Chapter 87: Hershel, Living in Fantasy
When Beth ran into the yard, Hershel was sitting on the porch cleaning his shotgun.
She was covered in blood. Her skirt was torn, a patch of skin was scraped off her knee, her hair was disheveled, and her face was covered in tears.
"Dad! Jimmy Walker — in the woods—"
Her voice was shrill and cracked. Her finger pointed in the direction of the water tower, and her whole body was trembling.
Hershel stood up, holding the shotgun in his hand, and glanced behind her.
At the edge of the woods, greyish-white figures were emerging.
One, two, ten, twenty.
They emerged from the shadows of the trees, wobbling as they walked toward the farm.
"Come inside!"
Hershel pushed Beth through the door, then stood on the porch with a shotgun at his shoulder.
He did not fire.
His finger was on the trigger, but he didn't pull it.
To him, shooting a Walker was tantamount to murder.
They were just sick—very sick—but not dead.
They were waiting for a cure, for the government to come to their rescue, and for the day when the world would return to normal.
There were more than a dozen people locked up in the barn, all of whom were his family members, neighbors, and friends.
He threw live chickens and ducks down to feed them every day—and they ate.
Eating meant they were not dead.
How could a dead person eat?
"Dad!" Beth called from inside the house. "They're coming!"
Hershel raised his gun and fired a shot into the sky.
Bang—
The gunshot echoed across the empty pasture.
The Walkers continued forward.
He fired another shot, again aimed at the sky.
Still, they did not stop.
He stepped back, closed the wooden gate, and braced it with a wooden bar.
The sound of the wooden railings shaking mixed with a low, continuous roar.
"Otis!"
Hershel shouted, "Are the chicken and duck dormitories locked up?"
Otis ran over from the livestock shed, his chubby body wobbling as he ran.
"Close it properly! Close the cowshed properly too!"
He glanced at the wooden fence shaking violently under impact. His face turned pale.
"Hershel, those guys are coming in. The fence won't stop them."
Hershel said nothing. Instead, he pushed the living room sofa behind the door and placed a table on top of it.
Beth ran out of the kitchen, clutching a meat cleaver.
"Dad, let me out—"
"No!"
Hershel yelled, "Go back inside! Close the windows!"
Beth bit her lip but did not move.
Hershel shoved her into the house and shouted to Patricia, who was trembling by the stove:
"Watch her!"
Patricia grabbed Beth's hand and pulled her into the inner room.
Beth returned to her room and curled up in the corner of the bed, hugging her knees and burying her face in her arms.
The wooden fence made a sharp crack, followed by a series of breaking sounds.
The Walkers flooded in.
They trampled over Hershel's rose bushes, planted for two years, over Maggie's bedsheets hanging on the line, and over Beth's rag dolls, once cherished in childhood and now lying abandoned in a corner.
They surged toward the house, crowding the doorway and windows, their fingernails scraping the glass, their mouths opening and closing as they let out hungry howls.
Hershel stood in the middle of the living room, gripping a hunting rifle with the muzzle pointed downward.
His lips trembled as he listened to the sounds.
At the edge of the woods, Glenn and Maggie rode the chestnut horse.
They had just returned when they saw the scene from afar—grayish-white figures crowding the house like a swarm of ants.
Maggie dismounted and drew the cleaver from her waist.
"No!"
Glenn jumped down and grabbed her arm tightly.
"If you rush over now, you'll be bitten to death!"
Maggie shook off his hand, her eyes red.
"My dad's inside! Beth's inside!"
"I know! But if you go there now, you'll be throwing your life away!"
Glenn's voice was so loud it startled even himself.
He took a deep breath and lowered his tone.
"We'll go around the back. Take the outer perimeter first and deal with them one by one."
Maggie looked at him, something shifting in her eyes.
She nodded.
The two of them crept along the edge of the woods, hugging the barn wall as they circled to the side of the house.
A Walker stood nearest to them, scratching at a window.
Glenn raised his pistol, pressed the silencer forward, and fired.
With a thud, the Walker's head burst, and it collapsed beneath the windowsill.
