has it in her to fight against that puppy dog look in Shane's eyes right now. Especially not with her son in tow.
He's damned near impossible to resist when he's sorry. Somethin' that always seems to get her in trouble.
Lori looks up at her fourteen-year-old through the rearview mirror as she reaches the mouth of the road she's on, where the cabin is finally revealed.
Carl is in the back seat, listening to music through his headphones. He is refusing to look at her, instead watching the trees float past his window. Just like he refused to ride up front with her. He's already dressed for the pool party, annoyed that they're making this 'pit stop'.
He would normally be excited to hang with Shane, but not today.
He has a crush on the girl who's hosting the party and he doesn't want to be late. He's also annoyed with his mother for not speaking to his dad for the last week, Lori knows as she takes her eyes off of him to put the car in park and get this done.
He doesn't understand.
Normally, she wouldn't bring her child with her – but she's a coward and she needs the pool party as an excuse to escape in case she runs into Shane.
Normally, in fact, Carl's dad would be here doing this and she wouldn't have to risk seeing Shane at all.
But, not today.
Today Rick is working and Shane has the day off.
Everyone's been so stressed about this god-awful case that Sheriff Ross has ordered every man to take a turn on a twenty-four-hour leave to see their families and get some proper sleep.
Rick had his last week, and they ended up fighting at the end of it.
Those damn raccoons don't take vacation days. They'll be back tonight and she cannot deal with the mess.
Lori doesn't know what Shane plans to do with his today, but she hopes he hasn't decided to take it out here in his daddy's old cabin. She knows that's a flimsy hope since Shane loves being out here in the woods.
So she has to settle for just hopin' she'll miss him. Maybe she can sneak in and out and borrow the rifle without having to deal with his intense infatuation with her. His irrational jealousy. His childish reasoning.
God help her, he's so hard to resist when she's feelin' lonely and bitter about her never-ending melodramas with her husband. Lori always realizes too late, when she emerges from her haze of lust-fueled self-destruction, that giving in to Shane is never a good idea – and it never works.
He always ends up disappointing her.
She always ends up turning around in circles again with her righteous, responsible, good-hearted husband.
A husband she fell in love with what feels like ages ago now. A husband she struggles to stay in love with.
There's no sign of Shane as Lori cuts the engine and takes her keys out of the ignition. She doesn't see his pickup anywhere, either. She turns to the back seat, where Carl still hasn't taken his headphones off or paused his music.
She knows he probably overheard her arguments with his father. She'll talk to him about it. But not right now.
Lori snaps her fingers near her son's face. "Hey! Carl?"
Carl sighs petulantly, turning to reveal his face from behind his thick head of longish dark hair. He needs a haircut. Of course, he'd rather die than have one. The girls in his school seem to like this mophead look.
Finally, he pauses his music and blinks at her, still silent.
"I'll be in and out, okay?" Lori tells him, trying to be patient. It's not his fault she dragged him out here just so she wouldn't have to face Shane alone. "The party can wait for just a little bit longer, Carl," she gets firm with him, shaking off her guilt. "So can that girl, Enid."
"Okay, Mom. Whatever. Let's just get what we came for and get outta here," Carl's cheeks turn red and he rolls his eyes moodily, reaching down to turn his music back on.
She forgives him his attitude, for now. "You'll be thankin' me later when you don't have to clean up the ripped trash from those damn raccoons all summer."
He pretends not to hear her, and that's all she gets out of him. He turns his music up, walling himself off again.
Lori doesn't want to risk Shane arriving while she's sitting here fighting with her teenage son, so she gets out of the car. Running a hand through her long, dark brown hair, she tucks her keys into the pockets of her tight jeans and walks quickly up to the cabin. She bypasses the front porch, instead going around back to start her way down the short slope that leads from Shane's back patio to the shed that houses his secret collection of hunting rifles.
She's been nagging Rick for weeks to come out here and borrow one so they can get ahead of the raccoon problem before the summer fully kicks in, but of course . . . that damned case.
