Jon
Shadows danced within the dark recesses of the halls connecting A-Block and B-Block. They were nothing more than the apparitions of a paranoid mind, yet Jon gave them a fraction of his attention anyway. The walkers in the shower block had started out as shadows too.
Glenn paused at a T-section ahead of Jon, put his shoulder to the left-hand wall, and signalled to stop. Jon, walking toe to heel, crept up behind him. A tap on the shoulder let Glenn know he was present and ready. Tyreese tapped Jon's shoulder.
Ghost would have proven useful here, but Jon conceded that Glenn had the right of it. He was too cumbersome, too visible. Dire wolves were made to sneak through frost-crusted underbrush and waist-high snow, not cramped, concrete hallways.
They'd made excellent pace without him. The halls proved to straightforward, designed with efficiency and ease of movement in mind. However, the security measures had counted on electricity. Not a single window lined the walls, barred or otherwise, leaving them to navigate through total darkness. Only handheld torches lit their way.
Glenn gave them all clear signal, a thumbs up over his right shoulder. He slung Hershel's shotgun over his back and retrieve a roll of duct tape from his belt. An 'X' of silver tape reflected the pale torchlight, signifying safety.
Jon shone his torch to the right, revealing two other side halls, each marked with their own X of silver tape. An X also marked the wall at the end of the hall, taped beside the set of doors leading back to A-Block. Identical doors waited to the left, except chains bound them shut and the corpse of a guard sat slumped against them, a shotgun in his lap, and a hole in his head the size of a copper star.
A door stood directly across from each of the side halls. The first held cleaning supplies and the second had been some kind of office. Jon and Tyreese stationed themselves outside the third and final one, shoulders pressed against the either side of the door frame, sword and hammer at the ready. Eyes locked on the doorknob, Glenn took his position in front of the door and switched the shotgun for a knife. He grinned.
"I'm never gonna get tired of this," he whispered. "Makes me feel like I'm on NCIS."
"Stay sharp," Jon hissed.
Glenn nodded, took two quick steps forward, and drove his heel into door just below the knob. The bolt snapped. Wood splintered around it, letting out a mighty crack as the door flew inwards. The glassy stares of walkers greeted them.
One in a blue guard uniform burst into the hall, flies buzzing in its slit throat. It reached for Glenn and wailed. Black phlegm flew from its mouth. Tyreese brought his hammer down on the top of its head. Its skull caved. Like a ragdoll, it crumpled and spilled back blood on the tiled floor.
With little regard for the cleanliness of their boots, Jon and Tyreese rushed through the puddle. They didn't even have a chance to scan the room before the next corpse rushed them. This one sprinted. Longclaw was skewered between its eyes before Jon had a chance to think. He yanked it free of the variant and scanned the room.
Empty.
The variant bore a prisoner's orange jumpsuit, tattoos on his face, and an infested bullet wound to the chest. They looked so inconspicuous, bullet wounds. Swords left great gashes, clubs and maces left mangled limbs, even arrows left weeping slits. Bullets left holes no bigger than a copper star.
That was until one dared to view the exit wound.
Fist-sized holes riddled the backs of downed corpses between rows of beds. Beds with wheels. A turned-over cart had spread needles, bandages, and metal trays across the floor; a few of the needles were lodged in a corpse's face. One other corpse lay in one of the beds furthest from the door, handcuffed to the frame, with a bullet wound in the side of its head.
It couldn't have been more than fifteen name days old.
Jon flicked Longclaw clean. "You hold children in these places?"
"Not usually…" Glenn said, edging into Jon's peripheral, fixated on the corpse.
Tyreese checked the windows. "Must have done something real evil to end up here. There's a courtyard connecting us to the garages. The doors are open enough to see car bumpers, or maybe trucks. Can't tell from here."
"Any corpses?" Jon asked.
"A few downed ones."
"Either that or lurkers."
"Nah, downed. Judging by the state of their heads, they got caught in sniper fire trying to make a break for it. Probably knew that's how it would turn out, but figured it beat getting eaten alive."
"They shot him," Glenn said. He skirted around the down corpses and approached the one handcuffed to the bed, slipping his knife under his belt. "What could he possibly have done to be a threat like this?"
Tyreese huffed. "Exist. Kid's probably a psycho killer like Dexter. Our boy in blue did us a favour."
"Most likely," Jon said.
Glenn turned on Jon. "He was a kid."
"When you give people like this the benefit of the doubt, all they'll do with it is use it against you." The fool in Jon who still believed himself a hero, who dreamed of First Ranger, and aspired to find honour in duty, he cringed away from the truth. Swallowing the feeling proved a simple matter. "But still, it shouldn't have been done like this. The lad deserved to die with a little dignity."
