Twenty-three: What Humans Do Pt. 1

Three Weeks Later

Maureen sat in the narrow, dimly lit hall. She was still shaking, her breath occasionally hitching in her throat. Pictures of a mother and daughter hung on stark, white eggshell walls. The only light within the space emanated from the open doors of the bedrooms and bathroom where the daylight deceivingly shone clear and warm from the outdoors, despite the winter air.

She drew an unsteady breath and bit her lip until she became aware of the taste of blood on her tongue. She opened her mouth, not daring to swallow, the saliva accumulating. The back of her tongue retracted and pressed upwards to the back of her throat to keep even the most minuscule amount from flowing past it and down to her stomach. She slowly leaned over, spitting the blood-laced saliva to the floor.

Blood on her jacket and her hands. In her hair, on her face, and in her mouth. Was she tasting her blood, or -? She spit several more times. The thought of ingesting another person's blood was repulsive. It felt as though her throat was closing. She couldn't breathe. Was she hurt more seriously than she thought, or was she panicking?

She opened her mouth again, this time waiting for some sort of noise to come out; a cry, a wail, a scream, words calling out to Daryl for help – for a comforting hand. She wanted him here. But she was quiet. Her silent cries filled her head, open mouthed, mimicking an Edvard Munch painting. She wanted the horrible, blood-curdling noises she could hear in her head to come out of her.

The white walls bore rust-red streaks, and stripes, and spray; the faces in the pictures splattered and stained too. Happy memories; tainted. She closed her mouth, abandoning the effort to free the strangled cries within her. Her fingers twitched, anticipating contact with something solid and tangible, as she raised a shaking hand to reach for her knife on the floor next to her. She was well aware reanimation, the frighteningly frantic pursuit of flesh, could happen at any moment.

"All set," Daryl waved Maureen and Carol inside the house as Rick and T-Dog passed them on the way out, heading for the final house next door. "Last one for us," he continued, "let's make a quick sweep for supplies and get the hell out of here." Mentally, he was done with this place. The day's search for supplies wasn't fruitful so far. Someone hit these houses already. The six-mile detour to the development seemed a waste and he was questioning their current tactics. Scavenging was becoming a way to fill the passing time and the expenditures it took to accomplish the trips wasn't worth in. It was nearing true survival time. He could feel it.

If it were just Maureen and him, by now they'd be hunkered down, hibernating somewhere for the rest of the winter. He was guilty of these fantasies where it was just the two of them. No group, in a cabin on the side of a mountain, the smell of wood smoke and animal hides, huddled in a sleeping bag with her, and smoothing balm on her chapped lips. His hands under her shirt. Her cold nose pressed into his neck forcing him to suppress a shiver. Daryl shook his head as he thought these things. They could make it on their own – at least for a while – but even in his nostalgic state for things that'd never happened, he knew they wouldn't last long alone. They needed the group. It was still nice to think about though. He sometimes imagined what it would be like if this shit never went down and they'd met in the world the way it was before. Even though it was unlikely they would have ever met if that were the case, he liked to think that they would have run away and lived a simple life together somewhere in the woods. In a strange, backwards way he was sometimes thankful for what happened, for the world the way it was now, and how it brought them toghether.

Maureen rummaged through the cabinets of house number six. It was completely bereft of anything worth eating. Just like the rest. Six miles for six big houses and not much to show for it. It was the kind of place her mother always wanted to live, but could never afford in a million years. Big, open, cold, and lacking in character. It wasn't her idea of comfort.

"Zip-ties?" Carol held up a pack, questioning Daryl who was emptying the television remotes of their batteries.

"Yeah, toss 'em here. Any luck ov'r there, Chippy?"

Maureen heard Carol chuckle at the nickname Daryl had graced her with weeks earlier. "I wish you'd stop callin' me that," she said to him . She shifted her weight and gave Carol a look of indifference as the older woman continued to smile to herself. Maureen was actually quite fond of the name despite how silly it was. The name was short for Chipmunk. It's origin: her suggestion for the group to hide food in several key places in case they got separated from one another or real desperate later on. It wasn't a bad idea; Rick went for it right away like several of her other tactical plans for their survival. He appreciated her eye towards planning and strategy, so they stashed several cans here and there in the surrounding areas along with small amounts of gas and other supplies like ammo. Little caches spread across the countryside.

They were hidden in places people wouldn't usually think to look. They chose places like under the floorboards of a backyard treehouse. When they lifted the boards they'd pulled out a yellow bag of netting filled with gold, foil-wrapped chocolate coins, a child's treasure long forgotten. As they drove away the sounds of foil being unwrapped and quiet 'MMMs' filled the cars. Once again, taking joy in the little things. Maureen took comfort in those sorts of things even before. Unlike most of them, Daryl understood this. Treats that kids like Carl and Beth grew up with, and that now felt like ultra-luxurious treats, were things she and Daryl always felt that way about.