He never found the time. He has more important things to do, indefinitely. It's 'on his list'.
His list is a mile long.
There are now eight missing girls on it, and who knows how many more will turn up if they can't make a breakthrough soon.
Lori lets herself relax when she still hasn't seen any sign of Shane.
She ambles down the small hill, feeling herself start to sweat under the relentless sun.
She's looking forward to spending some time by the pool today, herself. Maybe she can win Carl over again, once he finally gets to see Enid and splash around for a bit. Have fun with him, together just the two of them and their friends. Though they're all used to it by now, the heat makes everyone crankier when summer rolls around.
And lonelier. And hornier. And more unpredictable.
Lori shakes these gloomy thoughts away as she finally makes it to the hollow where the shed sits. There's shade here, relieving her of some of the heat. It just feels . . . colder . . . in this area. Creepy.
She's only been down to this shed once, and never since. Usually, the back patio deck is about as far as she goes.
She doesn't want to think about how many times she's been out to this cabin, without her husband.
Fighting off oncoming tears (she's been crying on and off for two weeks and her period is a day late, but she doesn't want to think about that either), Lori makes it to the double wooden doors. The shed is more like a barn, in her opinion, because she has to stand up on a rock and lift herself on her tiptoes to reach the top of the long, wooden door.
She stays stuck in that position for a tense moment, stretching to her full height as she feels around the top of the musty, splintery doorframe. Finally, she finds the carved-out notch. She pulls it out, and roots around until she finds the key hidden inside.
Lori lowers herself down flat on her sturdy brown boots again with relief, key in hand.
She grasps hold of the big, heavy chain lock that keeps intruders and thieves out (well, she's neither of those since she's just borrwin') and gets the key in. It clicks, and she pulls the lock off with a huff, setting it on a rock near her boot.
The sun attacks the ceiling of trees surrounding her as she pulls open the musty door.
She's greeted with darkness and a stale, mildewy smell that makes her heart thump in her thin chest.
Lori shakes off her nerves, conscious of the time, feeling the distance between herself down this hill and her son waiting in the car up on Shane's very long driveway. She just hopes Shane is sleeping in at his house in town, not on his way out here or already out traipsing around in the woods.
Blowing her hair out of her face, sweat collecting along her hairline, she walks into the shed.
There's an overhead bulb just above her, tethered to a long, rusty chain. She pulls it and the dim light flickers on, swinging weakly above her.
Lori gasps when she realizes she's standing in front of a huge, jet-black utility truck.
She stares at it for a moment, stunned.
The gun rack is hidden in a secret wall panel on her right, near a set of tool chests and other bits and bobs Shane keeps in here. But Lori is distracted by the truck.
She's never seen it before.
'When did Shane buy this thing . . . ?' she muses, confused.
Why would he buy this scary-looking behemoth? He has a good-sized pickup that isn't even three years old. It doesn't make sense . . . except maybe it's just yet another sign of his huge ego problem.
Back in high school, when he was a running back and still just as hunky, they used to call him The Beast for how he 'chewed the grass'. She also thinks it had a lot to do with the fact that he was the biggest whore on the team, with the biggest ego. Maybe he finally bought a truck that reflects that stupid nickname.
She wonders why he hasn't brought it by to show Carl and Rick. But then, everything is still so awkward between them all with the drama of this case and Rick and Lori's domestic problems, why would he? Even if he showed Rick, they aren't exactly chatty with each other these days, so she isn't surprised her husband hasn't brought it up.
She doesn't like the truck. It's large and cold, and kind of sinister.
Lori walks slowly around it, folding her arms around her, forgetting about Carl for a moment.
There's something about it that feels almost . . . alive. Like it's watching her.
It's a ridiculous thought, but she can't shake it. The windows are tinted very dark, but there's a fade out in the windshield that allows for the driver to be visible.
That's odd.
The plates are odd, too. The truck looks brand new, but the plates look . . . worn. Banged up a bit, if she has to put a label on it. Lori stares at the plates, standing stock still in the shed, the quiet noises of the forest surrounding her.
