Hello all, Thank you so much for reading and for all your very kind words, follows, and favorites. It truly means so much, especially after such a long hiatus. THANK YOU, to new readers and to the long-timers.
...
A warning for those who care (otherwise SKIP past):
There is some violence and non-MC non-con in this chapter. It does not get too explicit but the content is dark. [Rated M.]
...
Daryl grimaces. His fingers tighten around the bow's foregrip and trigger. The echo of the scream has chilled them more than the wind, leaving them all unnerved. Inert, they stand in place, straining their ears to hear another cry, to confirm its existence, to determine a direction and to discern a context. They hear nothing more; nothing beyond the wind and the woods at night, the walkers somewhere behind them down the road-side of the ridge, and the haunting resounding of that solitary scream lingering in their ears. There's no need to confirm it, all three had heard it. Once heard, it was unmistakable. Earlier, those, too, had been screams — at least some of them — obscured by the wind, but not caused by it. Beth's hand moves to her pistol.
Simon swallows. Frozen where he stands mid-climb, the fifteen-year-old looks from Beth to Daryl. "Do we find them?"
Daryl's focus is trained on the unseen beyond, scanning for whatever peril lies in wait. He shakes his head. "Nah. We keep going." Uneasy with the call, the other two look to him; Daryl grunts off their earnestness. "No knowin' if they're even still alive." This is the rationale he mutters in the place of what he would if pressed. "Could be it isn't walkers out there they're up against." Single-mindedly, Daryl climbs the rest of the way up. With a soft touch to her arm as he passes, Daryl wastes no time crossing the crest to look down the other side, beyond the treeline to the road. "It's thinning," he calls back to them, not specifying by how much. "Can't make out the car; gotta go further." Afforded no time to process or deliberate the dilemma posed by the phantom scream, they comply, and at Daryl's directive continue on. With fewer trees and little fear of walkers at this height, they travel more quickly until, again, they stop.
Not too far ahead in the near vicinity, sound the audible rumblings of voices. Daryl waves his hand and signals to stay low. Beyond them, just visible through the trees below, is a cabin. Parked alongside it sits an extended cab four-wheel-drive pickup, its engine off but with the running lights still on. Silhouettes move in and out of streams of yellowed light. From the start, it's clear something isn't right. The figures illuminated by the truck's headlights and the cabin's open door move in opposition to one another. Knowing nothing more, they know this: this is not a single group acting in unison. This is something else entirely. Daryl, Beth, and Simon flatten themselves to the ground. Motionless and silent, they lie in removed witness as the scene unfolds within the trees and shadows several hundred feet away. Someone's being dragged to the ground; there's a struggle and gruff voices. At this distance, there's no making it out easily.
"We can't watch this," Beth whispers.
She does not mean for them to move on. Beth can't stand to stand by. The wound is too deep.
Again Daryl shakes his head. "We don't know who's who; 'r what this is." They're not going down there. They're not going further into those woods chasing screams and other people's conflicts. Daryl eyes his companions. Not without feeling, he looks from one to the other. "Not this time," he directs in a fervid whisper. "We're getting through this night — th' three of us." Daryl refuses to take this risk. "They're not us," he says soberly. It isn't a choice. "Stay low." To get to the car, to get out of here, they'll have to push forward, following along the crest of this ridge till they can make a straight break for the car once it's clear. To get there, their path forces them closer to this conflict. There is no other way through without delivering themselves to the herd; they must pass alongside it undetected.
With reservation, they stay the course and follow Daryl, creeping nearer the point that'll position them closest to the cabin and the melee there transpiring. All three crawl on all fours, on edge not to disturb the earth and send it crumbling down to betray their position. They move with utmost caution along the crest. On one side a throng of milling walkers, and on the other this clash — more living people hurting others who themselves are still breathing and alive. For their part, as sick as they may feel about it, Beth, Simon, and Daryl keep their heads down and hold their breaths, traversing the line of undetection between one danger and another. Covering the distance in stealth, the night is loud in their ears — pulsating both with the gnarling, gnashing, heavy-stepping masses of the walkers below, and the forceful rustling of the trees, branches, and leaves in the wind, all amplified by the self-aware ringing in their ears as they inch forward on full alert. Then, above it all, new sound breaks through the night. Though it isn't loud, the difference in it cancels out every other night sound: The commotion below escalates.