"Where's the dignity in being executed?"
Tyreese stepped away from the window. "Listen, this guy's back was up against the wall. His entire word was crumbling around him while a direct threat to his – and everyone else's – safety lay across from him. Who knows who else could have gotten hurt if he hadn't done what he did?"
"But he was just a kid," Glenn said insistently.
"He was a threat. Are you seriously saying that if push comes to shove you wouldn't kill to save your life? Don't kid yourself. We're all capable of it. And this guy was strong enough not to shy away from it. He made the right call, no matter how gruesome."
"Dude. He was just a kid."
Tyreese marched towards Glenn. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"
Jon stepped in between them. "You're right, this man faced a hard decision, and we don't have the knowledge necessary to judge his actions. That's what Glenn was trying to say. Wasn't it, Glenn?"
"Yeah…" Glenn's voice sounded fragile and tense. "It was a hard decision."
"Right." Tyreese shot his glare into the floor and tore himself away, storming to the door. "Sorry."
Jon and Glenn shared a concerned look before following after him.
Bowen
Bowen's mattress was stubborn. It believed itself to be a stone, and no amount of tossing or turning could change its mind. A just penance for a man like him, yet Bowen checked its top bunk twin all the same. Lumpy, rigid, and paper thin; identical in every way. Remarkable really that two beds could be so similar.
With a sigh, Bowen resigned himself to the convenience of the bottom bunk and sprawled out. Best not to think about the smell of sweat and semen. Such train of thought would pave a path straight towards insanity.
A scream pierced the air. Footsteps thundered from all directions, stampeding away from the cells. The vibrations thrummed through the steel frame of the bed.
A dull, numb, tingle washed over Bowen, lingering in his fingertips. They'd found him then. Yes, they were arguing now. Their voices travelled as echoes, demanding Bowen's attention.
Why can't they leave me be? Let the Gods decide the course of fate. A man like me should have no say in destiny.
After all, Tyreese had the right of it. A man like Dexter – a cold-hearted, bloodless, killer – deserved to die. What difference did it make if it were to be for his crime or another's?
Something nibbled at the back of Bowen's mind. He set his brain to the task of calculating the rough square footage of A-Block's common area, and how many tables and chairs it could accommodate for feasts. However, the snap of the boy's ribs as someone started a fruitless attempt at resuscitation drew Bowen from his distraction and back to the nibble.
It was a contradiction. One so simple, a child should be expected to spot it. An embarrassing blemish against his intelligence and competence.
Tyreese was a killer too. Logically, his crime should render his life worthless as well. To lie would be to admit a killer's life has value; a lie bundled within a lie. Yet, to save Dexter's life would be to tell the exact same lie.
No, not the exact same. A closer look revealed subtle differences in the shade of untruth. Saving Tyreese's life would admit his life had value so long as he provided Bowen companionship. While saving Dexter's life admitted a far more sinister lie. That a man's life holds intrinsic value, no matter the circumstance or context.
If such a thing were true… well, it didn't bear thinking about.
I suppose that settles it then. My decision should be based off which lie I want to tell the least. Meaning, the best course of action here in inaction.
"DEXTER!" Rick bellowed.
The footsteps returned, oppressively loud. As they charged the stairs, the walls of Bowen's cell trembled. A few pleads for calm poked through the mass of noise.
Bowen got out of bed, found his guide stick, and made his way upstairs.
Jon
Tyreese stormed down the hall like a man off to war. His stride held true against all opposition, against blind corners and blind spots, against lurkers, and against walkers. He killed them before Jon and Glenn had a chance to so much as raise their weapons, moving on just as quick.
Such drive would have been commendable if it weren't so reckless.
"What the hell is he doing?" Glenn hissed, hurrying at Jon's side. "It's like a switch flipped. Maybe the kid set him off, you know? Like, it reminded him of Julie?"
"Mayhaps," Jon said. He tightened his grip on Longclaw.
"I knew it was a mistake bringing him…"
They were supposed to bring Andrea, but Tyreese had insisted he come instead. Something in his eyes made his request impossible to refuse. They held with a resolve made of diamond; impossible to break, unless you knew the exact way to strike it. Jon mistook it for the same fervorous passion which fuelled his boyhood dreams of First Ranger. A powerful, yet delicate emotion, fuelled by the desire to be more than others' expectations thought possible. An easy mistake to make. Passion and madness were brothers of a shade.
"Where are you going, Tyreese?" Jon asked.