There is something else about those plates . . .
A cold breeze comes from out of nowhere, chilling her to the bone.
Lori doesn't want to look at the truck anymore. She doesn't understand where Shane's head is at sometimes.
"Just get what you came for, Lori . . . "
Shaking herself out of her fixation, she turns and finds the dusty old coffee pot sitting on the tool table below the hidden gun rack. She swallows down her apprehension as she presses the "on" switch on the empty pot. She hears that familiar, satisfying 'click' and watches the wall where Shane hangs some of his wrenches and hammers shift open on automatic rolling hinges he installed himself.
The wall opens up and instead of tools, she is now looking at racks of guns.
Lori eyes the impressive collection of rifles until she finds the one she's looking for – the smallest, quietest one. This collection (and maybe now, the truck) has always been the most well-kept thing in here. Regularly cleaned and oiled and dusted and probably read a bedtime story at night. Shane loves his guns.
And his best friend.
Feeling the guilt engulf her again like the sweltering heat waiting for her outside, Lori carefully lifts the rifle of choice from its position in the rack. She looks around until she spots the tool chests on her left and figures there will be bullets inside. She puts the rifle across her slender shoulder and crosses over to the tool chests, picking one to search at random. Opening the drawers one by one, she spots a couple of stacks of boxes of bullets for the different kinds of rifles on the rack in the middle one. She pushes some aside to find the ones she needs – and spots something else.
Something very out of place.
Something that spurs instant rage inside her, burning deep in her gut.
Lori pulls out the balled-up underwear with a shaking hand, her eyes narrowing to slits.
"That son of a bitch . . . " she hisses into the afternoon quiet.
He's been fucking some girl this whole time, is all she can think for a few agonizing seconds. Her mind reels, and she wonders what she should do. How much she should really care. She does care, she can't deny it.
And then she looks at them. Really looks at them. They look familiar.
Not like hers – they are most certainly not the type of cheap, slinky thing she'd put on. But familiar in a way that makes the floor feel like it's made of quicksand. She unfolds them and realizes that there is a chunk of them missing. Like it was cut out. A hole in the shape of a rudimentary heart.
Snip, rip, snip.
Lori's heart thump, thump, thumps in her chest with real, sickening dread. She remembers this because Rick has been agonizing over the case of Rosita Espinosa and the other missing girls for months.
Near the three bodies they've found so far, they have also found underwear fragments.
Little, cut-out hearts. Every single time.
'Why are these here . . . how could these possibly be here . . . ' the thoughts knock around in her head as her sweat turns ice cold.
As Lori looks around, bewildered, confused, trying to think rationally, she spots something else.
It's a bright orange parka. Something camp counselors wear.
It's stuffed in a trash bag at her feet by the tool chests.
It's glaring up at her.
It's a bright orange parka.
Rosita Espinosa was a camp counselor. Lori has seen this photo, this image of that girl in that bright orange parka with those oblivious children, in the case files Rick pours over night after night for months, now.
A bright orange parka the police never found.
Not in all their searching of these woods and the surrounding areas for miles.
And yet it's here. In Shane's shed.
Along with underwear that also belongs to Rosita, Lori is beginning to understand just as surely as she understands that she needs to get the hell out of here. Right now.
Seized with panic and overwhelming adrenaline, Lori turns so sharply that she bumps into the tool chests, making a racket that scares the shit out of her. She drops the box, spilling bullets everywhere.
Blindly, her cheeks red and fear climbing into her throat, she stuffs the panties back into the chest drawer and slams it shut. Then she skids over rolling bullets as she makes a dash for it, leaving them behind in her haste to be away from here immediately.
Rick.
She needs to see Rick. She's desperate to see her husband.
He won't believe it, but he will know what to do.
Lori's hands are shaking as she slings the rifle over her shoulder by its strap and hauls the heavy, rickety shed door shut again. She realizes too late that she's forgotten to turn off the lightbulb, and the bullets, but fear is so prevalent in her mind that she doesn't care.