Simon stops crawling. Swallowing, he whispers imperatively, "Listen: all that time in camp — all'f us out in the woods — we kept our heads down. We weren't hurting anybody, stayin' out of the fights and th' violence on th' roads and in th' towns. But we weren't helping anybody. Not till you. And now all'f them are gone. World can't lose more people, or let more assholes win —"
"Kid," Daryl interrupts fiercely, "y'haven't seen all tha's out there. There's times you've got t' keep your head down and j'st keep hold 'f what you got." Simon nods, like what Daryl's said is what he knows is true. But then he grips his blade and moves to push himself off the ground into action. "Uh-uh." Daryl's grabbing of the teen's sleeve at the shoulder was immediate. Firmly he pulls the fifteen-year-old back down beside him. "We get past this, then we make for the car." Meeting his eye, Simon tries gently but resolutely, to pull away. Doing it, not so much with an air of arrogance but with a plea for reason. Daryl's grip only tightens. Pulling the kid towards him, the unstable hillside crumbles and slides out beneath them. "Kid, I didn't know you from Adam. Now you're the second person I know in the world's for sure still livin'. You've lost two families and you seen what tha' group did t' James and Michael. But you didn't see it. That girl, there?" Daryl pushes Simon's face a fraction in Beth's direction. "Her daddy died when someone took a sword to his neck and hacked off his head." Beth winces at the bluntness. "He was an old man, with grey hair and all tied up and on his knees and someone cut him down right in front of his girls and all the rest of us. Her hair? Only reason it's short as this is someone got that close t'her neck with a knife. Could've cut her clean through and there wudn't a thing I could do. Walkers ain't near t' what's worst out there." His grip loosens some, "And you only think you know it till you see it." Daryl looks to both of them, "No noise; we're going. That ain't our fight." They edge closer, the conflict becoming discernible as they near. There's a muffled scream, and crying. They freeze again. Three pairs of eyes strain. Closer now, nearly directly uphill from the fracas, the terrible tableau plays out before them. The nature of what's occurring is now too clear. Through the shadows and light, a woman's being dragged against her will, her clothes callously all but torn from her. A swift scan of the field of action reveals not one of the male figures appears to be under the blade or the gun. Their hearts stop. They know what this is.
Beth unholsters her gun. "We have to." She starts to rise.
Daryl growls. He didn't want this fight but there's no ignoring it now. And no way Beth's mixing in with it. "Stay here. We'll go."
"No," Beth insists.
"Things go wrong," Daryl's eyes set on her hard, and her six months pregnant body, "you can't go stormin' up this hill."
"No," she insists again. "Not j'st th' two 'f you."
"We do it like this or we don't do it," Daryl barks. "Not goin' through that again."
"Cover us," Simon bolsters her.
His eyes alert and darting as he calculates the odds and options, Daryl's glance holds on her. "How many rounds you got?"
She doesn't have to check. "Eleven."
Daryl nods. Readying his crossbow, he signals Simon. "Le's go. Beth, keep y'r eye on a way out. Call out if you're in trouble. Things go wrong, make a run for it – you don't stop for nuthin'." With a final steadfast look toward Beth, Simon reverses and with Daryl crawls back the way they'd come. Choosing the safety of not taking their approach head-on, they put distance between themselves and the camp before making their descent.
Nearly frantic but exercising restraint, Beth watches them go; she'd been prepared to join the fight, she hadn't been prepared to be left behind. Gritting her teeth as her warm breath turns to steam, she refuses to succumb to this powerlessness and worry. Refusing to freeze or to cry or to panic, Beth Greene focuses on the job she has to do. Lowering onto her firmly rounded but not quite yet protruding belly, she positions herself onto her forearms and raises her pistol. With staunch purpose, Beth disengages the safety. She waits.
Far enough down that they won't be detected, Simon and Daryl descend the hill dexterously, leaving Beth on her own, bearing down against the anxiety of having no way of knowing what the others are walking into, and no way of being of use if what they walk into is trouble. Alone, she watches as her living family disappears into the trees.
