Bowen

The town smelt of death. Nary a corpse in sight, and yet the damnable smell persists. Bowen wrinkled his nose and tried to ignore it.

In pairs of twos, they walked in the middle of the road, out in the open, exposed. Tyreese always took them through the alleys, away from prying eyes; where they were hidden; where they were safe. Glenn and his wild woman would have none of it, though

The town is empty, they insisted. It’s faster this way, they promised; without a care in the world. Even now, amidst the stench, they were all smiles and bright eyes. A woman’s smile turns the minds of men to mush. 

Tyreese said nothing. Tyreese hadn’t said much of anything of late. A yes here, a nod there. He walked beside the feral man, Daryl, like he was marching off to war, saying nothing. So, on they marched, despite the risks.

Dust and grime caked every window. Shadows played behind them. A trick of the light, just a trick of the light. So many shops in such a small space. So efficient. So uniform. Motor vehicles lay abandoned on the road, caked in filth. Shadows lay in wait behind their windows too. A trick of the light, just a trick of the light. Faster than a horse. More comfortable than a saddle. Room for a carriage-worth of passengers. Efficient. Practical. Brilliant. 

The streets stretched on and on in a never-ending grid. A corpse shambled a few blocks away. It didn't see them. The planning it must have taken to put this together. Patches of brown skin were missing from its body. It didn't see them. Did the uniformity reduce cost? It gargled inhuman sounds, as if humming some perverse tune. It didn’t see them. Or was it the materials? The costs had to have been reduced to achieve such scale. It didn't see them. It didn't see them. It didn't see them.

They rounded a corner at an intersection of roads and passed an open alleyway. Its blind spot loomed larger than life. A gargled hiss took a hammer to the group’s silence. Bowen tensed. 

Not again. 

Daryl whistled and raised his crossbow to the alley. All eyes snapped to it. They hurried back several steps, forming a ring behind Daryl. The corpse stumbled into the street, snarling. Bloody phlegm oozed between its broken teeth, running rivers down its peeling chin. Bowen’s hand flew to Lump’s grip. He yanked. Lump snagged in the scabbard. Again and again, he yanked, harder and harder but, nothing. It wouldn't budge.

Daryl released a bolt. It plunged into the corpse’s eye. Black blood sprayed. The corpse fell onto its face, silent and still. 

Bowen sighed and let go of Lump. A tremble plagued his hands. A sword I can't draw… It's less than I deserve. At least he had his dagger. 

The group lowered their weapons. Glenn; his hatchet. Maggie; her knife. Tyreese; his hammer. Chris; his axe. Daryl rolled the corpse over, retrieved his bolt and the group carried on down the road in pairs of two, in silence.

Chris held his axe in a two-handed, trembling grip. Glistening beads rolled down his forehead. The dead always frightened the poor lad. As they should. Bowen touched his shoulder and smiled at him. Their eyes met and the trembling vanished. Chris managed a smile. Smiles were all they had among the silence. It won’t hide us from the dead while we’re out in the middle of the bloody street. They have eyes. Rotting eyes but, eyes all the same.

They saw only one more corpse before arriving at the mall. It didn't see them.

The mall was a grand structure. Larger than any keep’s hall. Parts of its walls were glass. As was the roof. Like a giant glass garden. 

The craggy tower on the hill had a glass garden once. It too had been covered in grime. Alden had loved it all the same. He'd been good at that, Alden had, seeing past the grime at what once had been and what could be. He'd… No, he shouldn't think of him. Or the craggy tower, or the quilt of many colours, or the marshes; none of it. It belonged to the boy of house Marsh, not the Lord Steward of Castle Black, nor the living traitor. It was all two lifetimes ago.

Two lifetimes ago… Most men only get one.

Above the entrance of the mall hung what must have been the coat of arms of local lords; the letter “M”, yellow, on a field of red; a crowned siren, white, on a field of green; a church bell, white, on a field of purple; an apple with a bite taken out of it, black, on a field of white; and many many more. Grime muted all their colours.

Bowen recognized the M. He'd seen the standard half a hundred times, the standard of house McDonald. They must have been a powerful house.

Did Lords congregate here? Corpses pressed against the windows. Or was it simply a way the small folk honoured them? Against the walls, against the doors; everywhere. Where are these lords? Shifting and shoving, staring and snarling; rotting. Their browning skin peeled in strips. Black blood caked what flesh remained. Limbs were missing. Faces were torn apart. Bowels were opened. No matter the damage, they stared and snarled and shoved their neighbours. A mass of corpses. An army. Bile burned the back of Bowen’s throat. They were all men and women and children once.

“Quit gawkin’,” Daryl hissed. “You tryin’ to draw ‘em all up against the glass? Back up.”

He was closer to the glass than he ought to have been. He should have been further away. He had been further away, hadn't he? When did he get closer?

“Bowen?” Chris whispered anxiously.

Bowen tore his eyes away. “S- Sorry. I’m fine, lad. I’m fine.” He backed up and rejoined the pavement.

Glenn ushered them into an alley. The brick walls hid them from the rotting eyes, and yet they bore through brick and mortar to drill holes into the back of Bowen’s head.

“Do we really stand a chance?” Bowen asked. “There’s so many.”

“It’s fine,” Daryl said as if it were obvious.

Glenn nodded. “In Atlanta, we were trapped in the middle of a horde ten times that size of that one. We made it out by smearing ourselves in a walker’s blood and guts. So long as we look like them, smell like them and act like them, they think we are them."

Alisser Thorne had been covered in entrails and blood when they hung him from the rafters of Hardin’s Tower. And missing half his sword arm. He'd already been a corpse for a few days at that point, but all the filth made him look even more dead. If such a thing were possible. It is. The proof is staring at you through the brick-and-mortar.

Chris retched. “You really did that?” he croaked.

“Yup,” Daryl said.

“Jesus…” Maggie looked around. “Should we double back and get the walker Daryl put down?”

“That, and find a way inside the mall,” Glenn said. “Obviously, the front’s not an option, but there’s gotta be a fire escape or an open window or something.”

“Could always make an openin’,” Daryl said.

“Last resort, man. The noise that’ll make will just set us back to square one.”

Bowen shuddered. “And unleash the dead.”

Glenn nodded. “Exactly. Daryl, take Tyreese and bring the walker’s corpse back here. Maggie, Chris, and Bowen, we’ll look for a way in.”

“On it,” Tyreese grunted. He turned to leave.

“Hold on, man,” Glenn said. “You reckon you can carry the corpse on your own?”

Tyreese looked over his shoulder. "Yeah.”

“Good. Daryl, watch his back. There aren’t many out there, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Anything goes wrong, anything at all, drop the body and run back here.”

“Got it.” Daryl cocked his crossbow.

Tyreese grunted and headed off, clutching his claw hammer in an iron grip. When wielded by his massive arms, the hammer’s flat, circle head could crack bones like wood. It had saved Bowen’s life more times than he could count, and he could count quite high. Yet, now, the sight of it left a pit in Bowen’s gut. 

Despite everything, all the horrors, Tyreese was only ever brought to anger by Chris, and even then, that wasn’t true anger. Tyreese’s true anger was frostbite. It did not howl and rage like a winter’s storm, domineering all in its path. Instead, it ate away at its host. Silent. Methodical. It turned him to ruin. If he loses Julie, he'll lose everything. He'll… No, I mustn't think of it as if it is a possibility. We'll save Julie. We will. We have to.

“He’ll be alright, lad,” Bowen said to Chris.

Chris gave him a queer look. “Right, sure."

The mall’s concrete lot was empty all around the building. No people. No corpses. No anything. Just flat, uniform stone and the occasional piece of garbage riding the wind. The doors Glenn called fire escapes resisted any attempt at opening them. There were no open windows, no holes in the walls, nor easy answers. The mall was secure as a fort and the dead manned her defenses. Wherever they went – left, right, front and back – Bowen could hear their gargled groans as if they were right beside him, inches away. When they passed the windows, he studied the ground and only the ground. Their little group rounded the mall thrice before Glenn put a stop to it.

Glenn ran his fingers through his oily, black hair. “Dammit… Hold on, let me think…”

“Maybe we should just break a window on one side and go in through another. That way the dead are drawn away from where we enter,” Maggie said.

“And release a horde into the streets?” Bowen said. His skin crawled. “What if we need to come back here for other supplies?”

Maggie scowled. “It’s that or let that girl die.”

“The risk-”

“W- We have to do it,” Chris said. “She can’t die. Please, she can’t. We’re wasting time.”

“Hold on,” Glenn said. “We still haven’t tried the roof.”

“And how do you plan to get up there?” Maggie asked. “And even if you did, what do you think you’ll find? If the walls ain’t broke, why would the roof be?”

“There’s a glass section, right? For natural lighting? Could be without any maintenance it’s fallen in. Or maybe someone desperate tried to get in that way too. Think about it. The issue with breaking a window is letting all the dead out, right? Well, the dead can’t fly. And most shouldn’t be able to climb a rope or anything.”

"Most?” Bowen asked.

“Yeah but, climbin’ in is like danglin’ a piece of meat over a pool of piranhas. The dead can’t climb but they can sure as shit see,” Maggie said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Chris said. “If that’s our only way in, we have to take it.”

Glenn shrugged out of his backpack. “I’ll go and take a look.” He shoved the backpack into Maggie’s arms.

Maggie shoved it back. “I ain’t lettin’ you go up there alone. What if there’s walkers?”

“On the roof?”

“Yeah on the roof,” Maggie hissed. “What if someone starved up there or somethin’?”

Glenn glanced at Chris, at Bowen. “Safety in numbers, Maggie. Stay here.”

Maggie glanced at Bowen. She gummed her lips and took back the backpack. “Fine. But if you see a walker, you get out of there. You ain’t an action hero. And don’t get too close to the edge. And-”

Glenn kissed her forehead and cupped her cheek. “I’ll be safe. Promise.”

Maggie huffed, but they shared a kiss all the same, and Glenn got to climbing. Hand and footholds appeared out of thin air for the man. He clambered onto a lower roof, and then another, and another, and before long he disappeared over the lip of the mall’s roof.

“Lower your eyes,” Maggie hissed. “Keep a look out for walkers.”

“Right…” The girl speaks as if she has authority. Do all women assume sharing a bed means sharing power? Such is the folly of the female sex, I suppose.

