A Path Of Blood And Brains

Arthur Morgan watched as Micah grumbled loudly, frustration evident in his voice, after Dutch turned away and left them behind. Micah shot Arthur one last dirty look before storming off, clutching his arm as he went.

A series of harsh coughs erupted from Arthur, each one painful and ragged. Tuberculosis had ravaged his lungs, and the beating he had endured at Micah's hands had only worsened his condition.

With great effort, he turned onto his stomach and began to crawl, though he couldn't quite comprehend why he felt compelled to do so. Perhaps it was a primal instinct, driven by the knowledge that he was dying, prompting his body to move even when his mind screamed for him to stay still. The pain was excruciating, and every movement felt like a monumental task.

But as he became aware of where his body was leading him, he found no room for complaint. With a gasping breath filled with agony, he pulled himself to the edge of a precipice, his gaze drawn to the vast expanse of the sky, painted in hues of orange and gold by the rising (or perhaps setting) sun. In that moment, amidst the chaos of his life, a profound sense of peace washed over him.

Arthur sensed that the labored, wheezing breaths he was taking were drawing to a close. Yet, strangely, he felt no fear. He had heard it said that the elderly often embrace death with open arms, having made their peace with its inevitability. At 36, he was not old by any means, but upon learning of his tuberculosis, he had accepted his fate. Initially, he had been terrified upon discovering his illness, but now? Now, he felt a strange happiness. He had managed to help John get closer to his family, and he had even managed to confront Micah, delivering a few well-deserved blows, all while grappling with his own mortality. He couldn't shake the disappointment that Dutch hadn't come to his senses in the end.

As a tightness gripped his chest, he felt his heart falter, then release one final breath. Darkness enveloped him.

———

Arthur Morgan was dead. Or so he thought—until the sound of a loud crash jolted him awake.

His eyes snapped open, and without a moment's thought, he sprang to his feet. Confusion washed over him in waves. First, wasn't he supposed to be dead? Second, why was he in a forest? Third, where had all his injuries gone? He could breathe normally again; there was no pain, which led him to a fourth question: why was he free of tuberculosis?

Glancing down, he inspected his clothing. Despite his miraculous recovery, he was still clad in the same bloody, dirty clothes he had worn in his final moments. His long hair and bushy beard felt familiar.

After several bewildered minutes of standing still, trying to make sense of his situation, the sounds of gunshots and distant screams broke through his thoughts—definitely the sound of trouble, likely from a man in distress. The gunfire had a distinct, recognizable rhythm, reminiscent of a pump shotgun.

Curiosity piqued, Arthur decided to investigate. As he moved closer, the gunfire abruptly ceased.

When he arrived at the scene, he instinctively ducked behind a tree. A sheriff, lying prone, caught his attention; a trail of blood marked his path. His eyes were drawn to the pump shotgun resting on the ground nearby.

Instinctively, Arthur reached for his gun in its holster, but then he remembered: he had left all his weapons behind when he died. He had given everything he owned to John before their parting.

With a resigned sigh, he cautiously approached the shotgun. He crouched down to pick it up, only to discover it was empty. However, a single shotgun shell lay nearby, and he quickly snatched it up and loaded it into the weapon.

His gaze shifted to the strange metallic object sprawled on the ground, the source of the crash that had awakened him. What was it? He had heard whispers of machines—so-called cars—which were essentially metal wagons that could move without horses.

He glanced back and forth between the vehicle and the lawman on the ground, a decision forming in his mind. As he approached the car, he peered through the glass. Inside sat a black man, seemingly around his age, gazing around in a daze. Leaning closer, Arthur could hear the man groaning and noticed that his eyes had lost all color, and his skin was beginning to rot. "Jesus..." Arthur whispered, stepping back from the vehicle in shock. "What in God's name is happenin'?"

Suddenly, a groan from behind him caught his attention. He turned to see the dead lawman twitching and rising. "Uh..." Arthur readied the shotgun in his grip. "Are you alive, sheriff?"

In an instant, the lawman sprang up from the ground, lunging at Arthur. But Arthur, renowned as one of the greatest gunslingers of his time, reacted swiftly, firing the shotgun point-blank into the undead figure's head. The cop crumpled to the ground, half his skull blown away. "Holy hell... what the fuck is he...?" Arthur exclaimed, unable to suppress the curse. The surreal reality of death and resurrection, both his own and the fate of the black man in the car, left him reeling.

Arthur knelt down to examine the lifeless body of the lawman. "Damn, look at this fella... skin's all rotted, and he reeks like a pile of dung. What in tarnation is this?" The sight of the decayed figure sent a shiver down his spine, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something deeply unnatural was at play here.