The truth of what she's just discovered hammers through her, the puzzle pieces all slamming into place with brutal realism. The trees spin around her.
The tall, slender housewife hastily gets the big, heavy lock back onto the chain but drops the key in the dirt.
Lori bolts, leaving everything ashambles, now desperate to flee back to her car.
She's already pulling her cell phone out of her back jeans pocket as she starts power walking back up the little hill.
She runs smack into a wall of sweaty brawn smelling of beer, trees, musk, and the stink of something dead.
Startled out of her wits, Lori yells and starts pounding Shane's chest.
"Whoa, whoa – whoa, woman!" Shane grabs Lori by the wrists, easily forcing her back from him, his muscles flexing. "It's just me! Damn, this case has got you spooked like everyone else in town."
Lori shakes, staring up at him like a deer stunned by headlights.
He gazes down at her, looking terrifyingly sinister under the glare of the sun for a moment, his black ball cap shading his dark eyes. Then he rolls those eyes at her and lowers them almost sheepishly, letting her go.
"What the hell are you doin' out here, Lori?" Shane asks quietly, stepping back. "And what the fuck are you doin' with one of my rifles? You think you still get borrowin' privileges after what you said to me the other night?"
Lori flinches at the mention of her declaration that she intends to tell Rick about their affair.
At that same moment, she realizes that he hasn't caught on to her. She can still get away if she plays this right. Fighting down a sudden swell of nausea as she stares at him, Lori tries with difficulty to get her trembling under control. She manages to look him in the eyes, despite being repulsed by him. He is no longer the same man she slept with . . . more than once . . . for weeks. . . while poor Rick has been drivin' himself crazy over this case.
She feels sick.
"It's just . . . it's, uh . . . just, I need this for those raccoons, remember?" she manages, her eyes flickering to the patio in the distance, and her car beyond it. "I was gonna leave you a note."
She starts to inch her way around him, dropping her eyes, but he steps closer.
"A note, huh? Really? A fuckin' note?" Lori's panic rises to claw at her stomach at the sound of the anger in his voice. "After all we've been through," Shane leans over her, his sweaty hair falling in his eyes, making her feel small, " . . . you think a note is all I'm worth?"
He is attempting to be charming. Attempting to use his attractive swagger to back her down. Get her to soften. To forgive him. To fuck him 'one last time' and another 'last time'. And a 'last time' after that.
Lori is sick to her stomach, cramps seizing her abdomen, tears stinging her eyes. She needs to get away from him before she panics and attacks him.
She can't beat him in a fight. Maybe, her keys . . . if she can wound him enough to stun him, she can run . . .
"Shane, stop it, please. We don't have anythin' to say to each other," she pulls her keys out of her pocket and courage up from her bowels to look into his dark eyes again. He looks like a lost puppy. It disgusts her. "I gotta go. Carl's waiting."
"You brought Carl," he huffs, stepping still closer, looking agitated. He's been in the woods hunting and drinking. Brooding. Getting his head all foggy with frustration. "You didn't wanna see me alone, is that it?" He pauses, eyeing her salaciously. "You can't resist me, can you? This thing ain't over and you know it."
God, she should have seen this coming. Lori grips her keys in her hand, a jagged edge poking outward.
She can make a run for it. She will.
"You're wrong," she grits."It's over. And I meant what I said. I'm gonna tell Rick. Now, I gotta go. Carl's friends are expectin' us at a pool party . . . "
He isn't listening. He steps closer. Her heart leaps into her throat.
"Hey! Don't walk away from me. I need you, baby . . . "
Shane is on top of her, now, trying to kiss and grope her, trying to force her to return his affection. Lori twists around in his arms and jerks her hand up, scratching him hard across the neck. "Get off me!"
He steps back, stunned. She doesn't wait for him to recover. She takes off.
"Lori! WAIT! Don't do this . . . ! PLEASE!"
She bolts for her car, her hair swinging, the rifle forgotten, dropped to the forest floor in a flash.
Shane watches her go.