Bowen watched the empty lot for the dead and tried his best not to listen to those inside, gargling and groaning. His watch did not last long. Glenn’s grinning face poked over the edge of the roof.

“Well?” Chris called, anxiously.

“Looks like we aren’t the only dumbasses to come through here. There’s a rope we can use to climb down.”

Daryl, Tyreese and a corpse awaited them back in the alley. Daryl screwed his nose up at Glenn's plan. Tyreese had as much to say about it as the corpse did.

“You got a damn death wish, kid?” Daryl snapped. “Every rottin’ bastard in there’s gonna swarm ‘round the rope and tear us to shreds soon as we reach the bottom.”

Glenn grinned. “Not if they’re busy somewhere else.”

“The hell you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“While you guys are on the roof, Maggie and I will stand outside the entrance and make as much noise as possible.”

“The two of you’re gonna draw all them dead ones on your own? How?”

“The dead are stupid. One guy hears a noise, he follows it. One another sees his friend move and he follows them. They start screaming and banging their fists and soon, a whole lot of them join in.”

“A chain reaction…” Chris murmured.

Glenn beamed. “Exactly. Yes, a chain reaction.”

Daryl clicked his tongue. “Whatever.” He turned his sour glare on Bowen and prodded him in the chest. “I ain’t goin’ down that rope before you. Don’t need your fat ass fallin’ on my fuckin’ head.” He spat, drew his knife and plunged it into the corpse’s belly.

Death’s rot consumed all smells. Bile and breakfast soon joined it. By the time they were covered in warm, sticky rot, they’d all vomited at least once. 

Bowen slathered his face one last time. His stomach flipped and lurched to spew for the fifth time but, nothing. A little bit of phlegm and acid dribbled off his tongue. The group sat around the alley covered in rot, faces cast in shades of brown, fighting for breath. 

Except Tyreese. He waited at the end of the alley, hammer in hand, covered in rot. He hadn't spewed once. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go."

Glenn nodded shakily. “H- Hold on.” He rummaged through his bag and retrieved a metal ball.

Chris’s eyes bugged out his head. “Is that an M33?”

“A what?” Bowen asked.

Glenn shrugged. “Dunno, it’s just a grenade.”

“Where’d you find it? They don’t even make those anymore.”

“Rick found it in a tank.”

“And you’ve been caryin’ that fuckin’ thing around in your backpack?” Daryl asked.

“Figured it could come in handy as a distraction.”

“You shouldn’t transport it like that, something in your pack might knock the pin loose,” Chris said. “See that clip? It’s for a belt.”

Maggie paled. “Jesus Glenn…”

Glenn clutched the back of his head. “My bad.” He fiddled with the clip and attached it to his belt.

Maggie gave Chris a questioning look. “How do you know so much about grenades? Were you in the cadets or somethin’?”

“No. He wasn’t,” Tyreese said. Ice sharpened his voice.

Chris turned meek. “I… I just like them is all.”

The climb to the roof almost killed Bowen. He’d never been one for climbing. Climbing onto a horse was hard enough. If it hadn’t been for the ladder they took from a store, he would have surely fallen. 

They stood around the broken glass ceiling, smelling of death. Glenn and Maggie screamed and hollered. The dead filtered through the mall; streams of rot flowed along grimy tiles.

The mall’s floor was a long way down. It was like looking over the edge of The Wall. Bowen hated doing that. When he was a green boy, they’d made him do it as a dare. Heights made his head spin. Men, so small and frail, weren’t meant to see as the gods do.

Daryl rammed his palm into his chest. “Step back, you tryin’ to fall? Fuckin' hell.”

When did I get so close? “Sorry.” Bowen returned to Chris’s side.

“You don’t have to do this,” Chris said. “You could keep watch out here or something.”

“And let you have all the fun, lad? No. I don’t think so.”

“You fall and I’ll kill you,” Daryl said. “Ain’t no time to deal with broken backs down there. We clear?”

Chris looked as if he were about to say something foolish, so Bowen planted a hand on his chest. “We’re clear.”

“But Bowen-”

“A jape, lad. That’s all. He doesn’t mean it.”

Daryl gave him a look as if to say he very well did mean it, but thankfully he had the sense to keep it to himself.

Chris scowled. “It’s not funny.”

“Whatever…” Daryl turned his attention back to the dead.

Glenn’s head popped up over the roof’s edge. “Did it work? Did it?”

“Yup,” Daryl said. “Come on, fat ass. You’re up.”

Bowen’s hands trembled. He took a deep breath. His hands calmed and - after smiling at Chris - he lowered himself over the edge of the broken, glass ceiling.

Jon

The pruning team laboured beneath a gruelling summer’s sun. Sweat drenched their shirts, glazed their brows, and tangled their hair. They hacked at branches with hatchets and axes, shearing the fallen tree. They took their breaths hard and sharp. They festered in a film of silence. A special sort of silence. Not the absence of noise, for all the hacking and breathing made quite a racket. No, it was an absence of words. No one spoke. Exhaustion does that. There’s no time for words when you can hardly breathe.

Even the chainsaw was silent, although for an entirely different reason. It guzzled fuel like no one's business, so it wasn't used when it wasn't necessary. It lay to the side, doing nothing. 

Jon was one step removed from it. He had work; yes, he had his errand. He paced the length of the tree and collected branches in his basket. His brow was merely damp. His breath was calm. His muscles were cool and loose. Only his ribs hurt, and that was only when he bent over. Even then the pain was but a mild sting.

I should argue. I’m fine to do proper work.

But where would that get him? Throw another tantrum, and what; allow them to see him as more of a child than they already did? The memory of his outburst the previous night caused his insides to shrivel. I acted like a fool.

So, on he went. Collecting. Pondering. Keeping his thoughts off his face; few of them were pleasant. Necessary, but not pleasant. They never are. Not thoughts like these. He tried not to look at them, the Culvers, Shane. If he watched them any longer the thoughts might bubble to the surface. While everyone else worked themselves to exhaustion, the Culvers whispered to each other, shot glares at T-Dog, and - when the stars aligned - hacked a branch off the tree. Shane acted as if all were normal, as if nothing were a miss, as if he had a long life ahead of him.

He'd told him, he had. He'd been clear. If you're lying to me, I'll execute you myself. Shane had looked right at him as he broke his word, as he grabbed power, daring him to do it. 

He thinks I won't, that because I spared Marsh, I don't have the guts to do it. He is mistaken.

The thoughts almost bubbled to the surface. They itched beneath his skin, beneath his face. Jon took a deep breath and let Andrea distract him.

The sun shone a fearsome glare yet, it paled to hers. Andrea’s glare followed him everywhere he went. Near and far. One end or the other. On his way to empty his basket on the pile. On his way back. Andrea’s eyes had bore half a hundred holes through him and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. Jon welcomed the distraction. She’d get her explanation in due time. For now, her unabashed fury would serve to take his mind from darker matters.

That, and Ghost helped too. The direwolf slept amongst the grass. The wind blew patterns around him, and in his fur. The sun turned his coat gold. If it weren't for the bloody, matted fur around his jaws, he'd have looked like a picture right out of a storybook.

Jon reached T-Dog's end of the tree and started towards the Culvers' end.

Cowards and petty fools the lot of them. They'd not have lasted a month at Castle Black. I'd have… no, it doesn't matter. Marsh killed Lord Snow. Let him rest. 

Jon opened and closed his sword hand as he approached the Culvers. They worked separately from everyone else, at the top end of the tree. Pete would only work when he thought someone was watching him. James hadn’t even the courtesy to pretend. May, however, was the real problem. She ordered her fallen branches, twigs, leaves and acorns in a neat pile at her feet. Anytime Jon got close, she kicked them into the wind, littering the field with debris. James would see her do so, and copy her. And then Pete would see him do so, and copy him. Each and every time.

Not a month. They'd go missing in the night.

James and Pete would snicker like children as Jon picked through the grass to clean their mess. May only scowled. Each and every time, that scowl soured further. Until eventually, as Jon returned from cleaning their umpteenth mess, she snapped.

“Why can't you be more like him?”

“Who?” Jon asked begrudgingly.

“Him.” She pointed at T-Dog.

T-Dog worked at the base of the tree, hacking off the thickest, sturdiest branches. He never rested, never paused. Like a machine, he hacked branch after branch with deadly, two-handed swings.

“You see that?” May said. “That ferocity? That’s his genes at work there. And I don’t mean his nigger genes. No. That’s his man genes at work there. Where’s yours? Your balls fall off or somethin’?”

No one questioned a desertion. Even one with no tracks. The snow covers such things rather quickly, that and more.

That name they called dark-skinned people always left a foul taste in Jon’s mouth. But he ignored it. She only said it to get a reaction, like a neglected child vying for attention. “I have work to do.”

May gave him a disgusted look. “When’d you become such a fuckin’ pussy?” She swiped at his basket. Jon stepped out of her range and she hit the air. She spat on his boots. “Go on then, run away. See where it gets you.”

He could break her arm. It'd be as easy as breaking a twig. Jon put the fools to his back and continued his errand.

The Wall provided a hard life. True cowards and true fools weren't made for it. Let them run. They'd end up dead either way.

“LUNCH TIME! PACK IT UP!”

The call snuck up on Jon like a slap across the back of the head. Sam bellowed it from atop a tree trunk post. As he lay down his sledgehammer, the others lay down their axes and hatches and filed across the field. The plastic long table awaited them. Soon, it would be stocked with fresh bowls of oatmeal or corn. Oatmeal and corn were all they had. Jon’s stomach growled.

In the meantime, the cooks - Carol, Lori, and Beth - prepared lunch. Everyone else attended to chores. A moment without work before the sun went down had become something of a rarity. There was cleaning to be done, water to be drawn, food to be cooked; all sorts of other menial chores. It was almost like Castle Black. Almost.

If it weren’t for his ribs, Jon would have been packing dirt into the tree trunk’s hole with Sam. Instead, he was to clean out the barn with Dale and Carl. Important work, but less important all the same.

Still, it was nice work, honest work. It reminded Jon of better days, cleaning stables and changing Mormont’s chamber pot; simpler days when bullies were his greatest foe and the company of friends was never far.

Halfway to the barn, Jon noticed a disturbing sight. The Culvers were stalking T-Dog as he travelled to the well, buckets strung upon his auroch-like shoulders. 

