follow you into the dark - carl grimes

I

-

i.

the big rock candy mountain
"and you can walk right out again
as soon as you are in"

-

I like easy prey.

But I don't mind the chase, either.

Given that the quickest could never escape me and the strongest could never fight me off.

I was told when I was younger to not play with my food so, trust me, I truly don't try to. I make it quick. Don't even give them much time to be afraid. I suppose it's the gentlest way I can go about it.

He made the mistake of coming over the mountain, hobbling along in his truck after an array of small, steel spikes along the snow covered Devil's Pass Road leave his two front tires flat.

He keels to a stop in front of the house. He jumps out, rubbing his hands in the cold, his large shoulders flexing under the leather of his heavy coat. He curses to himself over the predicament.

He comes onto the porch, I think he's looking for a a tire pump or something. They always come in trying to find one of those.

He sees me. I even give him a chance to pull his gun, aim, fire. The bullet buries itself into the thick knot of flesh and bone that composes my shoulder.

He doesn't live much longer after that.

They never do.

-

I am a little curious about humans, it's been so long since I've been one.

They always have stupid stuff in their pockets. Their backpacks. Their hands. The things they carry that they think have meaning. But all belongings become pointless once you're dead.

This guy has a bat with him. Wrapped in barbed wire. I suppose it's his weapon of choice. He's got a lighter in his front pocket, a pocket knife in the other. Keys on his belt loop.

I think about the truck parked in the front drive and I wonder what he has inside it. I wonder what made him go over the mountain, not around it. Especially in winter, during a snowstorm.

His lifeless eyes stare blankly, his jaw hanging ajar with in an unheard scream still hanging from his lips. The major blow to his head will be sure that my silly little questions will go unanswered.

Maybe he was just really dumb. Or he just simply hadn't heard the folklore of these woods. About how no one who goes in ever comes out. How this house stands alone, the only one of its kind. Just like me.

He tasted fine, though. You can tell a lot about how someone tastes. He was a pretty healthy guy. He must've been fed well. Despite the apocalyptic world around us and all. Good for him, I guess.

And I know it's messed up. Like, really messed up. But I like it when they die just a little bit scared. They taste better that way. Maybe it's the kick of adrenaline, the salt of sweat. I don't know. Like I said. I know. It's messed up. But at least I'm honest.

I know what you're thinking, but I can explain... Actually, I can't. I don't know why I am the way I am. Why I'm not like the other undead creatures that roam this earth. I haven't rotted or decayed. I'm still as fresh as the moment my heart stopped, although years have passed. I wish I could tell you. I wish I knew.

Sometimes I wish that when I died, I actually died. And stayed dead. Everyone else gets that luxury. That certainty. No round two. Over and done with. Dead as dead can be. But not me.