Tyreese kicked open a supply closet. The door came to a sudden stop halfway open with a wet thump. A phlegmy scream pierced the air. Tyreese yanked a prisoner walker into the hall by its ankles. It sat up, reaching for him with spit, black nails. The head of Tyreese's hammer bashed its forehead, caving it in. The walker fell limp. Blood wept from its splintered brow.
Jon and Glenn caught up to him. Glenn made to touch his arm, but Jon held him back. "No," Jon said. "He's not himself right now."
"He won't hurt me. We've been through hell and back together. Right, Tyreese? Remember the mall, dude. We had each other's back."
Without sparing them a glance, Tyreese carried on down the hall.
As Jon headed after him, he pondered how his father would have handled such a situation. He would have had faith in his ally. That this was indeed some sort of lapse of wit, that Tyreese needed help.
Lord Snow thought differently. He put forth that this was an emotional outburst. Tyreese wasn't mad, merely petulant, upset over the earlier disagreement. This was all a game. A show of strength to recover some of his fragile ego.
Jon tightened and relaxed his sword hand. "You've proven your point, Tyreese. Now, enough. This isn't some game."
Tyreese rounded the next corner.
Jon waited a moment for Glenn to mark the wall, then jogged after the man. He broke into a proper run at the sight of what lay ahead. A set of double doors with a plaque overhead marked 'Gymnasium'. Beyond the doors' windows, shadows shuffled to and fro.
"Tyreese, if you go in there you will die! Do you hear me? Wait!"
Tyreese paused, hands on the handles of the twin doors. He formed white-knuckled fists. They trembled. Then, he shoved the doors wide open. Dozens of corpses turned on him. The they stumbled forward, reaching. Tyreese charged to meet them, letting the doors slam behind him.
"Holy shit, he's trying to kill himself!" Glenn cried. He sprinted ahead, quicker without mail and leathers to weigh him down.
"Wait!" Jon shouted.
Glenn barged in after him.
"Seven hells, wait!" Jon shouldered open the doors.
They were everywhere. Left, right, forward. Up in the stands and spread across the polished, hard-wood floor. A knee-high mound of corpses lined the far wall. Bullet holes riddled them, the wall, and those still standing. They swarmed away from Jon and Glenn, jostling to get to the centre of the massive room.
Glenn stood perfectly still, watching the corpses jostle away from him. "I saw him…" he said, his voice wavering. "He was fighting, Jon. Why? Why was he fighting if he wanted to die?"
Jon split a straggler's head in two the moment it lay eyes on Glenn. The thump of its body against the floor, drew the ire of a few others, and their cries drew more, and their cries drew even more.
"Come, there's nothing more we can do." Jon snatched Glenn's arm and dragged him towards the doors. After a few forced steps, Glenn's legs moved of their own accord. Together, they ran from the Gymnasium, burst into the hall, and rammed their back against the doors.
They weathered the first few strikes from the horde, but as more and more joined the effort, the weight of the impact grew from a heavy punch to a battering ram. Jon slid Longclaw through the twin handles. Its valyrian steel held true against the first impact, then the second, then the third.
Cautiously, Jon and Glenn stepped away from the doors.
"We should get help," Glenn said.
"Aye."
Father wouldn't have left him.
"He's dead," Glenn said.
"He is."
But Father never knew the cold embrace.
"There's nothing we can do," Glenn said.
"There isn't."
It's easy to run into the arms of death when an eternal feast with family and ancestors awaits you on the other side.
Jon and Glenn shared a look. Glenn readied Hershel's shotgun. Jon readied Needle and drew Longclaw from the door handles. Walkers erupted into hall, stumbling, and tripping over one another. Jon and Glenn unleashed a few precious seconds of hellfire upon them, before swapping their guns for blades.
They fought backwards down the hall, hacking and stabbing the front lines of the horde as they were forced away from the gymnasium. Jon kept half an eye beyond the horde on the doorway. If Tyreese emerged, they could circle around and reunite in a side hall.
He didn't emerge. Jon decapitated the last two corpses. Tyreese still didn't show. Glenn put an end to the insistent screeching of the bodyless heads. And still, nothing.
A carpet of bodies lay between them and the gymnasium. It would have been wise to circle around to avoid other living heads from biting their ankles, even if it meant leaving Tyreese with the remainder of the corpses for another few minutes. Yet, Jon and Glenn charged forward over the carpet of bodies.
The head of a bald man, bisected from below the nose, followed Jon with unblinking eyes. Its gaze burrowed into the back of his head. Jon felt like game caught in a trap. His heart pounded against his mail and his hands damped his gloves with clammy sweat.
If Tyreese is dead, it's his own fault. No matter what you feel or what anyone says, it was his fault. Not yours. Not Glenn's. Not anyone's.
