Stray // Daryl Dixon

Devil Like Me

The air in the building had felt colder, thicker. A chill scraped down the length of my spine and made the hair on my arms rise as death had loomed above us. I could feel the dark-cloaked figure peering over my shoulder as we sought out the Saviours, following behind Glenn and I as we entered first. My gun remained on my shoulder, the barrel peering around corners before my body did.

Glenn reached for the first door on the inside, silently swinging it open for the rest of our team to filter through. Andy was correct when not remembering any windows. The only source of light came from the odd bulb hanging loosely from swinging wires, leaving the hallways a dim yellow tinge. Paint chipped on the metal doors and walls and the concrete floor cracked, some spots in chunks if you didn't watch your footing.

I followed in behind Abraham, Glenn hot on my heels. As an instinct I swung from left to right, clearing vacant rooms with a glance even though each person in front of me had already done the same. Our footsteps were silent on the concrete and the air was eerily quiet, not a soul in here seeming to be awake.

"Check the doors. Find the arsenal. We take them out," Rick whispered the order, allowing people to begin dispersing.

Those now in front of me began opening the doors down the main hallway, leaving Glenn and I to pass by, once again taking point. Glenn and I veered down the right hallway, Glenn only a step or two in front of me. I cocked my head around watching as Rosita and Aaron steered down the left hall while Rick, Michonne, and Daryl went for the room directly ahead. The hallway wasn't long, maybe twenty feet or so, short enough that Michonne could watch our backs as we entered the first room on our left.

Glenn placed his hand down on the handle, pushing it slowly and allowing the door to creak open on its own. The light from the hallway slowly filled the small bedroom, my gun aimed into the open space where two cots lay pressed against either side of the wall. I dropped my gun, the strap hanging loosely on my shoulder as I retrieved my knife. Two men slept peacefully, dreaming of whatever thought danced around their heads. They were two sheep trapped in a pen as the wolves approached. The room had been so quiet, the only sound was mine and Glenn's unsteady breaths. I stood in the doorway for a moment. I had spent all day trying to convince myself that I have hunted before, I have killed so many animals in the woods to feed myself. But that had been different, that had been for a purpose. No matter how many times Rick tried to convince us that this needed to be done to keep ourselves alive, it still hadn't felt right. How could it? These were people. People who lived and breathed, had thoughts and feelings, family and friends.

My feet pressed forward, each step more unbearable than the last. How could we do this? How could I do this? I stared down at the man, my body nearly hovering over him at this point. His eyes twitched as he slept soundly. A true sheep and I the wolf about to devour its prey. I brought my knife up from my side, the whites of my knuckles staring back at me from how hard I gripped the handle. I held it there, above his head, unmoving. I couldn't do it. I bit my bottom lip so hard I drew blood, the coppery tinge in my mouth no distraction from what I was about to do. I remained in that stance unable to move, thinking in the next moment I would back away and walk out of here. But then my eyes looked up at the wall above the Saviour's head. A collage of polaroids was scattered on the concrete, my stomach twisting into a knot from his collection. Jesus had told us of the boy they had beaten to death in front of them but never had I imagined it to look like this. These pictures were trophies of all those innocent people they had killed. All those communities they had traumatized into submission. Skulls had been smashed to smithereens, chunks of flesh and tissue exploded on the pavement, pools of blood swarming the bodies. Not a trace of what they might have looked like before the Saviours got to them, only a neck and a body. They weren't dreams that danced around these men's heads, they were nightmares. They were not good people.