Maureen sighed and finally answered Daryl's question. "Literally nothing." She opened one more cabinet. "Oh, wait," she said cynically and held up a can. "Cat food."

Daryl crossed the room, side-stepping an ottoman and giving the thing a look of scorn before taking the can from her, and reaching around her for the other two which sat inside the cabinet. "I've had worse."

"You're not serious," Carol stared at him in disbelief. "You're really taking those?"

"Can't be picky." He looked at the label and shrugged. "Beef shreds in gravy." He said this like it made it better.

"Eww," Maureen turned up her nose. "Sure, beef," she held up her hands, surrounding the word with air quotes.

"Won't be sayin' eww when we're shit outta luck and food in a few weeks." Carol and Maureen were silent. Daryl put the cans in a box with the other items and grabbed it, ready to get out of there. He'd eat things the others just wouldn't. "That it, Chippy?"

"Yeah."

"The medicine cabinets," Carol reminded.

"I'll hit them and pee while I'm at it," Maureen grabbed her poker, twirling it confidently, and nodded to Daryl before making her way to the stairs. "I'll see if I can find some mouthwash too. You know, for you Daryl, after you eat the cat food. Because I ain't kissin' you after."

Carol chuckled and grabbed an empty water bottle which sat on the kitchen counter, "I'm heading out,"she stated, leaving the other two.

Daryl glanced back at the door. "Careful, my little Chipmunk," he said creeping towards her as she turned to face him on the bottom step. "Mean, ol' tomcat might jus' eat ya for dinner." She rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but her caught her wrist, balancing the box of items on his knee. "Com'ere," he kissed her lips gently at first and then bit her bottom lip.

Maureen shrunk away and put a hand to the spot he bit. "Hey!"

"See you outside," he smirked viciously and motioned up the stairs. "First door on the left."

There was an open bottle of aspirin on the counter in the bathroom and several bloodstained towels on the floor. She nudged the towels with the toe of her boot. They were old, dark brown in color. She grabbed the lid to the aspirin bottle and replaced it, tucking the bottle in her jacket pocket. She opened the cabinets and drawers, expecting to find some sort of antiseptic or bandages, but found none. "Oh, well," she sighed and turned to the toilet to pee, leaning her fire poker against the toilet paper holder. She was reaching for her belt when she heard a creak behind her.

She grinned and turned back to the door and took a few quick steps forward, ready to yell at Daryl for being a perv. "You -"

A quick swish broke the calm air and was met with a blonde woman about a foot taller than herself. She bounced backwards, away from the woman like a cat met with a snake. She was a moment too slow and a searing pain cut through her as the woman's serrated kitchen knife slashed through the sleeve of her jacket and met with her skin.

She yelped in pain and fell back against the porcelain toilet. Scared to touch the wound, to acknowledge it too much, she stared in shock at the wild-eyed woman frozen in the doorway. Her eyes were unblinking and her pointed nose was held high in the air.

"Get out. Out. Now. Get out of my house." Her voice was frantic. "Taking my things like this. You're just like them; those bad people. People are bad." When she didn't receive any answer from the stunned, petite redhead she raised her voice. "Aren't you? You and your people are bad, aren't you? I'll kill you." She gritted her teeth, poising herself for a kill.

Maureen slowly reached next to her and clutched her poker. "No, I'm not. We're not. Yeah, some people are bad, but we're not." The women stared at the girl cornered on the toilet. "I'm sorry we took your things. We'll give them back," Maureen continued, trying to appease the woman. "No harm done. Maybe we can help you."

"Like I'd believe that. You think I'm as dumb as I was then? Bad people. What are you trying to do? Lure us back? "

"Us? It's not just you?"

"Shutting us in that cafeteria like that. Setting it on fire. All those people." The woman pressed her fingers to her lips. Her voice slowed, "But some of us got out," she nodded, "and now you're back."

Maureen frantically shook her head. "No. Whoever you think I am; promise I'm not."

"Those evacuations." Her voice became more bitter, "Like some cattle drive just sending all those people to slaughter. You won't do it again. I won't let you." The woman took a step closer with tears in her eyes. "You have to die. You can't just eliminate people like that."

"Don't," Maureen warned. This poor woman had been through some shit too. She adopted a sympathetic tone,"I'm sorry for what you've been through, but-"

The woman flew at her, knife raised and Maureen swung her poker, hitting the woman's head and sending her off balance, splitting her temple open in the process. The knife clattered to the bathroom tile. She tumbled off the toilet and scrambled to the door only to feel the woman plow into her from behind.

The two tumbled into the hallway. Maureen's wounded arm collided with the wall and she gasped in pain. Sounds of struggle, of female grunts filled the upstairs as they tussled on the floor. The woman had a hold of her arms, fingers digging into her wound. "Ahhhh," Maureen clawed at her, trying to get her feet and legs between their bodies to kick her off. It would be the best she could do with her 90 pounds of lean, Winter weight.