Jon ran into the gymnasium behind Glenn. Bodies littered the open floor, trailing up into the stands. They lay slouched over seats and prone on the stairs. Blood and brains slickened the steel support beams.
Caught between caution and optimism, it took a great deal of strength to not run up into the stands. The stench helped ground Jon, keeping his mind sharp as he and Glenn combed through the bodies, putting down lurkers as they went. You'd think one would grow accustomed to the sulphuric stench of rotten flesh, the way you learn to ignore body odour or bad breath. You'd think wrong. Even now, it brought tears to Jon's eyes and tripped his gag reflex.
"I don't see him," Glenn said as they began to climb the stairs.
"I was watching the doors. He didn't escape. Keep looking."
"We… We should call out to him, right? If he's alive, we'll know."
Movement caught the attention of Jon's peripherals. He froze halfway up the five rows of stands. Corpses littered the walkway between seats. One was breathing. Bigger than all the rest by some margin, dark skinned, wearing plain clothes.
"Tyreese?" Jon asked, inching forward. He skewered the heads of corpses as he went. "Is that you?"
It smiled.
He… smiled.
After everything, the damnable man smiled.
"Is this some jape to you?" Jon barked.
"Sorry to worry you like that," Tyreese said, chuckling. "Guess I lost it a bit."
"You could have gotten us killed! And for what? To satisfy your ego?" Jon sheathed Longclaw, grabbed Tyreese by the collar with both hands, and hoisted him up into a sitting position. "Explain yourself."
Glenn entered the corner of Jon's vision, craning his neck. "Is he bit?"
Jon shook Tyreese. "Well? Are you?"
"No." Tears streamed down Tyreese's cheeks. "Not even a scratch."
One of the women was screaming when Bowen arrived. A man, Daryl perhaps, shouted, egging someone on. Bowen's stick tapped a leg, so he stopped in his tracks.
"Try it again!" Dexter shouted. "Scream my name, march in here, punch me. All without a single god damn explanation!"
"You were spouting bullshit, weren't you?" Rick shouted back; his voice was fragile. "I should have seen right through you. All your false kindness and lies. Well, was it worth it? Huh?" A dull thump sounded off, followed by a scream, and a guttural, beasty groan. "Because you've signed your death warrant."
"Rick, stop!" Lori screamed.
Would Rick do this to a man he knew? No. No, he'd control himself.
"Take Carl to his room," Rick said.
"You've already got him in handcuffs. He's not gonna hurt anyone else. So, back off!"
"I said, take Carl to his room."
"You're acting like an animal!"
"Do as your told!"
"I'm not your fucking pet!"
"Pet! Pet! Pet!" The raven quorked.
Someone, most likely Lori, stormed past Bowen.
If Rick knew the truth, mayhaps he'd apologise to her, and repair things.
"He deserves it, Dad," Carl said.
Silence lingered.
"Kid's right," Daryl said. "You saw what this fucker did as well as me. He should feel all the pain that boy endured twice over."
"I didn't do shit!" Dexter shouted.
Another dull thump sounded off. "Shut up," Rick said.
"He ain't lying!" Andy said. "We've been together since y'all broke us in here! I swear it!"
"You want to join him?" Rick asked.
"N- No, but-"
"Then not another word."
Dexter broke out laughing. "I didn't do this, but I wish I had! I should have killed all of y'all. This is always how it was gonna go. If it weren't the kid's death, you would have found some other reason to fuck with us. Because we're not human, right? Just a bunch of soulless husks in orange. Ain't worth the air we breathe."
"Damn fucking right," Daryl said.
"Rick…" Hershel said. "You're not really going to kill this man, are you?"
"Why shouldn't I? You want him living beside your daughters?"
"There isn't any proof. For all we know it was one of the other prisoners. Or even Jon's wolf."
"Hey, I've been with Bowen!" Axel said. "Just ask him. Go on, do it."
"Don't need to," Rick said. "The proof is sitting right in front of you. Just look at him. Look at his face. That's how Shane looked that night. And I'll be damned if I let doubt lead me astray again."
"Even so, is death the right punishment?" Hershel asked. "Sin does not pay for sin. Why not let him go?"
"And have him return at night to get his revenge? You saw the holes in the fence same as me. No… No, you kill, you die. That's how it'd gonna be from now. If you've got a problem with it, you know where the door is."
"And what about you? You intend to do it yourself, don't you? Will you die with him?"
"This is different."
"You can't honestly believe that."
"I can because it's true." Rick cocked his revolver.
Bowen staggered forward, shoving past a palisade of bodies. "W- Wait!"
"What?" Rick growled.
Downstairs, the gate trundled open.
"It… It…"
"Rick!" Jon barked.
