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H E R
After undergoing some rather thorough pat-downs, a man named Alex led us to the front. A spacious courtyard, predominantly enclosed by brick walls, greeted us. I glanced sideways at Carl, who walked beside me in even, precise steps. The tension knotted in his shoulders and the rigid set of his jaw betrayed his lingering suspicion.
I, on the other hand, couldn't help but be hopeful. Really hopeful, which was becoming less common place in my once so optimistic personality. So I clung to this aspiration, let myself dream and wish. That Terminus could be our next prison. They take us in and we become part of them. That things would finally just be simple.
"How long's this place been here?" Daryl asked.
Alex turned to him, "Since almost the start." He replied. "When all the camps got overrun, people started finding this place. Think it was instinct, ya know? Follow the path. Some folks are heading to the coast, others out west, or up north. But they all wound up here."
We stopped walking by then and ended up in front of a large outdoor grill. The scent of cooking meat made my hollow insides turn.
A real meal sounded almost too good to be true. Not just a leg of a rabbit or a smooshed granola bar. But a fresh cooked, hmm, maybe beef? I couldn't even remember the last time I'd had steak or a hamburger. Excitement and hunger took over any last doubts I had.
"Heard you came in the back door. Smart. You'll fit right in here." A woman with auburn hair commented as she turned over a piece of meat.
I cast a glance over my shoulder, searching for a familiar face. People milled about, but none were recognizable to me.
"Hey Mary, would you fix each of these new folks a plate?" Alex asked the woman behind the grill and my attention fell past her shoulder, to someone wearing a printed poncho.
Daryl had a poncho. I remember it well. He wore it during last winter, back when I had first arrived. It had been cut from a heavy horse blanket. Curiously, I squinted at this one now, just across the courtyard. The familiarity of it brought about a strange sense of unease within me. It was almost too similar.
"Why do you do it?" Michonne spoke up. "Why do you let people in?"
"More people become part of us, we become stronger."
Good tactic? Made sense. We did the same thing at the prison.
A man sitting in a chair dug through a burnt orange backpack. Another guy was milling around in riot gear, like the kind they had back at the prison.