The red veil falls across his vision, and he contemplates going after her. But he can't if Carl is with her.
And then he thinks, his neck stinging.
He turns around, glaring down the hill towards his shed.
Feeling The Beast licking at his heels, Shane makes his way down the slope and gradually sees that the lock is hanging off the chain haphazardly. The key is in the dirt. She didn't even bother replacing it.
Cold fury and prickly suspicion begin to rush through him as he stalks the rest of the way to the shed.
He closes the distance and knocks the lock off the chain. He throws the big, long door back, almost breaking it.
He sees his truck, which Lori didn't mention in her haste to get away from him.
But if she's been in here, she's seen it.
The fury persists. The suspicion swells. He sees the box and the bullets all over the floor.
She borrowed a rifle, but she left those. Now, why would she go and do somethin' like that?
Because she left in a hurry. Because she ran outta here. Somethin' spooked her.
The hidden rifle case is still open. The tool chests are off-kilter on their wheels.
Rosita's underwear is sticking out of one of the drawers.
And her parka is hanging out of the trash bag.
On his hunt, he made up his mind to finally get rid of it, now that the heat is off from the search.
But Lori has seen it.
The Master is right. He's been right all along.
Shane let his dick do the thinkin' with Lori and now he's in trouble. Real trouble.
Damn. Damnnn. DAMN.
The red veil pulses behind Shane's eyes.
The Beast takes over, silencing Shane before he can even have a second thought.
He stalks over to his truck and opens her up in the back, ducking in to grab his special rifle. The one he uses for occasions just like this. With no thought but the preservation of his monster, his Master, and himself, he climbs into his truck. The engine rumbles to life, awakening the monster.
It's time to hunt.
Lori makes it to her car, trembling, heart quaking with adrenaline, and practically dives inside.
She startles Carl, who snatches his headphones off and sits up straight as he watches his mother hastily start the engine and begin to back out. She looks nervous. Startled. Downright spooked.
"Mom? Are you crying?" Alarmed, Carl forgets his silent treatment of his mother, eying her cautiously as he leans forward toward her in the back seat. He briefly wonders where Shane is, but the thought is pushed aside by yet more concern as she turns their car around and guns it down the earthy drive. "What happened?"
"Nothin' baby, it's just . . . w-w'ere late and I'm sorry, okay?" Lori is crying while she drives. She wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm real sorry Carl, for everything."
Carl sits back slowly and buckles himself in, now alarmed about the way she's driving. He watches his mother blow her nerves out through her pursed lips. It doesn't help. He can hear her voice shaking.
"I'm-I'm gonna just drop you off at the party, okay? I gotta do somethin' real quick. But you keep your phone on you, you hear me?"
Carl is immediately disappointed as they fly through the back roads of King County, surrounded by trees for at least a mile further. Despite his annoyance with her attitude toward his dad, he'd been looking forward to spending time with her doing something fun.
But right now, she looks too shaken up. And it's probably because of his 'uncle' Shane. Carl glowers.
"What do you need to do all of a sudden?"
Then she does something that makes him really nervous, causing him to forget his disappointment. His dad hates it when she does this, too. She takes out her cell phone and starts to dial.
"Uh, I need to see your dad for a little while. No back talk. Mama's gotta concentrate."
Lori's head starts to clear the further she gets from the cabin, and Shane.
The thought of him still turns her stomach, she searches for the intersection that will lead her to the highway.
If Shane figures out what she's found, it will be over for him in the blink of an eye. And he's gonna, real soon.
She needs to see Rick first and break the news to him before things turn ugly.
She dials, just as she finally reaches the intersection. She almost feels relief as she listens to Rick's phone ring. She's almost to safety. She'll take Carl where he can be safe, in public surrounded by witnesses and other adults. Then she'll go talk to Rick.
If he would just pick up the goddamned phone.
Of course, it goes to voicemail. Lori sighs, feeling the panic beginning to well up inside her again.