One could be forgiven for not seeing anything wrong. The Culvers were skilled slothens who made an art out of avoiding chores. At a glance, they appeared to be doing just that; gathered in a small clump, laughing and japing without a care. However, if one cared to see for true, they would notice how whenever they laughed, they stole a glance T-Dog’s way. They would notice the devilish grins. They would notice how their japery disguised the way their clump drifted after their victim. Jon had to admit it was quite a clever ruse, all things considered.

Jon whistled. Ghost shot to attention. A nod in the right direction, and he was off. He devolved into a white streak as he bolted across the field. Grass and dirt kicked up behind him and yet, he made nary a sound. Jon ran after him.

That caught the attention of the fools. Their mummery melted away. Still as statues, they scowled at him. Sharp scowls. Hard. Except Randall’s, who was blunted. James made to run after Jon, but May caught his arm and whispered something to him. The grin that spread across his face curdled Jon’s blood. The group of fools wandered off in the direction of nowhere to do nothing of note or use. None of them slowed to allow Randall to keep pace.

Jon caught up to T-Dog and put on his best friendly smile. “I thought I’d give you a hand.”

T-Dog eyed Ghost. “It’s okay, Jon.”

“No, I insist. You shouldn’t have to carry all that water yourself. I don’t care how strong you are.”

“They weren’t gonna do nothing serious.”

Jon dropped the smile. “Mayhaps, but they were going to do something.”

T-Dog shrugged. His lips made a thin line. His eyes were flat and cool as they fixed onto the well. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the buckets. They were fixed to a broom's handle.

“You don’t have to accept their nonsense. Hit one of the fools. They may be inclined to leave you be. No one would fault you for it.”

“They’d be inclined to jump me.” He tied one of the buckets to the well’s rope and dropped it.

“They…” The bucket vanished into the well’s void. One heartbeat. Two. Three. Splash. “Sam would-”

“Scold them? Hit ‘em over the head?”

“Aye…” Jon studied T-Dog’s eyes again, hoping against reason to find some hidden anger. He saw only immovable mountains, sheer cliffs, the eyes of children, mules, gods, and all things stubborn. “We could protect you.”

T-Dog wound the well’s handle. “Give me water, food and medicine. Build the wall and swing your sword. You don’t need to protect me from sin, Jon. You can’t. That’s the lord’s work.”

Jon helped T-Dog pull the bucket from the well. Pain twisted a knot in his side. “Then your god’s been doing a piss poor job. Those fools find some way to torment you every chance they get.”

T-Dog attached the second bucket to the well’s winch. “The lord doesn’t meddle in the affairs of people. His job isn’t to stop the sinner, but to provide his children the strength to persevere over the sin itself. Our sins and the sins of others."

“You have strength in your arms. Beat the fools senseless. You have strength in friends. Let us dissuade them.”

“I have the strength to turn the other cheek. Let them do and say what they want. It all rolls off my back. The Lord gives me that strength. Without him, I’d be no better than them. I won't lose myself to hate.” T-Dog smiled and let the bucket fall. “Not that I don’t appreciate your offer. The last time I had friends like you guys was… I can’t remember. Damn…”

The bucket’s echoed splash filled a sombre silence.

“They don't think you're human.”

“They’re lost.”

“If they got their way, they’d put you down like a diseased mutt. You, and Glenn, and Tyreese and that sick, helpless girl. For now, they torment you because it amuses them. Creatures such as these are not amused for long. One day they shall grow bored of games and foul names, and decide to make an end of you. Your existence insults them. You are the shit on the bottom of their boots. Will you turn your cheek to a knife through the belly? Will you let a bullet through the head roll off your back?”

T-Dog wound the well’s winch. “You think it’ll come to that?”

“I know it will.”

“For sure? A hundred per cent?”

Jon did not know what per cent meant. “Aye, for sure.”

“There’s no scenario where it doesn’t? None at all.”

Jon sighed. “Don’t pick apart my words. You know what I mean.”

“I do. And I also know that if I went around killing everyone who ever wanted me stabbed or shot, I’d have died in some Atlanta alleyway, long before the world fell apart. What would the lord have said to me then? After I died for no good reason and left my baby sister to fend for herself?”

“That was then. I speak of now.”

“Then. Now. Nothing’s changed.”

“Everything has changed. Your world is broken. Your home is gone. Your…” Jon caught himself.

T-Dog hauled the bucket from the well. He didn't meet Jon's eye. “Taylah’s dead."

“Before, you faced the world alone. Now, you have us. Stand up for yourself. We will protect you.”

“And die?”

“You won’t.”

“You might, or anyone else who tries to protect me. I do know what people like the Culvers are like, you know. This isn't my first rodeo. I grew up in a white neighbourhood in Montgomery. Anyone who would stick up for me is a traitor in their eyes. Most people don't forgive traitors, Jon."

“Against us, united as one, what can they hope to do?”

“Something stupid.” T-Dog slipped the broom through the buckets’ handles. “It’s my problem, so it’s my burden. Simple as that. There’s no need to complicate it." He heaved the buckets onto his shoulders and marched away.

Rapers are gelded. Thieves lose their thumbs or hands. Murderers are hanged. Jon opened and closed his sword hand. In every case, justice comes after the crime. So, is a preemptive punishment justice? No. But does that make it wrong? Was I wrong for killing Slynt? No, he'd have killed me, like the others. If anything, I was too lenient. I should have killed Thorne alongside him, and all their lackeys. It wouldn't have gone over well, but it's what I should have done.

It's what I should do now.

Bowen

The rope burned his hands, but he shouldn't think of that. The roof might not support his weight, but he shouldn’t think of that either. His arms ached, his head spun and everything stunk of putrid rot. He shouldn’t think of any of it. 

Hook your legs around the rope. Lower yourself down. Don't let go. The ground isn't beneath you. The dead aren't watching you. Lump doesn't weigh a ton, and neither do you.

Solid, wonderful ground touched his feet. Bowen might have collapsed in a puddle there and then, if it weren’t for the deads’ death howls. Even from so far away, they sounded as if they were screaming right into his ear. Their fists pounded like a thousand crazed drummers. They knew nothing of rhythm, only sound, never-ending sound. They jostled to and fro like a crowd fighting for a look at the gallows. Only one saw him. What had once been a crone dragged herself along by her forearms. Two bent and twisted legs trailed behind her. She must have been too slow to join the others. Bowen unsheathed his dagger and gave her mercy. Her deathblood gushed over her face and streamed rivers down its crevices, black as midnight oil.

The rope dangled above his head, winding like some sort of hempen snake. It looked as if it were trying to escape. Who could blame it?

Chris made his way down. Up so high, he looked as small as a girl's doll. Bowen readied to catch him, for all the good it would do. If he fell, he’d squash them both. The corpse was proof enough. 

It lay a few feet from where Bowen had touched down. Its head had broken on the tiles like an egg, but in place of yolk were brains; in place of whites and shells were blood and bone. Its back was a gaping wound. The dead had done the poor fool the courtesy of leaving him his spine; at least, Bowen thought it had been a he.

If Bowen’s climb had lasted a lifetime, Chris’s lasted an age. Time slowed with each swing and sway of the rope; with each of Chris’s stops and starts. Every time Chris stopped to look down Bowen had been sure he would fall. 

When Chris’s feet touched the tiled ground, his face was white as a sheet and his hands trembled horribly. Bowen hugged him. The lad whimpered. That's all he could do. He couldn't speak. Not yet. Not until they were clear. Bowen rubbed his back to let him know he was heard. His putrid, rotting stench made Bowen gag. Bowen did his best to gag quietly.

Tyreese conquered the rope in a single, smooth slide. He landed with a heavy thump and took up his position. They formed a three-man circle around the base of the rope. 

Next came Daryl, slower than Tyreese but faster than either Bowen or Chris could have ever hoped to be. He landed light as a feather, sheet pale and breathing heavy. Maggie did as well as one could expect a woman to. She paused halfway through, but otherwise, her descent was smooth. The colour returned to her face almost at once. 

Without words, they awaited Glenn. He was slow going, pausing every couple of feet to look at the horde. None had spotted them. Everyone’s hands hovered over their weapons. They couldn't draw them. Not unless they had to. Not until they were clear.

When Glenn landed he took a deep breath, steadied himself, and pointed with two fingers at a stairwell. The group shared a nod. In a loose clump, they meandered towards it. They could not run. Not until they were clear.

Glenn had drilled it into them before he and Maggie left to make their racket.

“They can’t talk. They can’t run. They can’t use tools. All they can do is walk and growl, and even then we should avoid growling. Keep your mouths shut and walk slowly. No matter how many of them there are or how close they get. Even if they look at you or touch you. As long as we act like them, look like them and smell like them, we are them. You’re all walkers until we get inside the pharmacist.”

The mall must have been some kind of market. Storefronts lined the walls, decorated with colourful banners and words. Windowed displays showed off products: fake plastic people dressed in clothes; shoes, glasses, candies, women’s jewellery, guns, and everything else one could want and more. 

Yet, for all their differences, each store was like everything else in this world – thinly veiled copies of each other. Every store - when stripped of its colours and displays - was the same: A doorway centred among panes of glass, two large panes on either side of the door, and two small ones above the large, with room for a banner above them. Only one store was different. At the end of the Mall, a giant version of the smaller stores dominated an entire wall. Some of the letters had fallen away but the giant target filled in the gaps easily enough.

Once, this place might have been beautiful. Once, trees and shrubs must have grown down the middle of the mall’s corridor, lush and green. The tiled floor must have once been white as marble. Light must have once filtered through the glass roof to set the whole space aglow. Now, the trees and shrubs were wilted and brown. The tiles were caked in brown and black rot. Dust clouded the glass roof, muting the light. Once, it might have smelt of women’s perfume and freshly baked bread. Now, it stunk of death.

Alden would have loved it. "It just needs to be cleaned up a little, is all," he would have said. "See beyond the grime, Little Bow, and you'll find art everywhere you go." One of his rhymes. Bowen had never had a mind for rhymes or art or beauty, only numbers. Father had said he and Alden were two halves of a coin. Mother called Alden her 'little poet prince', and Bowen, 'boy'. She'd smiled the day he left the craggy tower for The Wall.

