The Stand

Prologue

It’s dark.

Black as an abyss.

His ears are ringing.

He wonders if this is his Hell. He doesn’t mind as long as the ones he cares about are safe.

But he’s not in Hell, he can tell that much from the splintered wood under his fingertips. The smell of moist dirt. The fact that he can breathe.

His finger twitches and he relearns how to move. It’s a battle, like his body has completely forgotten how to function. Like his nerves have been dormant for far too long. Nonetheless, he is able to feel around him.

The wood encases him from all sides.

It’s a casket. He’s been buried.

He knows he wasn’t buried alive. He remembers his last breath, the moment he died, and above all, seared into his mind: Dutch walking away. 

He was left to die on that rock and that he did. 

He emerges from the ground sweating something fierce with bleeding broken nails and splinters under his skin. His ears are still ringing. There are flowers in the dirt by his feet, dead and wilted like he should be.

The headstone reads “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness” and his name.

Arthur Morgan.

-

His body is starting to give out. Not from the tuberculosis (which he isn’t even sure he has anymore because he can breathe), but from the distance he has walked since getting out of that god forsaken grave. The white shirt he was laid to rest in is covered in dirt and soaked in sweat. His vision is starting to swim and the next thing he knows, he’s panting on the ground. He’s been walking this road for hours and he can’t seem to find a town or even a small house. His head is pounding from the heat and his eyes can’t seem to stay open.

He sees a stag, perched on a rock and bathed in sunshine.