Hershel in the Barn

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Settle in, take your time, and let's see what waits in the dark 🖤

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"Thanks to you, I'm still alive and kicking."

Evan held his bowl of meat soup and nodded tiredly.

"Right. Almost forgot."

He pointed back at the fire truck.

"Did the meat I brought settle what I owed you? If it didn't, I'll make up the difference with other food. I brought plenty back."

The moment he said it, Maggie, Otis, and Jimmy exchanged a look behind Hershel.

The three of them hurried up into the truck, opened one of the water compartments, and found it more than half-filled with bottled drinking water and packaged food.

All three cried out in surprise.

Greene Farm had plenty of harvested food stored away, but they had not seen this much processed food in a long time.

"You brought all this from town?" Hershel asked.

His daughter stood there with an armful of supplies, and apparently there was still more in the fire truck. Hershel could not help looking back at Evan.

Evan only nodded. He did not mention the survivor camp.

Simply put, Hershel did not need to know.

If Evan had to classify him, Hershel was the same kind of man Rick was. That was why he could get along with the old Quarry Camp at all. Rick was simply more clear-eyed and had more nerve.

If Hershel learned Evan had wiped out an entire survivor camp, it would create a pile of trouble that could be avoided.

And Evan did not like trouble.

"Then this truck..." Hershel began, frowning.

Evan waved him off.

"Hershel, you sure do ask a lot of questions for a cranky old man. I brought back a lot of liquor too. How about a party tonight?"

He raised his eyebrows at Hershel.

Hershel's mouth fell open.

He was, in fact, a cranky old man.

Still, after looking at Evan and then at Sophia sitting quietly beside him, Hershel kept his questions to himself and nodded.

Two hours later, the campfire painted every face in shifting orange light.

People moved around it with no music and no rhythm, plastic cups in hand, pouring cheap liquor down their throats as if the world had not ended.

It was release.

It was the madness they had all been holding back since the outbreak began.

They were not really dancing with one another. They were each lost in their own private dream, taking one quiet, reckless moment of peace while it was still offered.

Thump.

Hershel swayed and dropped onto the ground.

Evan sat beside him, one hand thrown over the old man's shoulder, his words blurred by drink.

"I'm telling you... hic... you shouldn't keep so many walkers in that barn... hic..."

"They're just virus-rotted garbage now. Not... not your family anymore..."

"Tomorrow, drag out that big harvester of yours and mulch the whole lot. Trust me. Can't go wrong."

Hershel did not seem to understand what Evan was saying.

He hiccuped, flushed from the liquor, with a foolish smile on his face.

"You're... you're right."

"Right?" Evan brightened at once.

"You're right," Hershel repeated.

That was all he could manage. By then, the old man was far past reason.

Poor Hershel had probably wanted to loosen Evan's tongue. Instead, Evan had nearly drunk him into agreeing to everything.

In the whole camp, only Sophia remained fully clear-headed.

She held her doll and cradled a cup of juice, watching the strange adults with open curiosity.

Then her gaze landed on Evan's silly, drunken grin and stayed there for a long while.

The next morning, someone crawled out of a tent.

"Son of a bitch."

Daryl clutched his head between both hands. Something inside it had been scraping at his skull since the moment he woke.

"If I ever party with Ward again, I'm snapping every damn bolt I own."

Merle squinted through his own hangover, reeking of liquor, and waved him off.

"Please. Everyone in this county knows those bolts are your precious little babies. You gonna cut off your own babies?"

Halfway through the sentence, Merle stopped.

He shivered, sobered by a sudden thought, and stared at Daryl.

"Wait. You... you ain't, right?"

"Fuck off."

"Hey, my mama's your mama."

Daryl's face twisted with anger. Still riding the last fumes of alcohol, he grabbed his crossbow and started to load it.

"Hey, hey, hey. Come on. I'm your brother."

Merle's eyes widened. He looped an arm around Daryl's neck before the younger Dixon could do something stupid while half-dead from a hangover.

"Morning."

Andrea poked her head out of a tent, blond hair a wreck. Amy and Sophia appeared behind her.

For a second, the three of them looked like three rumpled, sleep-deprived faces in a row.

Hershel's family had been carried back to the house the night before. As the others sobered up and exchanged tired smiles, confusion started to settle in.

"Where's Evan?"

His tent was empty.

Had he only come back yesterday, then left again today?

Merle yawned.

"Ask Hershel in a minute."

But when they knocked on the farmhouse door, Hershel was missing too.

Maggie, Otis, and the others had only just woken from their hangovers.

"Did you see where Evan went?" Amy whispered near Sophia's ear.

Sophia hugged her doll.

"I only know Evan said last night he was taking Hershel to fight walkers."

Fight walkers?

With Hershel?

Everyone looked at one another. At Hershel's age, could he even swing a blade?

As people started murmuring, Maggie lost patience. She mounted a horse and rode toward the woods, afraid that madman had dragged her father into doing something insane.

After a moment, Daryl told Merle to watch the camp, grabbed his crossbow, and followed.

The man everyone was worried about was waking up in the dark barn.

Low growls dragged him out of sleep.

Evan opened his eyes, stared at the black rafters overhead, then closed them again and rolled over, ready to go back to sleep.

Five seconds later, his eyes snapped open.

Below him, walkers drifted back and forth across the barn floor.

There were thirty, maybe forty of them. A small horde in a wooden box.

Evan reached behind him on instinct.

He did not find the Stone Sledgehammer.

He found an arm.

His heart jumped into his throat.

Then relief followed a second later.

"Warm," he muttered under his breath. "Not a walker."

He turned and saw Hershel sleeping comfortably in the hay beside him.

They were on the barn's second level. That was the only reason the dead below had not eaten them in their sleep.

Hershel snored, patted his stomach, and settled deeper into the hay.

Evan stared at him and thought with a sigh.

'Some fools really do get lucky.'

Then he paused.

'Did I just insult myself too?'

Forget it.

He slapped Hershel across the face.

The old man jolted awake.

The moment he sat up and saw Evan, his panic eased.

"This early? What is it, Evan..."

Hershel was still slow from sleep.

Evan smacked him again.

When Hershel sat up frowning, clearly about to curse, Evan pressed one finger to his lips and pointed down into the barn.

Still groggy, Hershel leaned out and looked.

He broke out in a cold sweat.

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