Tents were strewn about the filthy space. Some were clumped into groups. Some were alone. All were empty. As he acceded the stairs, Bowen looked down upon the scattered camp with the eyes of a god. No order. No sense of purpose. Just a hodgepodge of tents thrown about on a whim, like seeds scattered with a toss.

Bowen spotted a tent larger than the rest; or rather, would have been larger if it were still standing. The remains of smaller tents surrounded it. They were all green. They were all torn to shreds. Corpses grabbed in green lay about the ruin, not moving; an oddity. What has this world come to where a corpse that lays still is an oddity? Warrior, give me strength.

The second floor was the same as the first. Storefronts covered the walls, filth covered everything else and tents were strewn about. Rather than a complete floor, the second story was mostly open-air. It clung to the walls, more walkway than a true second story. Glass panels acted as guard rails, protecting against falls. They were chest-high and smeared with rot 

Corpses lined the panels, jostling against one another to try and walk through the barrier. Their arms stretched out into open air, reaching and clawing at nothing and no one. They paid Bowen and the others no mind as they shuffled past them.

The commotion of the horde began to die down. Wailing cries softened and hammering fists slowed. From up high, Bowen spotted the dead at the back of the horde peel away and wander off to nowhere in particular. And when they peeled away, the corpses ahead of them did the same. And so on, and so on. Until finally, only a handful remained to stare at the outside world. 

A column of the dead marched up a staircase ahead of Bowen and the others. Clouded, yellow eyes passed over them as if they didn’t exist at all. Bowen made sure to act extra dead as he was assimilated into the horde. Rotting shoulders bumped him left and right, drawing out disgruntled grunts from the corpses responsible. Bowen nearly pissed his britches half a hundred times before they found the pharmacist.

A steel shutter covered the storefront. For a while, the group did little but stare at the shuttered store as the dead streamed around them. It’s hopeless. We’ll never be able to get it open without attracting the attention of the horde. Clouded, yellow eyes bore holes into Bowen from every which way. They know. Oh gods, they know. We’re just standing here. The dead don’t stand. They know. They know. They know.

Glenn drew a half circle with his finger and then turned his back on them, as if the nonsensical signal was supposed to mean something. Tyreese took it to mean “face away from me” and did just that. Daryl followed suit and then Maggie and Chris. They stood around Glenn in a half circle, blocking him from view as he rummaged through his backpack. Maggie shot Bowen a glare. Bloody farmer's daughter thinks she can command me, Bowen thought as he joined their half circle. A few of the dead noticed right away. They copied them, standing still and staring off into the distance. As one copied them, so did another and another until a dozen corpses were standing idle, staring off into space. They lifted their ears to the air, like a pack of mutts.

Bowen dared to glance over his shoulders and saw Glenn was jimmying the shutter’s lock with a hairpin. It made a soft, clinking sound. Soft enough to be barely audible above the racket of the dead. But not soft enough. One of the corpses staring off into nothing looked about, trying to puzzle out the source of the sound. Bowen’s hand crept onto the hilt of his gun as iron bonds bound and constricted his lungs. The click of the lock opening rang like thunder. One corpse turned to face them, and then another and another, and before long a dozen pairs of clouded, yellow eyes were boring into Bowen. He didn’t dare move a muscle. Act like them and you are them. Act like them and you are them. Act like them and you are them.

What had once been a young maid, squinted at him. Her stiff, tangled hair shifted as she cocked her head. She drew a long, wheezing breath in through her nose. An eternity passed as she appraised his smell. No other corpses drew breath or squinted or cocked their heads. They only watched with blank, rotted faces. When finally the maid corpse snarled and wandered off, the others followed suit.

The iron bonds crumbled and Bowen could breathe again. If he hadn’t been careful, his breath would have come out in one great loud rush. He allowed it to seep between his clenched teeth instead. As fast as he dared, he turned his back on the horde. Glenn eased the shutter up, section by section. As each section disappeared into the ceiling, it made a horrible clunk. Thankfully, it was just quiet enough to avoid drawing the attention of the dead. As Glenn eased as much of the shutter as his height allowed, Tyreese took over and completed the rest.

Nonsense letters were scrawled on the windows in blood: that, or red paint. Bowen hoped it was paint. Gods willing, whatever madman did this has done us the courtesy of dying behind a locked door.

One by one, they filed inside the pharmacist. The procedure was a simple one; as one person shambled inside, the others maintained the semi-circle, serving as a wall against the deads’ gaze. If the corpses saw what they assumed to be another corpse enter it, they’d infest the place 

Bowen was made to enter first.

They think me expendable enough to send down the rope first, and now they think me too feeble to stand guard. It should have been Chris to go first. He is but a child. Or the farmer’s daughter. She is but a woman.

Thin dust covered everything. It swirled with every step like grey snow caught by the wind. Limp cobwebs knitted shelves together. They fluttered as he moved by them. Fat flies made a meal and home out of a corpse propped up against the teller’s counter. They attacked Bowen’s rot like a pack of starved dogs. A thousand tiny legs scurried across his skin and a thousand wings filled his ears with a drone as loud as a horn. Bowen tried his damndest to swat them away, but when he removed one, two more fought to take its place. Eventually, Bowen resigned himself to the discomfort: one more discomfort among many.

Whoever the corpse had been had done them the courtesy of blowing his brains out rather than starving to death. Still, Bowen trained his ears over the flies’ drone for any signs of less courteous corpses. His eyes should have been helping, but they were occupied by the madman’s scrawl. It wasn't nonsense, it was backwards. The same four words had been scrawled in blood over and over until no room remained for more.

The dead can’t walk

Behind the scrawl, the dead wandered aimlessly.

As the others entered the flies swarmed them. Tyreese hardly noticed. Daryl quickly resigned to his fate. As did Maggie. Chris grew increasingly frustrated as his swats proved futile.

Glenn entered last. He slipped through the doorway, as quickly as a mouse, and pressed his back against the door. Tension lingered as they watched the horde. A few corpses stopped to look at them, but quickly lost interest and returned to their aimless wandering.

Glenn breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright… we can talk now.”

“The flies won’t leave me alone…” Chris said, swatting himself as if he were on fire.

“Bare it for now, lad. We’ll be out of here in no time.” Bowen said.

“But what if they eat all the blood off me?”

“They won’t,” Daryl snapped. “Glenn, what do we need?”

Glenn rummaged through his backpack and produced a folded list. “Here, Maggie and Bowen, you guys…” His eyes wandered to a small, plastic box bolted above the door frame. A small, orange light blinked on repeat. “Shit…” Glenn’s breathing became sharp and constricted. "Shit!"

“What is that thing?” Bowen asked.

“An alarm!"

“So?” Maggie asked. “It’s probably a silent alarm.”

Daryl paled. “This is a mall. It ain’t silent.”

“So, what? It’s probably out of battery or somethin’," Maggie said.

“Does it look like it’s out of fucking battery to you?!” Glenn shouted.

Chris sunk to his arse and cradled his head. “We’re gonna die. We’re gonna fucking die.”

“Every alarm can be shut off,” Tyreese said calmly. “Where’s the manager’s office, Maggie?”

“I- I don’t know.”

Glenn seized her shoulders. "This is your mall! Think!”

“I… the back, I guess. But we don’t have the code.”

“Can’t we simply smash the damn thing?” Bowen asked.

“No, it’s just a fucking sensor!”

Tyreese whipped out his hammer and bolted into the back of the store. Daryl, Maggie and Glenn raced after him. Chris sobbed into his hands.

The maiden corpse stood outside, behind the glass and its blood scrawl. She banged her fists on the glass and screamed. Like a chair scraped across floorboards; an animal caught in a trap; a singer above his station. The scream drew more corpses. Their fists and screams drew more until there was no room for any others behind the bloody scrawl.

This is not the end. Not today. Not while Julie still lives. Not so soon after Jon’s mercy. Bowen yanked on Lump’s hilt. It caught in its scabbard.

The alarm blared.

Jon

A boulder held the, now branchless, tree trunk post; a day’s worth of back-breaking labour rested on the back of a misshaped boulder. The sharpened end of the tree trunk post teetered on the edge of a deep hole. The blunted end was angled high in the air. Two thick planks of wood, bound in rope, acted as levers for the sharpened end. Sam and T-Dog’s corded arms bulged as they pressed down on the planks and lifted the sharpened end a mere foot.

 

 “PULL!” Sam bellowed.

 

Two ropes were bolted to the blunted end. Two ropes for two teams. Rick led one. Shane, the other. Both men planted their feet and pitted their strength against the post, serving as anchors. A great cry erupted as both teams pulled with all their might. The blunted end lifted and the sharpened end inched ever further into the hole.

 

 “STOP!” 

 

The teams let out a unified sigh. The ropes went slack. The tree trunk settled. Sam and T-Dog repositioned their planks and the whole process started over again. 

 

 “We should be helping,” Randall grumbled. He and Jon had been delegated to medical aids. A meaningless job designed to keep them out of the way; another errand. They sat on a blanket, surrounded by what meagre medical equipment remained to them. Ghost and Bloodbeak kept them company. Ghost snored. Bloodbeak paced. “Let them scrawny girls be aids… We’re stronger.”

 

 “I’m stronger,” Jon said. “You can hardly stand.”

 

 “But I can stand. I ain’t no bitch. I’m not gonna fall over or nothin’.”

 

 “Bitch!” Bloodbeak strutted back and forth along the blanket, eyeing them with his scarred eye. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”

 

 “Fuck off…” Randall groaned.

 

Bloodbeak tilted his head. “Corn?”

 

 “No, no corn…”

 

Bloodbeak resumed his strutting. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”

 

Jon kicked at the pest and sent him flapping into the air, screeching his head off. Ghost opened his eyes, gave the pest a lazy glance, and closed them.

 

There wasn't much to do on the blanket. He could talk to Randall. I'd rather have the rest of my ribs broken. He could watch the other's work. Hardly productive. Or, he could think about what he'd said to T-Dog, about the Culvers killing him. The thought hadn't occurred to him until he'd said it. Yet, the longer he stewed on it, the more it made sense.

 

The Culvers did think of T-Dog - and others like him - as inhuman. Torment would only satiate them for so long. T-Dog's death was a matter of when, not if - if things were allowed to proceed as is. 

 

People like the Culvers, creatures of hate and malice, were bound by law and order. Law was to them what a cage is to a mad dog. Without it, they run rampant.

