Chapter Text
Weather was starting to turn. Beth could feel it in the sharp evening chill, could see her breath when she rose in the morning. The days were still warm and sunny, but autumn was fading and winter would follow. How would she survive the winter with only an abandoned car for shelter? She began to toy with the idea of returning to the funeral home. It would not be much warmer, but it would be four walls. The building was also big and if the walkers had not moved out on their own in search of food, she doubted she could clear the place alone.
Daddy always used to say that serendipity smiled on the unfortunate when they least expected but most needed it. Maybe it was serendipity. Maybe it was Daddy looking down on her from heaven and guiding her footsteps. Maybe, and she imagined Daryl subscribing to this theory, it was just plain dumb luck. Whatever it was, she stumbled upon a hunting cabin and she felt as if the heavens had opened up and led her to this spot.
Her constant search for food had taken her farther each day. The crude cabin was barely recognizable. Almost totally obscured by an overgrowth of ivy and kudzu, so thick it did not even look like a building. The structure was tiny, with one thick door and one solid, wood-shuttered window. Struggling with the overgrowth of weeds she had finally pulled the door open wide. If there had been any walkers inside, that noise alone would have roused them. But there was only silence. Knife drawn, she stepped inside cautiously. Dust and cobwebs coated the interior, and though she normally would have found that disgusting, it almost made her laugh. Clean hadn’t proven to be very safe either. There was a cot along one wall, a small wood stove, dry sink and hand pump. Against the wildest odds, a crossbow and a compound bow rested on nails above the door and window. She thanked the cabin’s owner again, for being a bow hunter not a rifleman.
An array of meat filled canning jars sat on the table, and on a small shelf on along the far wall. There had to be at least thirty quarts. The canner still stood on a small propane stove. Whoever had been here last was processing whatever he had killed, venison or turkey most likely. If she rationed it carefully it would greatly extend her meager supplies. She could only imagine what happened to the cabin’s owner. Was he interrupted by a walker? Maybe he got sick, died, then wandered out when he rose. Or, most likely he had gone outside for some reason and never returned. It didn’t matter. She said a silent thank you to whoever it was.
The cautious side of her reasoned that she should watch the cabin for a day or two to see if the owner returned, but the logical side convinced her that no one had been here to disturb the dust for a very long time. She made a quick trip to her closest cache to pick up whatever meager ration she had stored there, taking extra care to make sure nothing was following her as she returned. There were oil lamps and a gallon of lamp oil, at least one canister of propane with dry usable matches. She felt, for the first time in weeks, a sense of comfort.
The pump had to be primed. She had watched Daddy do that once. It had seemed easy when she was only ten and wasn’t running the pump handle. It proved to be much harder than she remembered. The handle squealed in protest, and she had to find oil, cooking oil would do, to grease the hinge and reduce the noise, then she pumped for what seemed forever. When the water finally started to flow it was rust colored, and smelled of sulfur, but after dumping several basins it began to run clear.
As night approached, she hung her walker-crusted jacket on a nail outside, closed the door and barred it, packed the cracks with old newspaper stored to start fires and risked lighting one of the lamps. In the soft glow, she filled a basin, stripped out of her clothing and used the cold water to wash the accumulated filth from her body. All she had for soap was a very old bottle of dish detergent. Dawn never smelled so good. She had no clean clothes, but that was okay. She shook out the bedding earlier, and even the wobbly cot was going to feel like a feather bed in a four star hotel. Dinner was the most delicious canned venison she ever remembered eating, even cold, straight out of the jar. Better even than pig’s feet. And she smiled a little at the thought.
She was tired, but bathing had cleared her head and she wasn’t ready to sleep. Hoping to find something to identify the cabin’s owner, Beth poked at the few items on the shelves. There was very little - a box of bolts for the crossbow, several tattered Penthouse magazines, chewing tobacco the mice had gnawed into, and way in the back a deck of cards. Now that she could use.
Playing solitaire was a good way to pass time. Before she began she counted the cards and came up short one card. Disappointed, she counted again with the same result. Turning the cards face up she sorted them into piles. But the missing card almost broke her heart – the jack of hearts, or as Daddy called it, the knave of hearts. And maybe that was just twisted irony. Because only one person could be the knave of hearts in her deck and she feared she would never see him again.
She lay down on the bed, dry eyed. But inside her heart was aching. Everything in this wretched world persisted in reminding her of all the people she had lost, but one person in particular.
****
As the days had turned into weeks, the aching numbness had begun to dull. She still had nightmares. Walkers still invaded the fragile security she had tried to create for herself. She continued to struggle. And each day she thought of Daryl and Maggie, Rick, Carl, Michonne, baby Judith, and all the rest wondering what had happened to them, where they had gone and why they had not found her. She had not given up hope, but it was becoming more fragile with each passing day.
Beth had been delighted to find the bows in the cabin only to realize how very difficult it was to actually use either of them. Daryl had made it look so easy, but she simply did not have the strength to arm the crossbow, or draw the compound. Still she tried every day. Each day she came closer to achieving her goal, as she moved into her second week at the cabin, she finally was able to arm the crossbow. She set it by the door. With one bolt ready to fire. It would do her no good if she were attacked by more than one walker, because she could never reload fast enough, but it would give her one shot. So she carried it with her when she went out to scavenge for food.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to find edible plants and wild berries the birds being far more efficient than she. So she found herself ranging farther from the cabin each day. Today had been particularly difficult. She had been forced to climb a tree to avoid a chance encounter with a pair of walkers. They grumbled and growled around the base, until a flock of wild turkeys distracted them. By then the sun was high in the sky and half the day had been wasted. A sudden storm a couple hours later had soaked her to the skin and the wind had turned sharply colder as the front moved through. Even the steady beat of the sun afterward was not enough to warm her. She had gone much farther than usual, with little to show for her efforts, and as she dragged herself back towards the cabin, she wanted nothing more than to lock the door behind her and forget the world outside existed. Maybe she was day dreaming, or maybe she had just become too accustomed to her daily routine, but she was almost to the door of the cabin when she heard their voices.
She froze in her tracks. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized she was listening to live human beings, but the feeling was quickly replaced with wariness. The voices were male, loud and coarse, tripping every defensive response in her body, her gut screaming at her to run and hide. Slipping quietly back into the underbrush, she fought the urge to flee and she waited to see who emerged.
There were two men, one large and heavily armed, his hair cut in a severe military style buzz, the other tall, lean and unkempt. They seemed to be arguing but she could only understand their tone and not their words from this distance. It did not matter. This place was no longer safe. As she retreated the way she had come she realized once again, that no haven ever stayed that way for long.
As soon as she was sure she was out of hearing range she began to run.