Stealthily, Daryl and Simon slip in through the woods. "You think they're still alive?"
"Think we're takin' a big risk if they're not. N' shut'up." They advance nearer, moving briskly, making little sound, relying on the wind and their target's own commotion to conceal their approach. They're counting on taking these guys by surprise. In the darkness, as he keeps his eyes trained ahead of him, Simon half stumbles then quickly recovers. Daryl shoots a sideways glance to him. They can't afford carelessness; the only chance they've got is to execute this with precision. Simon steps over the obstacle in his path — a walker, two of them, not downed long. "We're gettin' close." With a wordless hand-raise from Daryl, they pause. He speaks in a raspy whisper. "Don't know from here where th' road turns, but that herd ain't gone. We hold fire until we can't." Simon nods. He understands the implications of unleashing gunfire out here. Having circled round, they edge in. The voices grow more distinct. Through the darkness they see the lights. Headlights and lanterns illuminate the dilapidated hunting cabin. It's rundown but fortified. There's commotion in the yard, a shuffling and scrambling. Voices carry over the wind – gruff voices and grumblings, the brusque utterings of grisly commands.
"Get in there." Two men roughly drag the half-stripped and beaten figure across the clearing toward the open cabin door. The woman struggles against them though there's blood streaming from her brow where they slammed her head against something. She's gagged and her arms are bound behind her but still she fights fiercely, combating against her bindings and making what noise of alarm she can.
"Keep 'em quiet," another man, broad in shoulders and thickly bearded barks. "That herd we spotted is closing in."
"Hey," the second man dragging the captive speaks sharply, yanking her head back by her disheveled hair and forcing her face to turn upward to him, her eyes wild with fear and desperation. "You've lost already; you c'n quit fighting."
Daryl and Simon creep closer. The windows to the cabin are boarded shut and papered over. Daryl tries to peek through to find out what he can. He can't see much, but he thinks he can just make out a mattress. If there are people inside he can't see them, nor weapons neither.
"Get 'er inside," the broad-shouldered one orders. "Enough 'f this."
Two others stand around him; armed, but with weapons not in hand. Wholly detached from the viciousness at hand, they're smoking cigarettes philosophically and passing a bottle of something back and forth between them. "You were gone awhile," one of them, the tallest of the three, remarks offhandedly to the two beside him, both newly returned from this run.
"The road's thick with biters," the short one with sharp features exhales his smoke. "Jesus," he gripes, spitting at his feet and jerking his head toward the truck as he does, "hurry it up." His jeering turns Daryl's and Simon's attention to the truck. There's scuffling in the backseat of the cab, a silent rocking and— Daryl drops his eyes away. There, one more of the camp's figures shadows the open door to the back of the extended cab. His pants hang loose at his broad standing hips where there's a merciless thrusting into something. Not something. Someone. The inert bare limbs of a woman trapped, press flat against the bench seat, forced over at her hips. Simon sickens. The lifeless way her body ricochets off the car in the rhythm of her assailant's pleasure is a horrifying display, one that must be lasting some time, as the person's visibly given up struggling.
Still leaning against the cabin wall as the first woman is dragged by her tormentors into the cabin, the taller one exhales, breathing out smoke as leisurely as though the scene he's taking in were a cattle herding, "You get these from that farmhouse?"
"Naw," the broad-shouldered one shakes his head passively, "they look to've cleared out. Found 'em in a camp set up in that mail depot." The 'them' they're discussing so aloofly isn't cigarettes or the booze.
"Any trouble?"
"Some," the sharp-eyed asshole with the cigarette shrugs blithely. "Took care of it. Got some supplies off 'em too." As these guys talk, callus and unmoved by the brutality and pitiless tears, Daryl and Simon advance undetected. Following Daryl's signal, Simon braces himself for the impending violence.