 

What would Slynt have done without law to cage him? What would Thorne have done? I'd have died a lot sooner, for one.

 

 “Hey…" Randal muttered. “I’m, uh…”

 

 “What?” Jon didn’t care to soften his tone.

 

Randall bristled. “I’m sorry I shot you, alright? Asshole.”

 

 “Right.”

 

How long will torment satiate them?

 

 “Thanks for not killin’ me… You coulda shot me dead on that roof. But you didn’t.”

 

 “I missed.”

 

 “Oh…”

 

How long until we wake to find that T-Dog went missing overnight? If that. Would creatures such as these even try to hide it?

 

 “Well so did I,” Randall snapped. He shuffled away from Jon, wincing as he put pressure on his crippled legs. “Bitch…”

 

 “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” Bloodbeak screeched as he flew circles above their heads.

 

What will Sam do then? Scold them? Slap them over the back of the head? What will Rick do?

 

Jon felt a shiver beneath his arse as if the whole field had caught a chill. Whoops and hollers filled the air. The tree trunk post stood in its hole, as straight and stiff as a guard in the presence of a lord. The teams abandoned their ropes to pat each other on the back, to congratulate each other on another successful day. 

 

Most did, at least. 

 

Shane stormed off towards his tent, as was his custom after a day of work. And the Culvers gathered in a clump to whisper amongst themselves and scowl at the celebration. As was their custom.

 

 “About damn time,” Randall propped himself up on his crutch.

 

  "Randall."

 

  "What?"

 

  "Do people like T-Dog, people without white skin, do they deserve to live?"

 

Randall glanced at his family, at May, James and Pete. "No one deserves anything. They wanna live, they gots to earn it, same as everyone else. Only difference is a nigger earns it by servin' and we earn it by bein' smart."

 

  "And if they didn't want to serve?"

 

  "Then what use are they?" Randall hobbled over to his family, leaving Jon with the chore of packing away the medicine.

 

They'll kill him; T-Dog, Tyreese, Glenn and the girl, given the chance. And anyone else who happens to displease them… Most aren't as forgiving when it comes to traitors.

 

As Jon began the process of packing the medicine back into its crate, Beth checked on him. She had him do the usual routine. A deep breath, a twist of the torso and a cough. Each step was punctuated with the same question; does it hurt? Jon gave her the same answer, “Yes, but less than before.” He saw no sense in lying to her. As naive as she may be, she knew her medicine. Ribs take more than a day to heal. 

 

He’d start lying in a week’s time.

 

After the checkup, she helped him pack the medicine crate and fold the blanket. All in silence. A different silence than Jon had grown accustomed to between them. Before it had been a wall of brick and mortar. Now, the wall was gone, yet they kept their backs to one another. It was a stubborn silence.

 

As Beth packed the blanket into a crate she glared at the Culvers. Hatred seemed out of place on her face. "We should have never let 'em stay," she muttered.

 

  "Aye."

 

Beth started, as if surprised to find Jon beside her. She blushed furiously and submerged herself in her work.

 

  "What would you have done with them?" Jon asked.

 

  "I… I don't know. I get why they're here. I just wish they weren't."

 

  "That was poor wording on my part. If you had the power to do anything with them, what would you do?"

 

  "Send 'em away."

 

  "Back to the school?"

 

  "Yeah, or another farm."

 

  "And what's to stop them from coming back?"

 

Beth gummed her lips. "Nothin'. I guess." A shy smile spread across her lips. "You said anything, right?"

 

  "Aye, anything."

 

  "Well-" Beth covered her mouth and giggled. "I'd spit in their oatmeal. You can't tell anyone I said that, okay?"

 

Jon found himself smiling. It felt foreign: that might have erased it, if it weren't for the sight of Beth trying not to laugh at her own fantasy. "I won't," he said.

 

Ghost followed Jon and Beth as they carried the medicine to the house. He was bundled in his own special sort of silence. It was as much a part of him as his skin or fur. It was with him when he was born. It would be with him when he died. Never, not once, would it change. It was beautiful.

 

Ghost froze, prompting Jon and Beth to do the same. He stared across the gravel lot and cocked his head. Jon followed his gaze and found Andrea's glare. When their eyes met she turned from him and stormed towards the tents.

 

  "What's her problem?" Beth asked.

 

  "It's complicated." Jon sighed. "It's about time I set it right."

 

After packing the crates away in a cupboard, Jon hurried to Andrea's tent. “Andrea?" No response. The sun cast her silhouette against the tent. “I won’t have you glaring at me all bloody day. Let me in and you'll get your answers. I owe you as much.”

 

  "Whatever. Fine, get in here."

 

The tent kept the light out and little else. Wet heat bogged the air, a mosquito flew in circles with a whining buzz, and of course, the stench of rot persisted; all trapped within a plastic prison. The dimmed light softened Andrea’s glare, but couldn't hope to snuff it.

 

“Well?” She asked pointedly.

 

“He wasn't mine to kill. I couldn't.”

 

“Yes he was and yes you fucking could. You wouldn’t kill him.”

 

Jon sighed. “Yes, I wouldn’t kill him.”

 

“I stuck my fucking neck out for you. Do you know what Rick would have done if he’d caught me take that knife?”

 

“Scold you.”

 

Andrea laughed bitterly. “It’s just a great big joke, isn’t it? I don’t have time for this."

 

“You struck your neck out for me, yes. I can’t begin to express how much I appreciate it.”

 

“Not enough to do the fucking deed, apparently.”

 

“I was going to. I was about to. But…”

 

All the words he’d prepared became foggy and muddled in his head.

 

“But, what?”

 

“When I stood over him, blade in hand, ready to kill him, he… he looked so utterly pathetic. He looked scared and afraid. Like a boy who’d lost his mother.”

 

“You expect him to be fucking grateful for it? You were about to kill him.”

 

“He was grateful.”

 

“Then he’s crazy.”

 

“He’s harmless.”

 

“He fucking killed you. Are we even speaking the same language here?”

 

“That was a lifetime ago. And besides, they hung him for it – my friends – they avenged me. Where’s the justice in it now?”

 

“Do you know how many people would kill for a second life? And of all the people to get it, it’s a man like him. A fucking child murderer. Kill him once. Kill him twice. Kill him a fucking thousand times.”

 

“To what end?”

 

“To feel good! To make him feel all the pain he made you feel, and then some!”

 

Jon clenched his sword hand into a tight fist, and then let it slowly unclench. The tension bled from him. “I do not want to live a life of rage. I want to move on and forget, so I may focus my attention where it matters. On here. On now. On all the days to come. On real threats. On where death needs to be applied. Where it's absolutely necessary."

 

His words stewed in the wet, hot air. The mosquito’s grating song killed the absence of speech. Andrea’s glare retreated into the dim, muted light.

 

“Jon…” She whispered, suddenly afraid. “If you carry on this, thinking like that, you’re going to get yourself killed. There’s no room for mercy in this world anymore. It died with the heroes and idiots who eat our flesh.”

 

“I have tasted death and felt its cold embrace. I know more than anyone the risks. Marsh lives. He is my murderer. His life is mine to give or take.”

 

The mosquito flew around the tent, around and around and around and around.

 

“Okay,” Andrea said. “Okay…”

 

“I’m sorry I betrayed your confidence. Last night and yesterday. That corpse should have never gotten near you. If I hadn’t been such a fool and seen with clear eyes, I-”

 

“It’s okay. I’m alive and it’s dead.”

 

“I gave you my word that I was of sound mind.”

 

“Consider it your first strike. Last night was your second.” A smile broke through the gloom. “Earn yourself a third and you’ll see what I’m like when I really mad.”

 

Jon smiled. It felt less foreign this time, natural even; in a cruel way, that made it feel all the more foreign. “The very notion shall keep me up at night, I’m sure.”

 

“Good.”

 

The tent flap shifted.

 

Andrea tensed. “Who’s there?” she snapped.

 

A matted, red muzzle squeezed through the flap, followed by Ghost’s enormous head. The direwolf padded inside without a care in the world and lay his head in Jon’s lap. He was almost too big for the tent. Andrea relaxed, but only slightly.

 

Jon ran his sword hand through Ghost’s shaggy, white fur. The tips of fingers rode the bumps of his scars. He studied Andrea’s face and mulled over her words. Would she see the reason in it? She had a warrior’s look. That was good. What she’d said about death; it displayed a certain willingness; the courage to do what needs to be done.

 

“By now, I assume you’ve heard of what Shane proposed?” Jon asked.

 

“Killing the Culvers? Yeah, Carol told me.”

 

“And you agree?”

 

“Don’t tell me you don’t. I mean, fuck Shane, but he’s right. There isn’t any future with these people.”

 

“No… there isn’t.”

 

“Yeah? So you’re onboard?”

 

"I've faced this dilemma before, in a sense. First, I tried sending the problem away. When that didn't work, I considered locking it up, but… I quickly realized that only serves to delay the issue. When it comes to creatures such as these, those with black hearts and cruel minds, those to whom words mean nothing, and those who are resolved to kill another, death is the only outcome: whether it be theirs or ours. I'm not willing to gamble T-Dog's life for the sake of Rick's democracy."

 

“They all need to die. Randall and Sam too.”

 

Sam has his uses. Randall is little less than a fool without May's influence. "They're not likely to forgive us, are they?"

 

  "No." Andrea thumbed one of her many knives. "Would you?"

 

  "No."

 

  "Let's do it tonight - slit their throats in their sleep. Daryl and Carol will be on board, they're reasonable. Tyreese seems to be too. That's one throat for each of us."

 

  "We do it after the wall is finished."

 

“Fuck that. I ain't living a second longer with these fuckers than I have to."

 

“And leave us five pairs of hands short before the wall is done?”

 

“The wall’s long enough.”

 

“Every foot we do not build, is another untold amount of corpses to deal with. The way it’s designed is to catch a breakaway from the horde. Suppose something draws their attention as they pass by. They’ll wash over us. The farm wouldn’t fall, but we would have to flee and live on the road again until we can clear it out. Even a few days out there risks death. The wall reduces the impact of a breakaway."

 

“That’s only if the horde breaks away. The Culvers are here, right now.”