She managed to do this sending the woman backwards, slamming her against the opposite wall with more force than she expected. It gave Maureen just enough time to reach for her poker and take another swing. "Stop!" She whipped the iron weapon against the woman's arms twice before she came at her again. The woman grabbed the other end and they found themselves in a tug-o-war over it. Maureen realized how it was going to go then. The tool had been used so many times against Walkers, but never like this. Likely, Rick or Daryl wouldn't have even given this woman the courtesy of asking her to stop a second time. She pulled her end towards her one last time and when the woman pulled back her way she thrust the poker forward.

The woman met Maureen's terrified eyes with her own, the pointed end of the poker planted in her abdomen. "I'm sorry. I told you to stop," the redhead squeaked.

"Mom?" A girl's voice croaked. A girl, not much younger than Maureen stood at the opposite end of the hall beneath the attic ladder she'd climbed down from. She clutched a pistol in her hands. The girl's lower lip quivered.

"Please, I'm sorry," Maureen continued to shake her head, utterly alarmed by what was happening.

"Get up. Get away from her."

Maureen obeyed and stood as the girl crept toward her. "I'm sorry. She came at me." Maureen could see that the girl wasn't confident using the gun.

"Shut up." The girl's face was wrought with fear, disgust, and hatred. "Stay back." Her sweater slipped off her shoulder, exposing her upper arm to the cool air. She kept the gun pointed at Maureen, but turned and bent to help her mother.

Instinct took over and it was then Maureen took the opportunity to move. She grabbed the girl's arm, twisting it, and biting into the exposed skin, forcing the young girl off balance. The gun fell to the floor. They struggled for a few seconds, but suddenly Maureen's knife was in her hand and she was stabbing wildly, anywhere vital her blade could penetrate the girl. It was violent, but completely out of self-preservation.

Finally, she sat back against the wall and dropped her knife. Both of her assailants laid unmoving on the floor. The fire poker still protruded from the mother's body. Maureen sat there in the narrow hall, still shaking for several minutes with the pictures of the mother and daughter on the blood-stained walls. She drew an unsteady breath and bit her lip until she became aware of the taste of blood. She slowly leaned over and spit out the blood-laced saliva.

Blood on her jacket, her hands, in her hair, on her face and in her mouth. Was she tasting her blood or the girl's? She spit several more times. It felt as though her throat was closing. In the dim light, she watched the carpet turn dark with blood. Blood. Blood. Red blood pooling around her. The space smelled so strongly of it. The white walls bore the rust-red streaks, and stripes, and spray. The faces in the pictures were splattered and stained too. Happy memories tainted with the acts humans perpetrate against one another, whether out of malice, fear, or self-preservation.

She opened her mouth again, this time waiting for some sort of noise to come out, but nothing did. Her silent cries filled her head. She wanted the horrible, blood-curdling sounds she could hear in her head to leak out of her. She wanted them to come forth from her like the shrill wail of a teapot coming to a boil and letting off the built up steam.

She closed her mouth, abandoning efforts to free the cries which seemed would never come out. Her mind wanted to quit. Go to a happy place, forget, heal. Her body twitched. That wasn't an option. Quitting meant dying. And she had Daryl and the others to fight for. They could turn. She raised a shaking hand to reach for her knife on the floor next to her.

She stopped mid-reach. Her arm burned from the cut and she put a hand to the flayed flesh of her bicep, only just seeming to remember it. She had to stop the bleeding. Maybe cut a strip of fabric from her shirt. She reached again, her shaking fingers tapped against the handle of her knife as she found the smooth surface against the cool, wet carpet. It was so wet. It was absolutely saturated. Her pants were wet, too, and a warmth she'd felt earlier was fading away to a clammy chill. "What the fuck?" she whispered. She sat still and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again Daryl was in front of her, then gone again, then back with Rick and T. She finally began to cry as Daryl ran his hands frantically over her searching her for cuts and other injuries - only finding the cut on her upper arm and several bumps and scratches. The man hugged her quickly as she sobbed and apologized several times, feeling the soaked carpet beneath her.

"Shh, shhh. Why are ya sorry?"

"I peed myself," she choked out, sobbing in embarrassment. "I don't know if I had to go so bad that it just happened or what," she tried to explain feeling ashamed, knowing she had probably done it out of fear.

Feeling pity for her, Daryl pulled away and looked down at her, smelling the urine for the first time over the metallic scent of blood in the air. "Shh, it's okay. Don't worry. Did good." He wrapped her up in his poncho and began carrying her down the stairs. "Shh, I'm here. I love ya."

Rick met T-Dog's eyes as he backed down the rungs of the attic ladder. He picked up the gun as he retreated down the hall, but stopped long enough to put his knife through the skulls of the mother and daughter, glancing back at the attic where they had been hiding completely unbeknownst to them.

"Well, damn," T whispered.

"Let's go," Rick said, pushing past him on the stairs, "and get out of here."

Thank you everyone for reading! I love to hear what you guys think, so please leave a comment or drop a note! (: