TWD - Chapter 582: Night (Patreon)

Night settled over Knoxville. The last orange-red light drained from the horizon, leaving a deep indigo sky.

The city's outline blurred into the dusk. Deserted high-rises, collapsed billboards, and abandoned cars disappeared beneath the gathering darkness.

Beneath the great dome of UTK Stadium, a bonfire blazed.

It was the second night of the operation to retake the East District. The surrounding area had been largely cleared, so no one had to worry much about the flames drawing walkers or unwanted visitors.

This was no tiny, furtive fire lit in a corner while frightened survivors huddled out of sight.

It burned brightly in the open center of the stadium. Flames licked the logs and crackled, washing the soldiers' exhausted faces in shifting light.

Four units had set out from the city center. Carver's force, meanwhile, had swept through the East District in just two days and reached the edge of downtown.

All five units had gathered at the stadium to spend the night. They would resume their advance tomorrow.

Benson lounged in the third row of plastic seats, leaning back with his legs stretched across the seatbacks in front.

His eyes were half shut, and he looked almost asleep.

Two full days of hard fighting had worn everyone down, body and mind. Most were too tired to talk and wanted nothing more than to sit in peace and stare into space.

Theodore sat beside Benson, carefully cleaning his knife. After a while, he broke the silence. "Benson."

"Hm?" Benson answered without opening his eyes.

"Where do you think walkers go at night?" Theodore asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Benson frowned and considered it. "Beats me. Maybe they hole up somewhere. Maybe they keep wandering the streets. They don't need sleep, anyway. Lucky bastards."

Theodore thought for a few seconds. "Do you think they get tired?"

Benson finally opened his eyes and stared at him, both surprised and exasperated. "Theodore, have you killed so many today that you've turned into a philosopher?"

Theodore grinned. "I'm just bored. Got curious, that's all."

Benson gave a helpless chuckle and shut his eyes again. "Quit overthinking it. They're just corpses that happen to move."

Theodore dropped the subject and started talking about something else.

A little farther up the stands, Carver sat by himself.

His blade had been carefully cleaned, and he'd rinsed away the black blood that had splashed over him. Now he watched his men resting below with a quiet expression.

A young soldier approached and sat down beside him.

"Captain," the young man said softly.

Carver turned. It was Sturgess.

Thick gauze covered the stump of his wrist. He was still rather pale, but his spirits seemed better.

"Why aren't you lying down?" Carver asked.

"Can't stand it anymore. I've spent two days resting. I feel a lot better now," Sturgess said, shaking his head.

He glanced down at his bandaged wrist. "Damn, the medicine's worn off. It's starting to hurt."

Carver chuckled but said nothing. For a while, they watched the bonfire in silence.

Eventually Sturgess looked up, uncertainty in his eyes. "Captain, what am I going to do with myself now?"

Carver turned toward him. "What do you mean?"

Sturgess lifted his stump and gave a bitter smile. "What can I do without this hand?"

Carver was quiet for a moment. Then a sly smile spread across his face. "Haven't you noticed the fellow in the Defense Force with a mechanical arm?"

Sturgess blinked. "The one-armed guy? Merle, from our unit?"

Carver laughed. "That's him. His mouth's enough to make anyone want to hit him, but nobody actually dares."

He nodded toward the fire. "See the guy squatting over there with a cigarette?"

Sturgess followed his gaze.

A one-armed man crouched beside the flames. A handsome mechanical arm replaced his right one, and a cigarette hung from his mouth as he spoke to the man beside him. That silent, stone-faced man holding a crossbow was Daryl.

"Merle?" Sturgess asked.

Carver nodded. "After he lost his right hand, he trained his left. He fights with a knife, shoots, smokes, and flips people off with that one hand.

"Now his left hand's quicker than most people's right, and the mechanical arm can switch between different attachments. Pretty useful, huh?"

Carver pointed toward him. "Last month, he sparred with a new recruit using knives. The recruit had both hands. Merle had one. Guess who won?"

"Merle?" Sturgess ventured.

"Two moves, and the recruit's knife went flying," Carver said. "The kid complained that Merle had caught him off guard. Merle told him, 'I've only got one fucking hand! What, am I supposed to wait for you to stab me?'"

Sturgess gaped. "Wow."

"That man's a crafty old bastard," Carver went on with a shrug. "He figures if he's only got one hand left, he might as well get everything he can out of it."

Then he added, "You know the funniest part?"

Sturgess shook his head.

"His little brother, Daryl. The one who never talks and always looks like he's in a bad mood. He's fiercely protective of Merle.

"Somebody once made fun of Merle's missing arm behind his back. Daryl heard it and beat the guy up without a word. Nobody's dared bring it up since."

Sturgess lowered his gaze to the bandages. "I... I'm not like him. I can't fight that well."

"How do you know?" Carver asked.

"I wasn't strong even before. Eight times out of ten, I came last in training. If Heath and Scott hadn't joined the Defense Force, I probably wouldn't have signed up. And now I've lost a hand..."

Carver gave his shoulder a firm, steady pat. "Listen."

Sturgess looked up.

"You don't have to stay in the Defense Force," Carver said. "Rock Fortress doesn't need you to keep serving as a soldier after losing a hand."

For an instant, Sturgess's eyes dimmed.

"But that's not all Rock Fortress has to offer."

Sturgess blinked. "What?"

"Ancheta, our best combat engineer. The man's capable of fixing almost anything. He built Merle's mechanical arm, and it works better than the original."

Sturgess stared at his bandaged wrist, his thoughts turning over one another.

Could someone like him, a newcomer who had scarcely contributed anything, get an arm like that?

Could that really happen?

Carver got up and patted his shoulder again. "Enough worrying. Heal up first. When you're ready, go talk to Ancheta. He might even have something you can use already."

He paused. "Remember, Rock Fortress won't carry dead weight, but we don't look down on people who've lost a hand, either. Just look at Merle. That bastard's as cocky as they come."

Carver walked off toward the fire, leaving Sturgess staring at his stump, still trying to take it all in.

Merle remained beside the bonfire, smoking. Daryl sat nearby with his crossbow, keeping his own counsel.

Sensing someone watching him from the shadows, Merle nudged his brother with an elbow and glanced over. "Hey, think that one-handed kid's staring at me?"

Daryl said nothing.

"Of course he is. Ha! Knew it. A man with my looks gets noticed wherever he goes!"

Daryl finally muttered, "...You really have no shame."

Merle grinned. "Shame? Dumbass, it's called confidence!"

He lifted his left hand and waggled it in the firelight. "Look how fast this thing moves. Better than most folks with two hands."

Daryl ignored him again.

"If that kid's smart, he'll come asking me for pointers. Bring me a little something, and I'll teach him how to live better with one hand than those fools do with two!"

Daryl glanced at him. "Teach him what? How to run his mouth?"

Merle roared with laughter. "What's wrong with a smart mouth? It keeps you alive! Look at all those nice, obedient bastards. They die first."

Daryl shook his head and faced the fire again, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.