"This is Deputy Rick Grimes," his gentle twang sounds into her ear. "I am otherwise occupied, so leave a brief message. I'll get back." Then the beep.
"Damnit!"
Lori tries to keep the panic out of her voice. She needs to get Rick alone, so they can think of what to do together. Something she should have been doing with him in the first place. Feeling on the verge of tears again, Lori impatiently waits for the light to change as she leaves her husband a voicemail.
"Rick? Look, I know you're working, but I've got somethin' to tell you. I need us to talk in person, okay?" She takes another deep breath, focusing on the wedding ring on her hand that rests on the steering wheel. She wants to cry but her child is watching her. She can't begin to think how to explain all this to Carl. "As soon as possible. Can you do that for me? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't really important. It-it's gonna sound crazy but you have to listen to me."
She bites her lip, hoping her husband will listen and believe her. Just this once, not deviate from his rigid, honest, honorable self like she's been naggin' him to since before this case began. Just this once let him trust her like he used to.
Just this once - let him see his best friend for who he truly is.
"I'm gonna drop Carl off and come up there. Please, Rick . . . "
"Mom," Carl shouts from the back seat, "the light's changed!"
"Shit," Lori hangs up just as a loud car horn sounds behind them. The car in question (the only one she's seen out here this entire trip), driven but an absolutely ancient old man, sputters along down the road out of sight. Lori stares after it, her heart pounding, scared out of her wits.
She is about to get her Tuscon going again when she looks up at the rearview mirror and sees it.
The scary black monster truck from the shed. Barreling down on them.
And, unmistakably, Shane's enraged face.
His eyes are hooded by his black ball cap through the clear fade in the tinted windshield glass.
"CARL, GET DOWN AND STAY DOWN, NOW!"
Carl is momentarily confused, but he does as his mother says, unbuckling his seatbelt to slide down out of view. Lori shoves her foot down on the gas. Her phone slides from her lap and lands haphazardly at her feet as she swerves away, narrowly escaping being rammed into by Shane's – The Beast's – behemoth.
The chase is short-lived.
Lori's mind is rent in three directions as she tries to fish for her phone to call Rick (or 911, or both), steer and maintain her speed, and make sure her son stays out of sight.
She takes her eyes off of the road for a second, thinking she's found her phone, as the truck keeps coming, keeping up with her Soccer Mom Approved Hyundai easily.
She swerves, diving off the road and slamming into a tree.
Before she can recover – BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM – gunshots!
The Beast has climbed out of his truck. He's walking in the middle of the street toward the SUV.
She sees him, her world closing in on her, his eyes shaded by that cap. Coming for them. Shooting at them.
The dings and flashes of bullets ring out all around her as she sits trapped in her SUV.
Glass shatters, Carl cries out in fear for her, and things end for them on that road.
When it's over, the red veil lifts.
Shane stares at what he's done. Again, again, again he's lost his mind.
This time it's Lori.
And . . . he now sees the boy lying sprawled in the back seat. His eye is blown out. He's dead or dying.
It's Carl.
She wasn't lying. He had hoped she was lying.
They lay there, glaring up at him. The dead bodies of his best friend's child and wife.
The woman Rick loves and the son he'll never see again.
Shane stumbles back to his truck, losing the feeling in his legs. He feels his breakfast rising to his throat with ferocious force, and a few seconds later he's vomiting his guts out in the truck bed.
He begins to sob, kicking the truck grate with an explosion of fury and anguish.
He had to. He had to. She was gonna tell Rick. She was gonna tell everyone.
Why'd she bring Carl?!
Shane punches himself in the head repeatedly through his cap, tears flooding his eyes. He needs to get it together.
Calming down, gradually shifting to cold stillness, The Beast rises again and takes a look around.
It's almost the afternoon, but there's nary a soul in sight.
The sticks. Gotta love 'em.
He pulls out his cell phone, the special one The Master gave him, and dials the special number.
The Master picks up on the third ring, like always. And like always, his voice gives The Beast the chills.
"This had better be worth my time."
"I did somethin' . . . somethin' bad."