Our Life (Sequel to "Remnants")

Forgotten

-Riley-

Two hours later, Daryl and I branched away from the trap-riddled highway, following a quaint, rural lane that headed toward a small hamlet.

We were both concerned for Michonne, who as far we knew was unaware of the scavenger's hidden traps in the area. However, like me, Michonne had learnt how to evade and survive these greedy people - who look after themselves and nobody but themselves - during her time alone, and I remained confident that she would be able to outwit the lowlife who had created these traps.

The two of us approached the minuscule village from an elevated position, overlooking the hamlet - consisting of just one small cluster of housing - and exposing any former occupants who could be lurking in the area.

I surveyed the buildings carefully with a pair of not-too-shabby binoculars, whilst Daryl took aim at the prowling walkers with his crossbow, each squeeze of the trigger launching a razor-sharp arrow into the shambling cluster and sending one of the lumbering corpses collapsing to the ground, permanently dead.

Eventually, the area was strew with corpses, drastically reducing the danger of the situation, as Daryl stood up and wiped sweat from his brow.

"Alright," he breathed, lowering his crossbow for the time being, "let's get goin'."

I nodded in approval, having examined the area and discovered no sign of the less than friendly scavenger who had been just moments away from indirectly killing the two of us earlier.

We began with the nearest building - a small, peaceful, thatched cottage; the typical dream home for pensioners. Unfortunately, the sight inside was not quite as dreamy, with the poor elderly owner having took her own life to escape suffering.

The brutal and saddening scene of this elderly woman's forgotten corpse, one hand clutching a rusted revolver whilst the other held a dusty family photo - her final memory - was only worsened by the three-year stench of decay that lingered in the house.

"This house'd better 'ave somethin' useful," Daryl commented, shattering all the kitchen windows to invite some much-needed fresh air, "'cause I ain't goin' through this shit unless it's worth it."

The remainder of the cottage was nothing more than typical 19th century-style housing, with a disappointing lack of modern-day provisions. As the two of us traipsed carefully along the upstairs hallway, we passed several dust-coated photos of this woman and various other family members.

I had seen death before - more times than I ever cared to recall, let alone count - and I had seen pain, and mourning. What's more; I knew that photos and other seemingly pointless trinkets were just abandoned memories of a previous life, and nothing compared to the grief we encounter today. But regardless of all that, they still brought out a humane, sorrowful - some may even argue weak - part of me.

Still, I knew dwelling on this sadness, which had become nothing less than a forced way of life now, would not do me any good.

Eventually we reached the ladder that lead to the attic, which had already been placed in position for some unknown reason. Peering up into the ominous darkness of the closed-off room, I knew that I would now be forced into the typical regime of 'one of us go first, and the other follows after' - naturally, in Daryl's eyes, my life was not all that valuable, so of course I was not surprised when he instructed "you go first."

I nodded, reluctantly yet obediently, knowing that any objection would be futile toward the notorious Daryl Dixon.

"Okay," I sighed, pulling out a rechargeable flashlight before climbing up the elderly wooden ladder, which had certainly seen better days, and with each step I took, a concerning wooden creak followed.

Eventually, upon reaching the pitch-dark attic, I flicked on the light and apprehensively surveyed the area.

I instantly encountered a ghastly, grey face, all gory features illuminated by the small beam of my flashlight, stood less than a foot away from me. Having been presumably dormant for several months and perhaps even years now, the introduction of new prey took the walker by surprise and due to its lack of recent movement, the skeleton was apparently very weak.

It took the walker several moments to turn around, but the darkness of the attic restricted my movement and I had walked several meters from the opening - however, escape seemed the only option.

I started to step cautiously back toward the ladder, as the walker began to stumble forward, its joints popping and bones cracking as it familiarized itself with movement. Much to my dismay however, at that moment I found myself accidentally tripping over a outstretched plank of wood which I had obviously stepped over a minute ago.

Landing with a thud in the dark, I also found myself dropping the flashlight, which landed about a foot away. With rasp gurgles echoing in the empty room, I scrambled back toward the opening as fast as I could, but my left leg was suddenly clutched by the walker's bony hands in the darkness.

Unable to see what exactly was going on, all I was able to do to avoid a fatal bite was shake my leg frantically, hoping to somehow shake off my undead attacker.

This naturally failed however - since perhaps the one advantage of the dead was their strength; whilst it was not surmountable, it was certainly much more than you would expect from a rotting corpse.

Suddenly, a beam of light illuminated the walker which clung to my ankle defiantly, only partially distracted by the introduction of this flashlight and its holder.

Then, a razor-sharp crossbow bolt whizzed only millimeters by my head, appearing as nothing more than a thin blur as it spiraled between the walker's eyes. The creature released one final gurgle, before it recoiled with the impact and collapsed into a heap on the dust-coated floor of the attic.

"Oh Christ," I sighed, automatically assuming that the crossbow was being held by my companion, "thanks Daryl."

"Kid," an unfamiliar voice spoke, and I turned around in shock at my unknown savior.

"This ain't Daryl."