 

“Of the two potential problems, I’d rather have to intervene in an attempt on T-Dog's life than contend with an army of the dead. We wait until the wall is done and the horde is gone. Then the Culvers die. Shane on the other hand needs not require such patience.”

 

Andrea avoided his eyes. “Shane? I don’t know…"

 

  "I warned him. I told him if he attempted to vie for power again, I'd kill him. You heard him yesterday, while we were deciding on how to deal with the girl, he tried to make Rick look weak. He thinks of me as a fool boy with a soft heart. He thinks my threats are empty. He is wrong."

 

Andrea gummed her lips. "The Culvers, Rick might forgive. But Shane? Shane was his friend.”

 

“Was his friend. The man tried to rape his wife. He’ll forgive. Eventually. And that’s only if he ever figures it out at all. It makes no matter. Rick is ill-suited for command in times such as these, anyway. Removing him was a matter of when, not if.”

 

“A coup?”

 

“Call it what you will. I was thinking more along the lines of a vote. He'll respect that, and it's cleaner."

 

“Yeah… Yeah, okay this could work. We’ll need numbers though.”

 

“We have Marsh.”

 

“Great…”

 

“Currently Marsh believes I have no qualms with Rick’s rule. However, once we have him on our side – with Marsh comes Chris. And Tyreese has known Rick but a day, while knowing Marsh for months. I imagine once his daughter is safe, he’ll listen to whatever Marsh says. And if his daughter doesn’t live, he’ll have no one to blame but Rick. If Daryl and Carol are in agreement about the Culvers, pushing them a step further should be a small feat. Maggie, while inexperienced, values reason. If we can convince her, Glenn should fall right in line. That leaves only, Jenner, Hershel, Beth, T-Dog, Lori, Carl and…”

 

“Dale.”

 

"He won't be convinced. Not now, and especially not after we kill the Culvers."

 

"I know."

 

"Is that going to be a problem?"

 

Andrea scowled. "Don't talk to me like that. Do you think I'd agree to this if it was? It's a small sacrifice for safety."

 

“Well then, only they would be left to oppose us. Including Rick himself, that’s eight to our nine.”

 

“We’d have ten if we killed Shane after.”

 

“Shane will want the rule for himself.”

 

“Yeah, the perfect carrot. We can lead him along until it’s done. He isn’t exactly smart, is he?”

 

“We shouldn’t underestimate him. He may be mad, but he’s had longer to think about this. What do you suppose he was doing with all that free time watching over us on the road?”

 

“That son of a bitch…”

 

“We make it look like an accident. Mayhaps, he trips somewhere out of sight and breaks his neck. Mayhaps, he gets lost on a scavenge. Mayhaps, he simply wanders off one night and abandons us. However we do it, we mustn't draw suspicion on ourselves. Especially not before the vote. Killing the Culvers is one thing, they’re strangers, and intolerable strangers at that. Shane was once a friend, once a leader. For a while, he was Rick. Killing him publicly is a surefire way to lose our majority.”

 

“These people aren’t dumb. Especially the ones who’ll side with us. You think they’ll buy some bullshit story after we tell them about the plan to kill the Culvers?”

 

“People die more often than not nowadays. That’s how we’re all here, to begin with, after all.”

 

“True…”

 

“Look… in the end, I believe we can do this peacefully. Rick is warmhearted and naive, not a fool. If we come to him as one, united force and lay out our concerns in a calm and concise manner, I believe he’ll step down. That’s why we must wait to do the Culver killings until after we have the numbers. There’s no faking an accident for five people. If a majority of the group isn’t on board, such an act will serve only to sow mistrust and discontent among us. What we plan to do is delicate. While things are unstable and uncertain, Shane and the Culvers live and Rick rules. Once things are a little more stable and certain, that's when changes need to be made.”

 

“And who do we replace him with? You?”

 

Jon opened and closed his sword hand. “That… That is something we can decide once we have the numbers. If you want me to, I will. Although, I suspect they may choose you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“You’re older. To them, I’m still a child, and a troubled child at that. All this business with Marsh has done me no favours. You’re pragmatic, reliable, and - most importantly - you give off a commanding presence. You appear strong in all places Rick seems weak."

 

The flush in Andrea’s cheeks stood in great contrast to the dim light. “You really believe all those things about me?”

 

“Aye. I do.”

Bowen

Bowen felt the alarm in his bones. Each wave of the wailing and screeching noise hit him like a pick against ice. Little by little he splintered. As the dead congregated against the window, he felt as brittle as an old clay pot.

It wasn’t like before when the dead moved in a chain reaction. No, they moved as one. A river of rot diverted directly at them.

They piled up against the glass, screaming, raking the glass, and gnashing their rotten teeth. There were hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds. Enough to tear Bowen limb from limb. Enough to rend every ounce of flesh from his bones. Enough to eat him countless times over.

Bowen yanked on Lump, again and again, hoping against hope, but it was no good. The damnable, useless lump of steel refused to budge.

A huge crash came from the back of the store. The alarm cut out and Bowen heard Chris’s sobbing. The boy hugged himself as if he were trying to squeeze his life out. He choked on his sobs, muttering without end.

Bowen wanted to comfort him. He wanted to tell him all would be okay. He wanted to be the man Chris thought he was. But unseen hands wrung his throat and the words could not find an escape.

Alden would have known what to say. He always knew what to say.

Glenn blitzed out the store’s backroom shadows with wild, crazed eyes. “Maggie, get the medicine! Bowen, get Chris on his fucking feet! Tyreese, get ready to break the window! Everyone form a line! When the horde splits and the glass breaks, we fight our way to the rope! NO GUNS! NOT UNLESS WE HAVE TO!” Glenn removed the grenade from his belt, rushed a set of shelves propped up against the store’s windows and climbed them.

Maggie, Daryl and Tyreese emerged from the backrooms. Maggie bolted up and down the rows of shelves, snatching boxes of this and that, and shoving them in her bag. Tyreese rushed to the window and raised his hammer; the eyes of the dead converged on his location. Daryl took up a position as far from the window as the shelves would allow him and readied his knife.

Bowen couldn’t find his words, but he didn’t need them to yank Chris on his feet. He dragged him by the arm and shoved him into line beside Daryl. Tear-stained and covered in filth, Chris’s face was blank as he stared down the horde.

Daryl gave one look at him, clicked his tongue, slipped Chris’s axe out from his belt, and shoved it into his hands. “You let one of them bastards bite me and I’ll bash your fuckin’ head in, kid.”

Chris gave an absent nod and readied his axe.

Bowen tried Lump one last time. It caught in the scabbard. He whipped out his dagger and gripped it with both hands. This is pointless. One corpse on its own is as weak as a child, but a thousand… they’ll bull us over, easy as that. All the same, Bowen squared his shoulders and spread his feet. He didn’t intend to die without a fight for a second time. The seven heavens were no place for cowards, and The Mother’s mercy only extended so far.

So, he built himself a shell of cool, calm confidence and lowered inside it.

“Chris!” Glenn shouted over the roar of the dead. “How do I use this without blowing my hand off?!”

“Squeeze the lever…”

“What?!”

“Squeeze the damn lever!” Daryl yelled.

Cracks like spiderwebs formed in the glass. The pane bowed in the centre.

“Maggie!” Glenn smashed a thin, upper pane of glass with his knife’s hilt.

“Go it!” Knife in hand, Maggie swung her bag over her shoulder and fell into formation.

The spiderweb cracks grew and grew. The pane bowed deeper. Glenn stuck half his body out the window. The dead's eyes left Tyreese. They reached for Glenn, screeching, raking the air. He pulled a pin out of the grenade and threw it. It sailed over the horde and disappeared over the railing.

In a blind panic, Glenn dove off the shelves. He hit the tiled floor like a sack of wet flour. Still reeling from the fall, he scrambled into formation, hatchet at the ready.

Tyreese wound back his hammer. Glenn’s eyes bulged.

“NO! WAIT FOR IT TO-”

A clap of thunder boomed as deep as a giant’s roar. The scream of glass shattering screeched high and shrill. In their wake, they left a void of silence. It swamped everything, heavy as bog air.

Then, sound spread like ripples through still water. Screeching, wailing, and shuffling feet. The corpses that flanked the edges turned first, took up their wet screech, and broke off. Their call caught the attention of those behind them, and they followed suit. One by one, layers of the horde peeled away until only a few dozen of the most stubborn remained to claw at the cracked, bowed pane.

“NOW!” Glenn shouted.

Tyreese brought his hammer down on the pane. It fell apart in a hail of mismatched shards. He bolted like a hare freed from a trap, and the dead spilled after him. They tripped over the window’s frame, themselves, and each other, affording Tyreese just enough time to avoid their grasping fingers.

Tyreese fell into formation, and as one they raised their weapons. Typically, the dead were slow as snails, but inside the cramped confinements of the store they appeared to move as swift as the raging tide.

“HOLD!” Glenn shouted.

Bowen’s shell shattered. He wanted to run to the marshes, hide in the little craggy tower on the hill and pull the quilt of many colours over his eyes. But there were no marshes or craggy towers or quilts of many covers, only an all-encompassing tide of rot.

The dead drew near and time stood still. The lingering warmth of fresh corpses pressed against him. Breaths as hot as a furnace’s yawn blasted his face. A sea of mismatched, yellow, green, and brown eyes swallowed him whole. Roars louder than horns, louder than thunder, louder than ten thousand screamers afield; they bore down on him with the weight of everything that had been or ever could be.

Glenn’s voice pierced through it all like a knife through velvet. “STRIKE!”

Bowen’s shell snapped back together. His dagger plunged into the head of a maid, and the other weapons followed. One motion. One weapon. One person. Six dead fell. Six staggered over the fallen. Six more fell.

Chris’s back pressed against Bowen’s shoulder. The dead were all around them, squeezing them, forcing their perfect line into a clumped half circle. Bowen’s heart clogged his throat. His arms felt stiff and brittle. He fell another, staggering corpse.

“HOLD!” Glenn shouted the moment Bowen began to so much as consider being a coward. “THEY’RE SLOWING DOWN!”

They were. Panic had clouded Bowen’s vision, but now he saw. The fallen dead formed a loose, shin-high palisade around them, and the dead were too stupid to step over it. A swell of corpses tripped over the palisade. One motion, one weapon, one person, ensured the dead would not rise again.