As he stood up, his eyes caught a glimpse of a small figure in the distance. He raised a hand to wave, but the figure darted away, disappearing into the trees. Confused, Arthur turned back to the scene, only to be confronted by a groaning chorus of slow-moving zombies emerging from the forest. Panic surged through him as he looked around, realizing these grotesque creatures were closing in on him. They resembled the lawman he had just shot and the black man in the car, their movements jerky and aimless.

"Great," Arthur grumbled under his breath, frustration boiling over. He sprinted away, gripping the shotgun tightly in his hand. A few meters later, he spotted a fence ahead and leaped over it with a burst of adrenaline. Landing on the other side, he turned to see the undead still lumbering toward him. "So they're not only dead, but dumb too. Good to know..." he muttered, taking a moment to catch his breath.

Looking around, he realized he was in the backyard of a house nestled in a small neighborhood. "What the hell is goin' on?" he wondered aloud, glancing back at the approaching zombies before deciding on a course of action.

"Well, reckon I oughta take a gander inside that house through the glass door, 'fore I go wanderin' 'round the neighborhood," he mumbled to himself. Arthur walked up the steps to the backdoor, hesitating for a moment before deciding to knock. "Hey there! Anyone in there?" he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the eerie silence.

When no answer came, he opened the door without further hesitation and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. The sight that greeted him was unsettling—furniture was overturned, and bloodstains marred the floor and walls of the kitchen. "Hmmm..." he mused, his gut tightening at the sight.

As he approached the kitchen counter, something caught his eye. A book lay open, showcasing a mostly colored-in drawing of a unicorn. "Damn..." he shook his head in disbelief. "Furniture's all turned over... blood everywhere... damn it... and a kid lived here, too."

Arthur stepped cautiously into the kitchen, but as he did, he slipped on a pool of blood, barely catching himself on the counter before he could fall. "Shit." He steadied himself and continued to search the kitchen. A cup next to the sink caught his attention; it was half-filled with water. He took a sip, grimacing at its warmth. "Warm like piss, but better than nothin'."

He opened several drawers and cabinets, his heart sinking further with each empty space. "Looks like this place has been cleaned out. Ain't nothin' left that's worth a damn," he muttered.

Then, he discovered a walkie-talkie in one of the drawers. "The hell is this?" He flipped it over in his hands, puzzled by the strange device. It had a button on it, but he didn't press it, opting instead to leave it on the counter.

Moving on, he noticed an answering machine that had been beeping incessantly. With a mix of curiosity and apprehension, he pressed a random button, hoping to silence the annoying sound.

"Three new messages. Message one. Left at 5:43 PM," an automated voice announced.

"Hey, Sandra, this is Diana. We're still in Savannah. Ed had a little 'incident' with some crazy guy near the hotel, so we had to get him back to the ER and have it checked out. Anyway, he's not feeling well enough to drive back tonight, so we're staying an extra day. Thanks so much for looking after Clementine, and I promise we'll be back in time before your spring break!" Diana's voice was cheerful.

"Message two. Left at 11:19 PM."

"Oh, my God, finally! I don't know if you tried to reach us; all the calls are getting dropped. They're not letting us leave and aren't telling us anything about Atlanta. Please, please, just leave the city and take Clementine with you back to Marietta. I've got to get back to the hospital. Please let me know that you're safe." Panic laced Diana's voice, sending chills down Arthur's spine.

"Message three. Left at 6:51 AM."

"Clementine? Baby, if you can hear this, call the police. That's 9-1-1. We love you... We love you... We love you..." Diana's voice broke, and the recording abruptly cut off.

The machine beeped again, and Arthur glanced at a family picture on the counter, a knot forming in his stomach. "Damn it. I just hope that poor kid's still breathin'."

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie crackled to life, and a little girl's voice reached his ears. "Daddy?"

Arthur rushed back to the kitchen, picking up the device. He flipped it around in his hands, trying to figure it out. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed the button, producing a small crackling sound. "Uh... how does this even work?"

"Shh! You need to be quiet," the girl whispered urgently.

So that's how it works, he thought, a bit relieved.

"Hey now, I'm not a monster," he said in a calm but firm tone, hoping to reassure her.

"Good," she replied, her voice trembling slightly.

"Who's this, then?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

"I'm Clementine. This is my house," she introduced herself.

"Well, hey there, Clementine. I'm Arthur," he replied, a small smile creeping onto his face.

"You're not my daddy," she said with disappointment.

