The Phantoms of Marvis Pass

Seven - A Parade of the Undead

 Daryl dissolves into reality when something jolts against his thigh, and he lifts his head to see what the matter is.  Al's knee is against his skin.  He must be dreaming.  Daryl's hypothesis is further strengthened when Al's arm, which is draped over Daryl's side, flinches, and his fingers convulse a tad.  Bubbly snores creep out of Al as he inhales, and Daryl puts his head back down on the pillow.  They had abandoned their urges to drink like madmen after their hours of intimacy.  They were much too exhausted.

        It had been such a lovely experience, and Daryl and Al want to feel it again soon.  Skin to skin is such a peaceful sensation.  It feels so natural and primal yet so celestial and timeless.

        Daryl lets his legs slip over the side of the bed, and his toes lightly graze the floor before he drops the entirety of his weight onto his heels.  He stands still for a minute, pondering about what time it is.  The sun is already starting to drench the morning sky with a tasteful purple hue, but this unrealistic star is not going to curse them with feral amounts of heat today.

        No.  The scorching only comes on Sundays.  The dawn of Ferique.

        Daryl gathers up his clothes and sits down to dress himself, and he doesn't bother to awaken Al as he slips out the front door.  A firey rush is consuming his soul.  A mission is sprouting deep within him.

.   .   .

        Daryl feels his muscles relax and tighten as he pulls his arms over his head, like Zeus weilding a bolt of lightning, before thrusting his hands back down, driving a sharpened stick into the dirt.  A knife from the bakery, now scratched and covered with flakes of wood, is sitting on the ground about two meters away from the busy man.  A pile of wittled branches and sticks, like a pile of spears, rests beside the former kitchen tool.  Daryl meanders back to the collection of makeshift weapons and picks one up off the top.  The process continues, allowing him to build up part of a dangerous wall around the town.

        "Day!  What are you doing?"

        Daryl jumps as Al's voice rings around him, and he twirls to see him on the porch of the house, leaning against one of the posts with his arms crossed.  He is fully dressed, but his hat is a bit cockeyed atop his head.  A flood of hot embarrassment shoots through Daryl as he looks at the bizzare collection of sticks fanning out of the ground like a parade of the undead.  He remains quiet and diverts his eyes to his scuffed boots.

        "Is it secret?"

        Daryl nods a tad.

        "Do you want some help?"

        Daryl blinks nervously and cracks his knuckles.  Al sighs and waltzes up to him.  He pats his shoulder with a rough hand before taking a load of sticks off the pile, and he continues building the wall.

        "I don't think this is going to keep out the Sorrow," Al says as he looks at the trail of frail sticks clambering out of the dirt.  "She will just teleport in."

        "It's what Wes told me to do."

        "Oh.  What are these gonna do?"

        Daryl nibbles on his lip.  Al nods.

.   .   .

        The river crackles by Al and Daryl as they sit on the bank, and an empty canoe sits along the pebbles as well.  They were unsure if they were up to rowing along the water, so they brought it anyways.  Their biceps were sore and worn from the day's work, but now there was a ring of timid, sharpened sticks protecting the abandoned town.

        Al brings a bottle of golden whiskey to his chapped lips and takes a swig before handing it to Daryl.  Daryl hesitantly takes it and admires the setting sun's reflection on the murky glass.  He slowly brings the neck of the bottle to his lips and takes a small sip, and his tongue immediately retracts when the alcohol touches its tastebuds.  A massive convulsion of disgust racks Daryl's body, and he lets out a few weak coughs as the liquor trickles into him.  He passes it back to Al.

        "Th-That's why I don't drink.  Dear God."

        Al smirks and takes in another gulp.  "Tastes like shit but makes you feel all warm."  He sets the bottle down.  "What do we gotta do next?"

        Daryl glances at the canoe and then at the scenery around them.  "There is a place downstream.  An old mill.  I gotta get something."

        "Wanna go now?"

        "No.  I don't want it to be dark when we get there."

        "Ah, okay.  Is there any way that we can talk to Wes again?"

        "Gotta wait until Sunday.  They can't interact with us much.  Just one day a week.  Then we are on our own."

        "I see.  Dammit.  I wish she could help us out more."

        "I do, too."

        "She is an actual good guy, right?  Not just someone trying to trick us?"

        Daryl nods quickly and looks over at Al.  "She's going to show you everything next weekend."