Footsteps marched up the stairs.
Bowen scrunched his eyes, for all the good it served. "It wasn't Dexter! It was Tyreese! Tyreese killed the boy!"
No one answered. Bowen willed himself to see, to see their faces. Did they believe him? Did they ignore him like always? But not amount of wishing could combat the will of the Gods.
"Bowen?" Tyreese asked. His voice, so often distant and empty, wavered with raw betrayal. It painted him as a pathetic, spindly man rather than towering giant Bowen knew him to be. Perhaps sound had the right of it where sight aimed to lead him false.
"I… I ran into him after the deed. He said to blame Dexter. That you'd do so anyway. But it isn't true!" Bowen wanted to weep, but his ruined eyes weren't up to the task. "He killed him. Oh, Mother have mercy, he killed him. Please listen to me, please. Enough innocent blood has been spilled."
"Why…" Rick said, barely above a whisper. "Why'd you wait until now to say that?"
Bowen buried his face in his hands. "Because I'm worthless."
Jon
It had been an appropriate ceremony. Respectfully solemn. Hershel read more of the sweet words from his book, and they all took turns filling the grave with dirt. But their work left them tired, so no one stuck around long after they'd covered the lad.
A mound of corpses burned on the concrete courts used for a game called basketball. Thick, black smoke choked the air, and flames lashed like tasting, orange snake tongues against the burnt backdrop of the evening sky. You'd think a pile of burning, rotting flesh would stink, but the heat stole the smell. It rose above the clouds with the smoke. Unless you were fool enough to stand next to it.
Jon knelt a few dozen yards away at the base of a guard turret. Without any head stones to speak of, he made do with the next best thing and engraved Artur's name, estimated year of birth, and year of death into the turret's beige mortar; Jenner had helped him with the years.
"Artur 1996 CE – 2010 CE"
CE stood for common era the same way AC stood for after conquest; millions of years predated it. This world was so old. Westeros seemed infantile in comparison.
Together, Artur and the turret watched over the valley, over rolling hills of tall grass, and the tail end of a winding creek.
"You picked a nice spot," Beth said. She stood over Jon a few steps away with a hesitant smile on her face. The wind played with her ponytail and the midday sun made it shimmer like hammered gold.
"It's a square patch of grass, perfectly flat, and void of stones. It makes allocating space simple and the digging easy. We'll need to ensure that space is left for a path to the turret, but otherwise, yes, it'll do."
"When we start using the courts and running track regularly, we'll always be able to see him, and him us. Same goes for anyone else we bury, God forbid. It's like they're still a part of the community."
Jon stood and looked down at the grave. Numb. He felt nothing. A child was dead. It should have hurt worse than an arrow through the leg, and yet it hardly registered.
I didn't know him. I knew father. I knew Robb, Bran, and Rickon. I knew Sansa and Arya. I knew Winterfell. I knew Westeros. I knew T-Dog, Dale, Chris, and Julie. I lost them all. I lost my life.
This boy who I knew for less than three days is put a pebble upon the weight of my grief. He shouldn't be. The loss of a child's life, the loss of anyone's life, should hold more weight than that, for life's finality grants it endless worth.
Will I feel nothing soon? Shall a day come where those I hold dearest could die before my very eyes and I would hardly flinch? Or will my knees buckle under the weight of it all before then?
"Jon?" Beth asked.
Jon blinked and looked up. "Aye?"
"You spaced out for a second there."
"My mind wandered off for a moment. Sorry."
"Mind if I ask where?"
Jon opened and closed his sword hand. "To Tyreese."
"Oh."
"This place is too good for him. The mound suites him better."
"What he did was awful, but… once- if he dies, then that's it. It's over. His fate no longer concerns us."
"Aye, but what of his memory? Why should anyone be forced to honour such a monster? Death doesn't undo sin."
"Forgiveness does."
The mound of corpses groaned. It sagged, crackling like a falling tree. Flaming corpses spilled onto the basketball courts. One began to crawl. The charred, twisted, still flaming, mockery of man, made for the grass oval inside the running track.
Lurker variants were a pain in the arse. The damnable thing had stayed limp even as they tossed it on the pile, and as it burned alive. Jon sighed and unsheathed Longclaw.
Others out in the yard sprang into action too, but none moved faster than Glenn. He sprinted with a knife taped to a broom handle. Beating Jon there with the time to spare, Glenn thrust the makeshift spear through the back of the variant's head. A mixture of ash and boiling blood poured from the wound.
While the others returned to their conversations and idle pass times, Jon joined Glenn by the corpse.
Jon sheathed Longclaw. "Thank you."
Glenn shrugged. "Don't mention it." His eyes never left the corpse.