"No, I ain't," he shook his head, feeling a pang of sympathy. "Are you okay?" he pressed, concern etched on his brow.

"I'm okay. They tried to get me. But I'm hiding until my parents come home." Her words tugged at Arthur's heartstrings.

He moved into the living room, scanning the chaotic surroundings. "Hey, kid... Where are your folks at?"

"They took a trip and left me with Sandra. They're in Savannah, I think. Where the boats are," she explained, her voice small.

"So, how old are ya, huh?" he asked gently.

"Eight," she replied.

"So, you're all by yourself, huh?" he pressed, trying to gauge the gravity of her situation.

"Yes. I don't know where anybody is," she admitted, her voice quivering with fear. "How old are you?"

"Me? I'm 36," he answered, his heart aching for her plight. "You alright? You feel safe?" He made his way back to the kitchen, glancing out the window.

"I'm outside in my treehouse. They can't get in," she said, and Arthur peered through the window to catch a glimpse of the treehouse.

"You a smart one, ain't ya?" he smiled, feeling a flicker of hope.

Suddenly, Clementine opened the door to her treehouse and waved at him. He returned the gesture, but then her expression shifted to one of terror as she screamed and retreated back inside, slamming the door shut.

Arthur turned around just in time to see a zombified Sandra staggering toward him. She growled, her eyes vacant and hungry. Without thinking, he pushed her to the ground with a fierce shove. Before she could recover, he brought his boot down with all his strength, crushing her skull with a powerful stomp. The grotesque creature lay still at his feet, and Arthur took a deep breath. "What in the hell have I gotten myself into?" he thought, glancing back at the treehouse, seeing the girl climb down the ladder.

Clementine rushed up to the glass door, her small figure silhouetted against the fading light. She swung it open, clutching a hammer tightly in her grip, her knuckles pale from the force of her hold. When she caught sight of Arthur, relief washed over her features, and she let out a shaky breath. "You're okay!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of worry and gratitude.

Arthur stepped forward, his heart warming at her reaction. As she scanned the area, her brow furrowed. "Did you kill it?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she dropped the hammer to the floor with a soft thud.

"I ain't sure, kid. But I reckon so," he replied, trying to keep his tone light, with a shrug.

"Sometimes they come back," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with an innocence that struck Arthur in the chest.

"Ever taken one out, little girl?" he asked, his tone serious but gentle, wanting to gauge her understanding of the grim world outside.

"No," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. "But they get shot a lot."

Arthur's mind raced. If they get shot a lot, did that mean they don't die from bullets? He thought back to the lawman he had shot earlier, how the blast had ended him for good. Yet he had just stomped on Sandra's head, and that seemed to have done the trick too. It was a grim realization that sent a shiver down his spine.

He looked at her, concern etching deep lines on his forehead. "You've been out here all on your own, huh?"

"Yeah," Clementine replied, her voice small. "I want my parents to come home now."

Arthur's heart sank at her words. He hesitated, knowing the truth would shatter the fragile hope she clung to. He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully, knowing he had to be gentle. "Clementine, I... I think your parents might not be coming back."

Her eyes widened in disbelief, incredulity flashing across her youthful features. "What do you mean? They'll be here soon, I know they will!"

Arthur felt a twinge of pain at her denial. "Listen, I heard a message on that machine," he said softly, crouching down to her level, trying to meet her gaze. "Your mom was scared. She was talkin' about trouble in Atlanta. It sounded bad, kid. Real bad."

"No!" she cried, shaking her head violently, as if by denying it, she could make it untrue. "They're just late! They always come back!"

Arthur's heart ached for her. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I wish I could tell you otherwise. But sometimes people don't come back. Sometimes... sometimes they don't make it."

Her lower lip trembled, tears pooling in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "No… no, no, no," she whispered. "They can't be gone. They can't!"

He watched as the little girl's composure crumbled before him, the weight of her fear and confusion manifesting in quiet sobs. He wanted to comfort her.

"Clementine," he said softly, "I'm so sorry. I really am. But we gotta face the truth. You're not alone anymore, alright? I'm here now."

But her small frame shook with grief, and she dropped to the floor, burying her face in her hands. Arthur felt a deep pang in his chest as he knelt beside her, unsure of how to mend the heart of this child who had already seen too much.

Minutes passed in silence, only the sound of her quiet sobs filling the room. Finally, she leaned against the wall, her energy spent, eyelids growing heavy as exhaustion took over. Arthur shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her.

He can't help but sigh and think to himself again: What have I gotten myself into?