"Take it easy," the shorter one calls to the man still in the back of the cab. Daryl edges closer. He looks to Simon who's nearly in position, and when he gets the nod he's ready, Daryl takes aim and fires into the back of the assaulter's skull. The direct hit sends a jolt of shock through the savage body standing in the open door of the cab— It stumbles back and falls hard to the ground, unleashing with it an uproar of chaos. Before the body's on the dirt, Simon's already got his blade to the neck of the closest of the three leaning back alongside the cabin. By the time these three men see the body fall, Simon's made the slash across the shorter man among them's throat. In that moment, decisive and without remorse, Simon takes his first life. Lethally in range of the remaining two, he uses the butchered body as cover as he dodges the reprisal from the others. "What th' hell?" the tall one brays in a start. Jolted into action, they draw rapidly and fire right at him. Simon runs. The first shots already volleyed, Daryl fires back, hitting one in the arm as he ducks to take cover. "Arrgghh!" The broad man shouts in pain. The two left standing fire more shots into the night then take cover in the cabin amid a lot shouting and clamoring, slamming closed the thick wood door.
As the gunfire keeps coming, Daryl and Simon duck behind the truck. Behind the cabin door, the many voices shout back and forth: "What's happening?" — "We're under attack–" — "Al's dead, and George." — "Uh, uh," one growls, "light it up." — "That heard's still out there."
Under the siege of volleys, Daryl checks on the exposed shivering and crumpled figure, still sprawled across the back seat. "Hey," he speaks gingerly. He hasn't touched her – was careful not to – but even so, she cringes, recoiling from the sheer presence of his body. "You're alright," he tells her in a solemn rasp. "How many 'f 'em are there?" Sharp echoes of M4A1 firings crack and pop over their heads as the ravagers fire at them from within the cabin. Her trembling body's still largely exposed but it's her head Daryl instinctively covers, shielding her despite the proximity of him it forces upon her.
Inside, the voices call out to one another as the encampment takes up the assault — "How many?" — "Two, could be more. Behind the truck–" More shots fire and Simon and Daryl fire back judiciously. They dodge bullets and take cover between exchanging shots. Neither fires recklessly, they're operating with limited ammo and they'll need coverage getting out of there.
"Grab the girl," one shouts inside the house. That same deep voice calls out in the echoing quiet of the temporary letup of gunfire: "Listen, assholes, you don't want to do this. You think you're playing th' hero, but you've just gotten these girls killed." His voice drops as he barks at someone in the room with him, "G't 'er over here." Again the deep-voiced ringleader raises his voice to shout out to them, "We've got a knife to her throat. That's on you!" The door kicks open and a third woman, broken, unkempt and bleary-eyed, gets impelled at gunpoint out the cabin door. Her body, underdressed for the season and silently heaving in panic and all-too-lived powerlessness, is held positioned both by the blade to her throat and the pistol to her temple to provide cover for the captor behind her. With no further overture, the knife at her throat swipes coolly and she jerks back, eyes agape, still startled by the ending she — after countless weeks locked inside that cabin — knew enough to predict. Bleeding recklessly, she stumbles, and then he's pushing her out while he shuts the door hard behind her. The voice calls out again: "Now you got one, and we got one! Guess what it'll take to keep ours breathin'."
Not missing a beat, Daryl turns, charging Simon vehemently— "Get back to Beth."
Caught off guard, still aiming at the door that's just shut, Simon shakes his head, "No way, she'd never forgive me if I showed up without you."
"Do it."
Simon shakes his head resolutely, "I can't." Instead, the teenager fires on the cabin and under his cover Daryl ducks down and crouches over the fallen man at his feet, still lewdly exposed with his pants undone. Making quick work of it, Daryl reaches nimbly round his hip and pulls the man's Glock, an extra magazine, and his knife. Reaching tentatively inside the truck he sets the weapons in front of the woman — a peace offering of sorts, a restoration of power and personhood. Paralyzed, she is exposed and vulnerable not just to the elements of this winter night. "Listen," he says as delicately as he can, "you've got 't fight." He checks their back— "Y'c'n feel it later, but y'gotta be strong a little longer." She does not stir, save from the shakings of her distant body far beyond her power to control. He's so careful when he touches her, pulling at the waistband of her pants. Daryl tries with all deference to modesty and trauma to restore them for her, but she jerks and recoils, cowers and cringes. He's yet to see her face, and as much as he abhors this disregarding of her flinchings, he continues to pull them up until she takes the waistband herself; she can't fight or run undressed as she was, and she's nearly frozen stiff. "How many're in there?" She shakes her head, she never made it inside. The only person she knows for certain is in that cabin is her husband's cousin, taken with her when their camp was raided.
The truck ricochets from gunfire, jarring them once more into action. Using the door to shield them, Daryl is immediate in his retaliation, Simon with him. Shots come at them through the windows and the night erupts into the pops and cracks of the crossfire. The glass behind which he stands shatters into pieces under impact and Daryl pulls her away, "Get back!" Quick on his feet, Daryl moves behind the pickup, past Simon where he crouches in the bed using the cab as cover, answering the gunfire in turn. Daryl advances forward through the trees, making for the cabin where for certain at least one more hostage is held. Simon slaps the roof of the cab, "The gun, pick it up, cover him," he urges her. As Daryl moves toward the house she breaks herself from her stupor, takes aim and fires. Rounds blast through the night as through the trees the dead begin their advance. "Urghh." Nearly to the cabin, Daryl slumps hard against a tree trunk from the impact of a bullet.
Simon retaliates, firing at the shooter who'd come from nowhere; he hits him but the man is not taken down. Remaining on his feet, the aggressor pulls his Bowie knife and charges at Daryl. Daryl shoves his sidearm in his waistband and unsheathes his hunting knife, wielding it in sharp cutting swipes and strikes, counterbalancing his maneuvers with his left arm. Blades in hand, the two-barrel toward each other, thrusting and jabbing. They circle one another, clashing with the intent to cut and carve. The first of the dead are upon them, lurching forward to claim living flesh. Fighting past the pain of his gunshot, Daryl grabs hold of the man and hurls him around, meaning to heave him into a biter— then Daryl's off-balance, temporarily shifting his weight, losing his force and loosening his grip. He emits a grunt of dull pain.
His 10-inch blade wetted with Daryl's blood, the man dodges and countermoves, agilely shifting his knife from his right to his left then back to his right, readying to end it. Without diverting his attention from his opponent, Daryl seizes the walker that's almost upon him, drives his blade through it, then pitches it aside. There are others nearing; again the knives swipe and carve through the frigid air, cutting through it as the wind does, sharp and cold. The man gears to rush Daryl and then abruptly the ground at his feet detonates as two shots are fired where his feet would fall. Beth's long-range diversion is enough to secure Daryl the upper hand while the other recoils. Daryl bashes his good shoulder into the man, ramming him backwards until he can get his knife in him, driving the hunting blade in and up, behind the ribs into the chest cavity. Twisting the hilt as he retracts the knife, Daryl then slits his adversary's throat. Daryl steps over the downed man, takes out the nearest walker, then sheathes his knife and unshoulders his crossbow. More roamers advance, not the herd, not yet, but they're on their way. Simon fires at one and Daryl takes down another with the crossbow.
"The dead 're comin'—" A voice from inside shouts. "We c'n outlast you. We got the firepower, shitbird, and we got the walls."
Wounded but not dispatched, Daryl withstands it and makes to round the back of the cabin. Not knowing what he'll do if he finds one, he searches for a back entrance, something he can use to their advantage. Feeling more the adrenaline than his pain, Daryl grabs hold a biter and fiercely thrusts it into another, driving his knife into the skulls of each of them, breathing hard as he releases them. He's been shot and slashed, but he can still move, so move he does. Simon jumps the truck bed and ducks behind a tree, firing again at the house to create a diversion. Beth too fires, just enough to keep the enemy guessing at their numbers and positions. As bullets fly, Daryl doubles back. Scrambling on all fours he makes for the fallen bodies outside the cabin. He cuts free the six-shooter from the hip of the body Simon'd felled and pulls away the shouldered rifle he'd fallen on. In a flash decision, he grabs too the abandoned flask, then plunges his knife into the skulls of the bloodied inanimate corpses. Then he's up, dodging bullets. His chest heaving and his gunshot seeping blood, Daryl takes cover flat against the wall of the cabin. There, Daryl unscrews the cap to the flask, stuffs in his handkerchief, douses it, then ignites his lighter. He fires through a window, hoping to not unwittingly hit a hostage. Forcing a break in the window from the gunfire, he's fast to bash it in with the butt of the rifle. Daryl lights the firebomb and chucks it into the cabin. He's on the move again then, running round to the other side of the cabin, back to Simon and the woman, when his foot lands on something— Something underfoot does not feel as it should. He looks, and then wishes he hadn't. Just beyond his step, too sizeable to overlook, lies in wait a graveless grave. Bodies lie mercilessly one on top of the other, uninterred, unmarked, and unmourned. These bodies never turned. All of them shot in the head. All of them female. All of them stiff and bare of limb, their bodies wasted and cast aside. Daryl fumes. He checks another window — clear, as far as he can tell. Unpocketing his lighter, he jams it between two window planks then shoots at it with the revolver. The explosion is instantaneous and small, but it breaks open the window and catches meager flames to the window coverings and bedding on the floor. Daryl's already moving; he does not linger to see if the flames will catch or burn out. He can only hope the two fires will prove a diversion, or be enough to force them out of the cabin to make a stand. At least without the coverage of walls they'd be more vulnerable.
Back in proximity to the truck, he signals Simon. "Get ready."
The door opens.
A figure emerges, younger than the others. He's got a woman with him, the one they'd first spotted from the ridge. She's bloody and topless. He's got a machete on her. The twenty-something looks ill at ease doing it, but doing it he is. "Hold your fire—" he calls out. "If you want them alive —"
Raw and incensed with outrage and disgust, Daryl aims the rifle, readying to fire. Simon plants his feet and waits.
And then it all happens in a furor: Someone else comes through the door. Flickerings of flames and smoke illuminate the towering frame of the one who'd been out front, ruthlessly watching the degradation transpire. He's got someone with him, one of the two who'd dragged that first woman in from the truck. The tall one shoves the other against the doorframe by the throat, "You brought this shitstorm on us?"
"No way," the accused pushes back, "we followed protocol. Killed 'em all. Like always, 'Kids and dicks', all dead." He's released with a callous thrust, and without preamble or posturing, the taller man coolly shoots the captive woman in the head. "We don't negotiate," he declares bloodily into the clearing. "These cunts don't mean shit to us."
Pulling the trigger, again and again, Daryl fires the semi-automatic rifle, unleashing a continuous fury of bullets at the cabin. His gunfire is answered in kind and Beth, too, fires at will. Out of ammo, Simon throws himself low in the truck bed for cover. Face flattened against the steel ridges, he can no longer see the fighting, but beyond him, where she'd been ducked behind the tailgate, he can see her, the only one who'd survived. Amidst the barrage of violence, she's stopped. Her expression, distorted before by desperation and a primal will to survive has suddenly slackened, leaving her vacant and ashen. In an instant, everything's fallen away: the pain, the fear, the trauma, the struggle. None of it is bigger than the cruel nothingness of this world without her family. Without her children. She would have endured it all for a chance of making it back to them. But they're gone. Terribly. Violently. Uselessly. Gone. Like an epiphany, every urgency she'd felt a moment earlier shifts, just as every muscle in her body does. Beaten, bloody, violated, and heartbroken, she stumbles away from the melee, leaving it, the monsters who took her, and herself behind. The handgun she'd had aimed at her assailants a moment before floats to her temple, bringing her arm along with it — it's bloody and battered, but she cannot feel it; feeling is something long ago and far away now. It only takes a squeeze, a release really, a motion of one solitary finger, to change the whole depraved world —
The gunfire shatters. "NOOOO—" Simon shouts, but it's already too far gone. Her body crumples to the ground. Simon scrambles down to her but there's nothing left to help. She's gone.
Daryl hadn't seen it but he'd heard Simon's cry and he sees the carnage that remains. Turning his head now with fierce determination he roars at Simon— "Get back to Beth."
"No," Simon shakes his head, taking up the loaded weapon, "you go, or both 'f us."
"Now," Daryl booms. "Get back to her now." Daryl would have shoved the boy into action had he been any closer. "Make the ammo count. If I'm not there, get her to the car." He tosses the revolver to him and returns fire, ducking behind trees for coverage. With another glance downward at the terrible dissolution, Simon moves on his own, turning his back and running toward the closest thing he has left to family. Needing to trust she's still there waiting. Cold, afraid, but all right.
That's the Scylla & Charybdis chapter of this Odyssey. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Did this version of events work? What might have felt more plausible?