The sea of mismatched eyes became a pond. The gurgled wails couldn’t hope to compare to a mummer’s horn anymore, let alone ten thousand screamers; they weighed as little as air, let alone everything that had been and all that could be.

Bowen felt the command in his bones before it was shouted. “CHARGE THEM!” As Glenn’s voice drowned the gurgled wails, Bowen moved like flowing water. He punched his dagger through the temple of a man who was at an age with him, and knocked him aside as if he were a long-hanging branch. A gap of open space appeared. Bowen rushed through it.

Tyreese bulled ahead, turning their orderly line into an arrowhead. As one motion, one weapon and one body they tore through the corpses, erupting out into the mall.

The air was full of death. Maddening, shrieking howls wafted from below like billowing smoke. It mixed with the putrid sting of rot, mugging the air. It clung to Bowen’s skin. His blood paint became molasses on his face and hands, mud in his hair and porridge in his mouth.

But Bowen ignored it all to find Chris.

He was beside him, stiff as a board, fighting for a breath and clutching his axe as if he were afraid it would run away.

“Stick by me,” was all Bowen had the chance to say before Glenn bellowed another command.

“RUN TO THE ROPE!” He raised his hatchet above his head as if it were a banner, pointed it, and barrelled for the stairs. Not the closest set; the dead were congregated around its base, searching for an explosion. No, Glenn set his sights on a set of stairs at the far end of the mall, and ran with a haste that only a young man could hope to muster.

Maggie, Daryl and Tyreese, with their young legs and flat bellies, kept pace with him. Bowen ran for all he was worth, and then a great deal more, but it proved fruitless. They disappeared down the stairs before he made it so much as halfway. Lump had never felt so heavy.

He should have dropped it. Lump was, after all, a lump rather than a sword. Yet, it was also home, and home was fleeting.

Through all Bowen’s huffing and puffing, Chris never left his side; the damnable, fool boy; the sweet fool. Even as the dead grew bored of their search, he stayed. Even as the dead noticed them, he stayed. Even as the dead took up their screeching calls, he stayed. He held Bowen’s arm as if he were helping Maester Aemon walk.

They reached the bottom of the stairs. The others had reached the rope and the dead were closing in. Never had something looked as high as the rope did in that moment. Never had Bowen felt so old. Never had he felt so fat.

“Go,” Bowen said. He tore his arm free. “Before it’s too late.”

“No.” Chris snatched his arm back.

At this point, Bowen was being more dragged than helped.

He tried to snatch his arm back. “Damn you, boy. Look!” The dead were filling the gap between them and the others. “Go before you can’t!”

“I can’t! Not without you! Please!" Tears filled Chris's eyes.

Bowen hardly heard him over the roar of the dead. What he heard was thin as paper and wispy as smoke. A boy’s fear.

Alden would've had a string of sweet, bouncing words to set Chris at ease. He would have spun gold with his tongue.

Bowen only had his legs.

He ducked his head and ran. His legs screamed. His breath tore his chest to ribbons. His head beat a war drum bigger than Winterfell, Kings Landing and Casterly Rock combined. It was a stupid thing to do, but it was the only thing to do.

Chris was at his side. Then Chris was in front of him, and the floor became a wall. Bowen felt his nose break deep in his ears, then heard it. There was no pain, funnily enough: just the sound of a branch snapping. No, the pain came when the gap closed and the dead surrounded him; a pain in his stomach. Honest to gods, he might have pissed himself. He was too sodden with rot and sweat to tell, but he didn’t doubt it.

Chris threw himself at the horde, swinging his axe so wildly that his glasses dislodged and were crushed beneath rotting feet. The dead encircled him. They reached for him, but he ducked and split their skulls. But for all the skulls he split, eight more appeared. It was like trying to dig a hole in the ocean.

How Bowen got onto his feet he would never know. He unclasped Lump, scabbard and all, and swung it in a sweeping arch, using it as a club rather than a sword. One corpse died from a caved crown. Three fell over and tripped two more. A gap wide enough for five men opened between Bowen and Chris, and then it closed.

Screaming filled Bowen’s ears from the inside. He swung Lump. Fingers tugged at his shirt. He swung Lump. Foul breath blasted his face. He swung Lump. A set of rotting teeth gnashed, filling his vision. He swung Lump.

A set of arms as thick as branches hugged his waist. The ground hit his back. A corpse’s face filled his vision. Bowen took hold of it and pushed it away, but it pushed back. It grasped his wrist and moved his arm as easily as deflecting a child’s slap. A peeling, putrid palm covered Bowen’s face and shoved his head against the ground. The world spun. Pain devoured the back of his head, and then burrowed through to his face. His nose and eyes screamed white hot.

The hand moved away just in time to let Bowen see a bolt erupt through the corpse’s eye. Daryl threw the corpse aside and offered Bowen his hand. He was covered in rot. He was as grim as a corpse. He was a demon. He was an angel. He dragged Bowen to his feet by his hair and shoulder, and kicked him as if he were a dog.

“Go!” He kicked a corpse in the chest and sent a group of them flailing to the ground.

Tyreese and Glenn fought either side of him, beating back the rotting tide. The dead were everywhere. Chris was nowhere.

Bowen tried to speak. Blood clogged his throat. Blood clogged his nose. Blood clogged his eyes. Red blood. Warm blood. He spluttered and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. For a second he could see and speak. “Chris…” He wheezed as blood filled the empty spaces.

“Maggie’s got him, now go!” Daryl rushed to aid Glenn and Tyreese.

Staggering, Bowen saw him. He was at the rope fighting to flee Maggie’s grasp, fighting to get to him. He was shouting, but Bowen couldn’t hear him over the dead. Then, he was gone, along with everything else. Blood clogged his eyes and stole the world. It clogged his throat and stole his breath. He wiped his eyes and the world returned. He hacked and wheezed, and his breath flowed free.

Bowen ran, wiping and hacking, and the others ran with him. The small niche they’d carved out amongst the horde closed behind them.

“A CIRCLE! MAKE A CIRCLE!” Glenn screamed.

And so they did. They beat back the horde, but no longer as one. Six motions. Six weapons. Six people. Wild as uncaged beasts, they swung their blades, their elbows, feet and knees; anything to keep the dead at bay. Especially Chris. Without his glasses, the boy couldn’t see more than a foot in front of him. His world must have been blurs. He hacked blindly at the horde.

Bowen hacked half-blind. Between wiping his eyes and spitting up blood, it was a miracle he could kill at all.

“BOWEN FIRST!” Glenn split a crown and kicked a chest. “THEN CHRIS!” He caved in a temple. “THEN MAGGIE, DARYL AND TYREESE!” He killed a walker to Bowen’s right, saving him by inches, and then screamed in his face. “NOW!”

Bowen had his hands around the rope before the words could settle in his ears. He wiped his eyes, spat blood and hooked his legs around the rope. He’d never climbed a rope before and hadn’t a clue what he should do. There wasn’t time to think. He'd climbed down, so he did that, except upwards.

Bowen shimmied for all he was worth, and then some. His arms and legs screamed, but he forbade them to falter. The ground wouldn’t let him. The sight of it so far away, impossibly far away, introduced him to a new sort of fear. The kind that escapes imagination or words. A primal fear. An ancient fear. It made his fear of the dead seem childish. It forced him to hold the rope even as it shredded his palms to ribbons.

Blood filled his eyes and stole the world away, but not the fear. The fear gripped his chest and made hacking up blood a struggle. Each breath brought on a fit of splutters, and he breathed frequently, frequently and often.

Bowen tried to pull himself up for the countless time. He grabbed a hold of the rope as high as he was able, and yanked. His shimmy died halfway through. Again he yanked. Trembles shot through him, from wrist to ankle. The attempt died again, heavily. The rope tried to throw him off, twisting this way and that.

Again and again, Bowen tried to lift himself. His arms were numb, his hands were raw, his back screamed and his mind spun. Each attempt was more pathetic than the last, until he couldn’t even manage pathetic. He couldn’t lift himself at all. It was like trying to lift the world.

Tears mixed with the blood as the fear, the primal fear that escaped the words and minds of men, flared. He was going to die. He was going to fall and break his neck, no, he was going to break his back and the dead would eat him alive. They would tear him limb from limb. They would shred his skin. They would rake out his eyes. They would pull out his bowels. They would eat his heart.

The Stranger was going to touch him again. A chill - colder than ice, colder than wind, death’s cold embrace - would swallow him up again. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die.

A hand touched his ankle.

No, it couldn’t be. He’d climbed so far. He had! He had! He had! The dead couldn’t reach him! Was he truly so useless? Had he climbed only a few feet?

“It’s okay,” Chris said. “You’re almost there.” His voice was a brave one. He spoke as if nothing were amiss. As if all was good. As if all was certain. Only the slightest of trembles betrayed him. A tremble that spoke of a child’s fear. A boy who’d lost everything. A boy who’d lost everyone. A boy who was alone.

Only he wasn’t alone.

Something new began to grow inside Bowen. It grew deep inside him, in his bones, in his heart and in his lungs. Something just as primal. Something without words. But where the fear stole, it gave.

It gave him rage. A rage so potent it set his body to trembling as it fought to escape.

It gave him sight. Blood still clogged his eyes, but he saw. He saw Julie. If he fell, she would turn into a creature of the night. He saw Chris. If he fell, he’d take him with him. He’d kill another boy, another brave, wonderful boy.

It gave him strength. The world weighed as much as air. He pulled it with him.

When steel finally replaced the hempen rope beneath his fingers, Bowen’s arms moved of their own accord. They hauled him into the heavenly stale, rotless air. His back hit the glass with a thump that coursed through him and stole his strength. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see. He could hardly clear his throat to breathe.

Below, the dead howled. Distance, beautiful distance, muffled their protests. They could hardly be heard over Bowen’s heart; war drums in his ears.

Blood filled his chest and brought about a cough the way a knife brings about a scream. The cough breathed some life into him. He lurched onto his side, spluttering and hacking, and wiped his eyes. The others lay around him in a marginally better state. All of them watched him.

Through the blood, their faces were without form. But their silence spoke volumes. A searing pain crept into centre stage, in his eyes and nose and cheeks. Bowen had been cut before, he knew what it felt like. He imagined a scratch must feel much the same.

Chris threw himself at him, buried his face in his chest and began to sob.

“Hush, lad.” Bowen stroked his back. The blood filled his eyes. “None of that now.”