Maggie rushed in from the other side, slashing a Walker's neck with her machete. The blade became stuck in the cervical spine, and she couldn't pull it out.
She let go, grabbed an iron pipe from the ground, and smashed another Walker's head.
The noise alerted the horde.
They turned and rushed toward Glenn and Maggie.
Glenn reloaded and fired three shots—three Walkers fell.
Maggie smashed one head with the pipe, then drove it into another's eye socket.
They stood back to back, one with a gun, the other with a melee weapon, tearing a gap through the horde.
When Glenn ran out of bullets, he threw his pistol aside and picked up a wood-chopping axe.
Maggie pulled a pitchfork from the haystack and stabbed it into a Walker's chest, pinning it to the ground.
The last Walker fell beneath Glenn's axe.
The blade was embedded in the skull. He stepped on the corpse's shoulder and pulled it free.
They were both covered in black blood—sticky and foul across their faces, hair, and clothes.
Maggie dropped the pitchfork and ran to the door, banging on it.
"Dad! Dad! Open the door!"
The door opened.
Hershel stood there, still holding his shotgun.
He looked at Maggie, drenched in blood, then at the pile of corpses behind her. His lips trembled, his eyes filled with shattered tears.
"You… you killed them?"
His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
Maggie gasped for breath and wiped blood from her face.
"They were going to break in—they would've killed you—"
"They are patients!"
Hershel roared, his voice cracking.
"They were just sick! You killed them!"
He stopped.
His eyes fell on the corpse in the plaid shirt—the one that had been scratching at the window moments earlier—now lying in blood with a hole in its head.
His lips trembled. His eyes reddened, but he did not cry.
He turned and saw Glenn standing behind Maggie.
The axe in Glenn's hand. The blood on its blade. The dark stains on his face.
"You."
Hershel's voice turned cold.
"You taught her? Taught her to kill?"
Glenn opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Go."
Hershel pointed toward the gate.
"From now on, you are not allowed to set foot on my farm again. Get out."
Before Maggie could speak, Hershel shoved her into the house.
Patricia came out, grabbed Maggie's arm, and pulled her inside.
The door closed.
Glenn stood in the doorway, staring at the closed door, blood still dripping from the axe in his hand.
He opened his mouth, but could not speak.
Then he turned and left.
He glanced back at the white house. Shadowy figures moved behind the windows.
He looked away and got into the Humvee parked at the intersection, driving slowly toward the highway.
Hershel stood in the living room, looking at the door held shut by a wooden bar.
It was quiet outside.
He heard birds in the distance, wind slipping through cracks in the window, and the steady beat of his own heart.
He walked to the cabinet, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a glass.
His hands shook, spilling half the drink.
He drank it and coughed violently.
He had broken his vow.
He poured another glass. This time, his hand did not shake.
Maggie was locked in the inner room, sitting on the bed facing Beth.
Beth was still crying softly, her shoulders trembling.
Maggie did not cry.
She stared at a crack in the wall, her mind replaying Glenn turning and walking away.
He walked slowly—but never looked back.
Otis and Patricia inspected the fence in the livestock shed.
The chickens and ducks were still alive, huddled in cages, clucking softly.
The cows stood together in the pen, eyes glowing in the darkness.
The barn door was closed. Everything was quiet.
Night fell.
Glenn drove slowly along the highway. The moon cast a pale light over the road.
He did not know how long he had been driving, nor where he was going.
In the distance, lights pointed toward Prison.
He kept driving.
Hershel sat on the porch in a rocking chair, a shotgun resting beside him.
Moonlight revealed deep wrinkles and empty eyes.
He stared toward the grove near the water tower, at the corpses on the ground, and the plaid shirt stained black.
Otis moved the bodies, preparing them for burial.
Hershel closed his eyes.
The night wind was cold.
The barn door slammed in the wind.
Those things were hungry again.
He would feed them tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he would still wait for a cure, for the government, for the world to return to normal.
Tomorrow, he would tell himself they were just sick.
...
A/N: Thanks for reading!
Don't forget to support with powerstones! Including reviews.
Thank you!