Almost everyone was out in the yard. Beth left them to work on a flower display for the boy's grave. Jenner walked the perimeter of A-Block, scratching at a notepad. Lori and a reluctant Carl wandered around the running track. Axel stood by the fence, watching the forest. Carol and Maggie chatted, sat up against the wall of the segment between A and B block where Tyreese had made a fool of Jon and Glenn.
"You'd think this would have been a more momentous occasion," Jon said. "We can walk free beneath the open sky again without fear of the dead. Yet, no one has a smile on their face."
"It's our fault," Glenn said. He winced. "My fault. I knew Tyreese wasn't right in the head. If I'd told Rick not to accept his apology, maybe none of this would've happened."
"We all share some blame. Everyone could see it. But it's Rick who needs to take the brunt of the blame. That's his burden as leader. Where is he anyway?"
"Holed up in his cell. Maggie says Hershel's in there with him trying to convince him to spare Tyreese."
Jon clenched his sword hand. "Fool."
"Yeah… Don't get me wrong, Hershel's optimism can be great. Now though- I just can't help but wonder if it would have been better if Tyreese had died in the gym after all. No one should ever die on my expeditions, but still, it would have made all this easier."
"It's not meant to be easy. On The Wall, we lopped off the hands of thieves, gelded rapists, and executed murderers. Never once did those screams come easy, nor the begging or pleading, but it kept the men in line. As Lord Commander, it was my burden to bare, just as it is Rick's now. Every moment Tyreese draws breath is an injustice."
Glenn fidgeted. "They still killed you though. Right?"
"They did."
"That way of thinking makes sense. I mean, when Bowen told us what Tyreese did, I wanted to kill him myself. One moment I was crushed with guilt over nearly losing him, and the next I'm blindsided by anger."
"Why didn't you then? In all the confusion, I nor anyone else would've noticed in time to stop you."
"Because I've been desperate enough to do the wrong thing. Stealing cars is a hell of a lot different than killing a kid. But still, when you feel like there's no way out, even the healthiest minds can break. And Tyreese's mind is anything but healthy."
"Would you extend the same courtesy to Dexter or a nameless stranger? The Culvers?"
Glenn rubbed his face. "I want to say I would, but if that'd been Maggie, I wouldn't have thought twice about killing him. Stupid as that is. I mean, why should her life hold more value than Artur's? Because I love her? That's not fair."
"It isn't. You see, our emotions are fickle. Principals, however, are steadfast. Honor and duty show us the correct path where love leads us astray. Our duty as protectors trumps our duty as friends. Tyreese needs to die for his crime. For the sake of everyone else."
"You think Rick will see it that way?"
"He already did with that 'you kill, you die,' rule."
"That was for Dexter, not Tyreese."
"Aye…"
Glenn gestured to the corpse. "Give me a hand, will you?"
"Oh. Right."
Jon picked the corpse up by the wrists, and Glenn by the ankles. Together they carried it back to the mound, swung it back and forth a few times, and let momentum toss it back onto the flames.
"Speaking of Dexter, where is he anyway?" Glenn asked. "Andy and Thomas too."
"Dexter and Andy are on the other side of A-Block in the courtyard between it and the garages. Last I saw they were walking laps and talking."
"Guess they don't feel like being around us right now. Can't say I blame them." Glenn paused. "Should we be keeping an eye on them? I mean, they'd have to have a death wish to go inside the garages or the admin building before they're cleared. And there's probably nothing more powerful than rubber rounds in there. But still…"
"It's my next stop. Care to join me? It could prove useful to have some back up now that Ghost has decided to go off hunting. If dire wolves lack for anything, its timing."
Glenn nodded slowly. "Sure. Better leave this behind though." He held up his makeshift spear. "Don't wanna scare-"
Shouting erupted through A-Block's barred windows. It shattered the idle chatter, plunging the yard into silence. Without hesitation, everyone ran for the entrance.
Bowen
They held no discussion. Rick told the others he would come to a decision by tomorrow, then set them to the task of clearing the yard. No one argued, not even Carl.
The stench of rotten blood and gunpowder drifted through the barred windows of the cells. Bowen wallowed in it, sat at the top of the stairs. Grooves and bumps in the steel step both prodded and chilled his arse through the thin trousers this land provided; groves and bumps too uniform to be imperfections. Everything in the prison seemed to be designed to torture, down to the smallest detail.
For once, Bowen found himself grateful of his blindness. It spared him the undoubtably dreary sights. He imagined the barren concrete as fine mahogany, the cramped cells as the guest quarters of a lesser lord, and that Tyreese hadn't glared at him with a face wrought by betrayal. Even if he knew better.
Tyreese's cell was only a short walk through the dark away. He'd made enough rounds to get there unassisted. They'd locked him up in cell 20. A thirty second walk with capable eyes, a minute for Bowen, perhaps closer to 50 seconds. It'd taken them 1 minute and 23 seconds to escort Tyreese there.
The sour taste in the air inspired Bowen's stomach to flip and twist. He endured it. He braved it. A coward would spew, but he wasn't a coward anymore.
A brave man, one worthy of life, wouldn't hide from his problems. Jon would've tackled it right away. He'd be halfway through the conversation by now.
Bowen took a deep breath of the putrid air and stood. His stomach gave way. Mouth firmly shut; he fumbled for the railing. Vomit dribbled from his lips. The rail met his desperate hands. He clung to it and emptied his stomach.
"Great…" someone grumbled. Daryl, judging by the accent. His twang was the most pronounced by fair. "How the hell ain't you used to the smell by now?"
"Sorry," Bowen muttered. "I'll clean it up."
Daryl sighed. "No, you won't. You'll end up missin' half of it. I'll clean it up. Just stay out of the way."
Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Bowen shuffled away from the railing until he found the bars of the parallel cell. "Why are you here? It isn't like you to sit out of the action. Even if all that remains is to burn the corpses and clean their blood and brains off the walls."
"Someone's gotta keep an eye on this piece of shit." Daryl's boots clanged down the stairs. "His buddies should be in there with him. Especially that fat bastard. 'Sides I ain't missin' all the fun. Still gotta clear the garages and the offices."
"The fat one? Which is that?"
"Axel." His voice grew quieter, more distant.
"He's fat, is he?"
No response.
"Are you gone or simply done talking to me?"
Again, silence answered him.
Both, I'd wager.
Hushed whispers reached Bowen's ears amidst the silence. Rick and Hershel argued about sin, forgiveness, and the duty to your fellow man. 'Everyone is entitled to life because life is a gift from God'. 'No, life is a privilege and privileges can be forfeited'.
"That's true," Hershel said. "Terrible sins demand terrible consequences, but it isn't our place to dish them out. That's why The Lord created Hell. Besides, the bible says that everyone deserves a chance at redemption, no matter the sin. You said you went to church as a boy, so I implore you to remember Luke 23:24, 'And Jesus said father forgive them for they know not what they do'," Hershel said.
"Tyreese knew what he was doing," Rick said. "He hid the body. Or are you claiming the kid enjoyed spending time in an airtight freezer full of shit?"
Bowen would've laughed if it weren't so tragic. Hershel should know better after all he'd seen. Some people are incapable of change.
Tyreese must have been like this all along. A wolf in sheep's clothing. I was but a tool to him. Not a friend, a tool. And a tool does not honour you on your death bed, no more than the mattress beneath your back or the ceiling above your head. It carries on, unconcerned.
"Feeling guilty?" Tyreese said. His echoed off the concrete, bouncing at Bowen from all directions. "It's all over your face. You always did wear your heart on your sleeve."
"I have no reason to feel guilty. You killed that boy, Tyreese. Not me."
"It shouldn't be surprising. Once a traitor, always a traitor."
Bowen set his jaw. "Yes, I betrayed Jon Snow. I conspired against him, I drove a blade through his belly, and I did nothing as they strung up his corpse and mutilated his wolf. I am aware of my sins. Can you say the same?"
"You always take the easy path, even if it means tossing aside a friend."
"We are not friends."
"How long until you turn on the rest of them? Things are only going to get harder. The Culvers were small fries. Just you wait until the real monsters turn up."
"No need. I speak to one now."
"Enough with the tough guy act. You're nothing, Bowen. If I hadn't pulled you off that bridge, you'd be just another dead man walking. So, go on. Get me killed. Let's see how long you last until you find another ledge to toss yourself off."
Bowen gripped the rail as if the catwalk were about to capsize. "You may have saved my life that day, but Julie gave it purpose, not you."
"How'd that turn out for you?"
"It could have been worse."
"How?"
"I could have ended up like you."
"You are like me. Only difference is, I've got the balls to go through with it."
For a moment, Bowen forgot he was blind. He turned on Tyreese, intending to stare at him. Darkness stared back instead. "Go through with what?"
"Julie wasn't a real purpose. You hardly knew her! You missed sixteen years of your life, and you have the audacity to claim she's your life's purpose!" Tyreese burst out laughing and beat the bars of his cell. "Disgusting motherfucker! You deserve all that's coming to you!"
"You're… You're trying to die."
Tyreese's laughed melted into sobs. The rhythm of his fists slowed to a halt. "We're empty men, Bowen. Monsters. What right do we have to life?"