A hand touched his shoulder. A small hand. “Bowen… you’ve been scratched,” Maggie said.

“Did we get it? The medicine?”

Maggie spoke slow, the way you would to a child. “Bowen, a scratch is the same as a bite. Your face has been scratched.”

“The medicine. Did we get it?”

“We did. It’s all here, in my pack. Bowen, you’re going to die.”

“But Julie will live?”

Silence answered him. A silence louder than the dead and the drums of his heart.

“She will,” Tyreese said. His voice left no room for doubt. It was law. It was truth.

The drums of his heart faded away. “My life for hers? A worthy trade. It’s more than I deserve.”

Bowen wiped his eyes. Blood smeared the back of his hand; black blood. It filled his vision again, and Bowen resigned himself to one final discomfort.

Jon

Ghost’s muzzle twitched while he snored. A snore was among the few sounds the direwolf could make, and even then, he did it rarely. He had a man’s snore. Not a human snore, no, a man’s snore; as loud as a mummer’s trumpet, as deep as a watcher’s horn and so full of grit it sounded like he’d swallowed gravel.

For all the noise it made, it did little to combat the silence. If anything, it amplified it. It made the gap in conversation more pronounced. The way a beautiful woman reminds you of your faults.

Andrea pretended not to notice. Her farce would have been convincing if it weren’t for her eyes. She stared at Carol. That stare betrayed her impassive face and relaxed posture. One who was truly impassive, truly relaxed, would let their gaze wander. They’d watch the shapes the shadows made against the tent, or count the wood shavings piled in the corner, or gain a blank look as they thought about something else. They wouldn’t stare. Andrea’s eyes were all tension, fear and determination.

At least she had the sense not to say anything. There’s no need to rush. Let her mull it over. She’s a sensible woman. She’ll agree.

“All of them?” Carol asked.

“Yes,” Andrea said far too quickly.

“Even Randall?”

Jon matched Andrea’s pace. “He’s not like to forgive us. Him and Sam.”

“Sam’s a man. He should know better. Randall’s a boy and-”

“Crippled too, aye. But one day, those broken legs will heal and that boy will become a man. Mayhaps a strong man, or a clever man, or a cruel man. Either way, a man whose heart is full of vengeance. Vengeance is a powerful mistress and the bane of reason.”

“They’re rotten, Carol. To the core,” Andrea said.

Carol stroked her knife with her thumb; her only knife; the only knife she’d ever had or ever used. “And you’ve told no one else about this?”

“Not yet, no,” Jon said.

“Who will you tell?”

“Daryl, Maggie, and Marsh.” Jon expected that last name to give Carol pause.

Instead, she only nodded. “And Rick?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“If all goes well, we’ll be a group of eight. With Maggie comes Glenn. With Marsh comes Tyreese.”

"Nine, you mean. You're forgetting Shane."

Andrea tensed, but Jon heard the unasked question. "He'll want it for himself."

Carol nodded. "Will he be a problem?"

  "Shane is going to attack me next time we're on firewood duty together. He'll cut me here." Jon touched his forehead. "Fortunately, Ghost will tear his throat out before he can do any worse."

Carol gave that nod again. A slow, methodical nod. “With the children - not including Carl -, that makes ten. So long as Julie survives."

“Nine, if she doesn't."

“A majority…”

“A majority,” Andrea said. “Rick's not cut out for it, Carol. He’s too soft. The Culvers are his fault. This world ain’t a soft place no-”

“You don’t have to convince me, Andrea,” Carol said, barely audible above the snores. “Who replaces him?”

“Her.” Jon nodded at Andrea.

“Her?” Carol turned her knife between her thumb and forefinger. “Yes, her. To them, I’m just a widow with a dead daughter. You're a child. Maggie’s a stranger; Tyreese even more so. And Glenn… well he’s-”

“More of the same.”

“More of the same.”

“Hershel would be worse,” Andrea said.

“That goes without saying,” Carol said. “You think he’ll step down?”

“The vote is his child. He has to," Jon said.

Carol gave Andrea an inquisitive look. “Nine… we're betting everything on a one-vote margin? Do you think any of them would flip after what we plan to do?”

For the first time in a while, Andrea’s eyes left Carol. She shot Jon a nervous glance.

“No plan is foolproof, I’ll not hide from the kinks in our armour. But, there are kinks on both sides. I believe Jenner may flip with the right convincing. T-Dog maybe… a long shot, I’ll admit. And Carl-"

"And on our side?" Carol didn't miss a beat. "Glenn.” She looked right through him.

“Glenn… Aye. And Maggie. But if the girl should live-”

“If, Julie lives,” Carol said calmly. “Are we prepared to stake everything on her life?”

“Everything? No, of course not. Just a vote.”

Carol raised an eyebrow at that but, before Jon could make himself clear, they were plunged into silence. A raw silence. Ghost’s eyes flew open and he lifted his head, ears twitching.

A man’s shadow stalked the tent’s wall. Footsteps approached, crunching baked dirt. Jon’s hand settled on Needle. Just as he was about to draw, he noticed the pattern. Orderly, evenly spaced. The sound of the living.

He let go of Needle as Rick opened the tent flap. “Hope I’m not intrudin’,” He said.

Andrea tensed as tight as a drawn bowstring. Jon didn’t dare look at her.

Jon gave an easy smile. “Not at all. Care to join us? Carol was just telling us about Sophia’s first friend.”

Rick smiled. “You’re talkin’ about her, Carol?”

Jon looked at Carol, following the flow of the conversation. She was a different person, meek and delicate as a flower. “I am.” She gave a dainty smile and spoke with the voice of a mouse. “It helps.”

“That’s great, really, it is. But don’t push yourself now. Okay?”

“I won’t. Thank you, Rick.”

“Would it be okay if I stole Jon from you?”

“Oh no, not at all. Go right ahead.” Carol turned her smile on Jon. “I expect another visit from you, young man.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dare leave such a tale unfinished.”

Carol laughed like she meant it. If it weren’t so impressive it would have been unsettling.

Rick led Jon towards the house. If he’d noted anything off about what they were doing in the tent, he showed no sign of it. His easy smile remained fixed on his face, so casual it appeared to be the natural state his face settled onto. There wasn’t a lick of tension anywhere in his body, not his jaw, not his shoulders, not his hands. It meant nothing. Lies came as easy to Rick as a false smile to a servant. A strange thing for an otherwise honest man.

Ghost walked between Rick and Jon, carrying his silence with him. It spread to them. They spoke not a single word until they were inside Hershel’s room.

“Does Hershel mind us being here?” Jon asked with a proper touch of conversational concern.

“He said we could use it. Ain’t a whole lot of private places ‘round here anymore.”

“And what would be using it for?”

Rick sat on the bed. “To talk, son. It’s long past due and I apologise for that.”

“I’d forgive you if I knew what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talkin’ about last night. I… I think I could have handled it better, and I’m sorry for that. You’re not wrong for hatin’ him. What he did, it warrant’s hatin’. And that hate’s your business, not mine.”

“Thank you,” Jon said on reflex. Little else came to his tongue. Only scraps of things to say, unfinished remarks and half-formed words. They were sludge in his mouth.

“You understand why I couldn’t let you kill him, right?” Rick’s voice gained a desperate edge.

“Aye.”

“I need to hear you say why. It’ll put my mind at ease.”

Jon swallowed and rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth to clear the sludge. A silence lingered as remarks finished and words became complete. “Revenge for revenge’s sake is no true justice.”

Rick blinked. “Yeah… I guess that’s true. What I meant was that we gotta have rules if all of this is gonna work. If I let you kill him it sets a precedent. It tells everyone else, ‘Hey! Murder is a-okay now!’. And that opens other doors. ‘Cause if murder’s fine, what’s that compared to stealin’, or fightin’, or rapin’? Nothin’. We’ll lose ourselves and become no better than animals.”

Jon found himself with quite the opposite problem. A flood of remarks fought to be freed.

There was some truth to what Rick said, yes. There’s a reason why you geld rapers, cut off the thumbs of thieves and hang murderers. From anyone else, Jon would have found it perfectly reasonable. But from Rick, it revealed how truly great a fool he really was.

“Lose ourselves?” Jon might have said. “Look around, fool. So much has already been lost. Murder and theft are the way of things now. We steal to eat, drink, heal our wounds and build. We kill threats to survive. Up until now, the threats have been dead for the most part. Are you seriously under the delusion that it’ll stay that way? What happens when a thousand other groups like us pick this place clean? When all the stores and houses are emptied? They’re not bloody likely to start farming, are they? No, continue doing as they do, they’ll steal. From us and each other. And the easiest way to steal is to kill. A starving man cares naught for rules or law. While you preach to him about right and wrong, votes and democracy, he’ll drive a blade through your belly for the clothes off your back and the scraps in your pot.”

Instead, Jon said, “You’re right, Rick. That makes a lot of sense.”

Rick gave a weary smile. “I’m not tellin’ you not to hate him, okay?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s your decision to make. You don’t have to ever say a word to him if you don’t want to. Your feelings are yours. You’ve got the final say on that matter, not me or anyone else. Okay?”

“Aye, thank you.”

“If you ever want to talk about it, or anything else for that matter, let me know and I’ll find somewhere private for us.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Can we put last night behind us? I prefer it when things are square between us.”

Jon gave his best smile. “Aye, we’re square.”

Rick regained his full smile. “Good.” He sighed and his smile broadened. “Good.”

“THEY’RE BACK!” Someone shouted outside.

Jon and Rick rushed to the window. Daryl’s motorbike raced down the farm’s dirt road, small as an ant at such a distance. Distance often played tricks with the mind, but Jon swore the motorbike was further ahead of the pickup truck and rangerover. Significantly so at that. The gap between them seemed to be gradually increasing too. A billowing veil of dust followed behind them.

When they'd left, they'd left as one unit. Glenn made a point of insisting they do so. Even on their land. Even while they were safe.

“They’re speeding,” Jon said.

“They got it,” Rick said breathlessly. “Son of a bitch, they actually did it…”

“No.” Jon turned on his heels and rushed for the door. “Something’s wrong!”

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Next chapter, Jon grapples with Bowen's impending death and fights to forge the alliances he needs to kill the Culvers. While Bowen says his goodbyes and rides out the worse of what the virus has to offer.