Be Good

"We'll check it out, see if anyone's around and if they are..." He paused, approaching the front door of the black and white house carefully, half crouched in stealth.

"If they are?... What does that mean? You'll kill them?" I ask in confusion. He shoots me an exasperated look. "They'll probably try first, anyways."

He opened the front door, which was unlocked. I followed him in, taking in a deep breath, looking around the small foyer, up the dark staircase, I wiped my palm across the banister and pulled it away, expecting a patch of pale brown dust to be on my skin, but it was bare.

"It's so clean..." I murmured, looking around, at once more alert.

"Ya, someone's been tendin' to it... Come on." He jerked his head towards the stairwell further down the hall.

"Do we go down?" I whisper, looking into the dimly illuminated shadows at the bottom.

"Might as well get it over with." Daryl sighed, readjusting the crossbow in his hands, and began making his way silently down the steps.

"Keep that gun ready." He murmured quietly as we walked further down, I pulled the revolver from my waistband, making sure it was loaded and ready to fire, tilting it towards the floor, ready for me to raise it at the first sign of danger.

There is not a basement at the bottom of the stairs, just a small room, painted an off white, dimly lit. I recognize the metal tools on a silver tray resting on the counter to my right. They were tools my dad had commonly used during different procedures. As I looked to my left, I realized at once why they'd be in a place like this. A walker laid motionlessly on a metal gurney. Eyes shut, half it's face looked normal, it looked human under layers of makeup and concealant. The other half had not yet been finished, it had open sores, decaying gaps in the flesh and a sticky substance from the open wounds that made it smell terrible.

It wasn't only the makeup that made the sight remarkable, but what it was wearing. It was dressed up nicely in a neat, crisp black suit with an ironed neck tie and shiny dress shoes. Someone was preparing them for burial...

"Looks like someone ran out of dolls to dress up." Daryl muttered, looking down at the body on the table.

"It's beautiful." I snapped back at him, looking deep into his eyes before looking down at the walker again. "Someone... Whoever did this- they cared. They wanted these people to have a funeral." I nodded a little bit, as if it were a salute to the person who had done this. Whose hands stitched up wounds, cleaned up blood and pulled up zippers. Who snapped together the cufflinks on the jackets and rolled the hems up over the dress shoes neatly. Someone who cared.

"...Come on, we need to sweep th place and decide our next move." He yanked the elbow of my light brown sweater lightly, turning to head up the steps. I looked at the body once more before following him up.



"Find anything? Anyone?" Daryl asked when we rejoined in the foyer fifteen minutes later. I shook my head, looking up at the high ceilings above us in amazement. The funeral home, despite it's reasons for existing, was beautiful. It looked like one of those plantation houses... Where you could sit on the front porch in a frilly white dress, drinking lemonade and admiring the flowers growing around you. Watch the paperboys pass on the streets and the old cars rumble by...

"No." I reply. "Did you find the kitchen?"

"No, I haven't checked out that side of the house yet. Let's go."

The kitchen was pretty easy to find, just off one hallways near the back door. We walked inside with low expectations. Just because someone was using this building to prepare walkers for burial, didn't mean they'd risk leaving their food here.

Daryl crossed the small room in two broad steps, reaching above our heads for the cupboards doors above the counter.

"Jesus..." He whispered in surprise as we both looked up. It wasn't empty, or close to being empty... Bottles of Coke, jars of pickled vegetables, peanut butter and jelly, boxes of crackers and more upper class food than I'd seen in weeks.

"We got peanut butter and jelly." He confirmed as he pulled down two unopened jars from the cupboard. "Oi, those pigsfeet," Daryl said, pointing up to a jar with pinkish blobs floating around in it, "They're mine."

"Deal." I laughed, "You're so gross.

"Uh huh." He nodded in agreement, gathering what we'd need for lunch, setting it out on the little white table for four in the middle of the kitchen. As I looked around, I realized everything in the funeral home was white. The cupboards, tables, chairs and tile.

He popped the lid on the jelly and licked it, "Eww, Daryl!" I cried out, a laugh mixed with a shriek. "What?" He replied innocently, pretending to be straight-faced again, his lips twitched into a smirk. I rolled my eyes. "Nothing."

We sat down at the table, and made sandwiches in silence. That's when we both heard a scratching noise. I jumped up from the table, my gun ready.

"Stay here. I'll check it out." Daryl scooped up his crossbow and darted out of the kitchen to go check the doors. I stood there, anxiously thumming the hammer of the revolver until I crept towards the door.

"Daryl?" I called out.

"It's just a damn dog!" He called back. I walked out into the hall, Daryl stood by the backdoor, looking out on the porch, then back at me. "I thought I told you to stay back?" He demanded.

"Yeah but... You said there was a dog." I smiled.

He sighed. "Maybe he'll come around, c'mon."