"None at all, but if giving up on it means becoming this, then I'll find a new purpose despite the fact. You're not a monster, Tyreese. You're a coward. A gutless, fucking coward too afraid to take his own life." Bowen approached the cell, striding through darkness. "If still had my eyes, I'd kill you myself. I hope they draw and quarter you! I hope they string you up by your ankles! I hope the leave you there for the crows! No, not the crows; the corpses! I hope the dead rip you limb from limb and-"
A hand fell upon Bowen's shoulder. "That's enough, Bowen," Jon said.
Bowen suddenly found his head full of fog. He felt as if he'd woken from a dream. Reality became apparent. The empty space, the barren walls, and the little noises no one else cared to hear. Breathing. Fidgeting. Smacking of lips. It all came from below the catwalk, from a dozen or so people.
"How much of that did you hear?" Bowen asked.
"All of it," Rick said.
"And so?" Jon said. "You must see what needs to be done now. The man admitted to everything."
"He did," Rick said.
"So, he needs die then."
"I'm letting him go."
"What?"
The raven screeched. "What? What? What?"
"At sunrise tomorrow, I'll send him on his way. If he ever comes back, I'll kill him myself."
"Have you lost leave of your senses?"
"This isn't a discussion, Jon."
"You were prepared to kill Dexter at a moment's notice! Yet you spare the true killer? Why? Because Dexter is a stranger and Tyreese a friend?"
"Yes."
"That's blatant hypocrisy."
"I know."
Rick walked off. His boots clacked across the concrete, leaving them to stew in stunned silence.
A weight fell upon Bowen's shoulder. The raven pecked his temple, yet he felt no pain, and the creature weighed less than before – even if only by a little.
Jon
The evening had fell in a restless state. Winds howled across the open, grassy plains, blowing gales of humid air into Jon's face. Heat clung to life as he sun sat low on the horizon as a livid, red ball; it lingered in Jon's furs, his hair, and the black blood smeared across the ground before the inner gate. Jon and Daryl marched Tyreese to the gate as Rick and the others watched from the terrace before the lobby doors.
Daryl tossed a backpack at Tyreese's feet. It slumped over his boot. Limp and lifeless.
"Three day's provisions," Jon said stiffly.
"Keep it," Tyreese said.
Daryl snatched the bag back and hoisted it over his shoulder. "Don't gotta tell me twice." He spat.
Glenn waited in a booth beside the inner gate. Jon gave him a nod. A buzzer blared, an orange light mounted on the booth spun and flashed, and the three gates trundled open one by one.
"You'll die out there," Jon said.
"Sounds like you're counting on it," Tyreese said, turning from them.
Daryl shoved his back. "Walk!"
Tyreese clenched a fist but did as he was told. "Hate to disappoint you, but these things rarely work out."
Bloodbeak landed on the gate. "Hate! Hate! Hate!"
As Tyreese walked the corridor through the fences, a clash of emotions emerged on the faces of the others. Satisfaction, sorrow, fear; sometimes two or all three at once. The expected reactions. Carl, however, stared at his feet with a tense and muted expression, standing by Rick's side. It wasn't like the lad to withdraw. In many ways he behaved like Arya, letting his thoughts be heard and his emotions run free. Jon knew Carl too well to think he'd agree with his father's foolishness.
Carl met his eye. The lad's muted stare turned venomous. He shuffled closer to Rick, staring Jon down.
Youth comes with its own set of follies. He'll let go of this hate in due time.
Bowen surprised Jon too. The man wasn't hiding. He stood tall with his head held high. Not a hint of sorrow marked his face; he had it raised against the wind.
"We should have killed him," Daryl muttered. "You don't get to do that to a kid and walk away."
"Aye. Despite all his posturing to the contrary, Rick is still sentimental at heart. I should have seen this coming sooner."
Daryl adjusted his crossbow on his shoulder. "It ain't too late. I've shot smaller targets from further away."
"Leave it be."
"He mutilated that kid. Cracked his skull, popped one of his eyes out. I ain't lettin' that shit be."
"I agree, this decision is foolish, but it's been made, and this isn't worth starting a mutiny over. We're vulnerable enough as it is."
"Fuck that." Daryl aimed his crossbow at Tyreese's back.
A gunshot split the air. Dexter and Andy rounded the eastern side of A-Block a few dozen paces from the entrance, clad in green, bulky vests, and equipped with automatic rifles. They set their sights on the crowd.
"I'd take your shot now, bitch. Otherwise, it's gonna be awkward when y'all get the fuck out of our prison!" Dexter fired a volley of rapid shots into the air. They crackled, rolling like the thunderous footsteps of an army.