Chapter Twenty-Two
Kenny comes bursting through the door.
"Clementine! Are you okay?" He asks worriedly, seeing the huge hole in the floor.
"There was . . . Hayley, I . . ." I stutter, tears forming in my eyes. Carl puts his arm around me, squeezing my shoulders.
"Hayley's dead." He says sadly, and Kenny's eyes go wide.
"Shit, no. Sarita . . ."
"What about me?"
Sarita's at the door, a look of confusion and worry etched on her usually bright face.
"Kenny? What's going on? Where's Hayley? Where is my sister?" She asks, her voice getting more high pitched and anxious with every word.
Kenny takes her hands in his and sighs.
"Sarita, honey . . . It ain't good news," he says gently.
Sarita pulls her hands away from his and stares at him.
"No, Kenny. No, no, no no no," she whispers.
Kenny can't hide the truth from his eyes.
"No no no no no! Hayley!" She sobs, and Kenny puts his arms around her.
"Shh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmurs, stroking her hair as she cries into his shoulder. He looks over at us, and I figure we should leave them be. I head out into he hallway, Carl following.
Once we're out there, Carl sighs.
"It should've been me who died," he says miserably, and I put a hand on his arm.
"Carl," I say softly, and his eyes flick up to meet mine.
"It wasn't your fault. I wanted to save you both. Hayley was so brave, right up untill the end. She didn't have to do what she did, but she still did it. You shouldn't beat yourself up over that, over someone else's kindness. She wouldn't have wanted that. And I care about you Carl. Your dad cares about you. There are so many people who care about you."
Carl smiles.
"Thanks, Clementine," he says, taking my hand and squeezing it.
I glance at the door.
"Maybe we should . . ."
Carl shakes his head.
"She needs time," he says, heading down the hall to the kitchen.
I nod. Poor Sarita. Life just isn't fair.
As we walk through to the kitchen, it's deafeningly silent, making me tense.
"Clementine." A voice says, seemingly from nowhere. I jump, grabbing Carl's arm.
He looks startled.
"Jesus, Clementine, do you have to-"
"We have news." Another voice calls out.
"Although bad or good is questionable," someone adds.
Three figures, each varying in height but unmistakably children, step out from the shadows.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, fearing the answer.
The tall girl, Emma, steps forward.
"The grandfather clock in the hallway," she replies, voice cold as steel, her dead, doll-like eyes boring into mine. Carl puts an arm around me protectively and I feel a little bit calmer.
Meghan twists a strand of curly hair around her finger anxiously, cutting off the blood circulation. She doesn't seem to care.
"You . . . You must . . ." She shudders, and my eyes widen as she starts screaming.
Whilst Emma is trying to calm her down, Ashley turns to face us.
"I'm sorry about the others. Emma's a sociopath, Meghan's insane . . . And I guess I'm a mixture of both. They mean well, but you must understand, our lives haven't exactly been easy."
I nod, "I understand. My life hasn't been too straightforward either. Can I ask, what did the other girl Emma mean when she talked about the clock?"
Ashley looks grim.
"I'm afraid that's for you to find out," she replies sorrowfully, walking away. The other pair, who have now calmed down, follow, and they too disappear back into the shadows.
Carl shudders, and I feel goosebumps on my arms. Those girls are creepy, that's for sure.
"So . . . Do you know where the clock is?" I ask. Carl shrugs.
"I have no clue. Do you have any idea how many hallways there are in this whole goddamn building?"
I suddenly pause. I'm pretty sure I saw an old clock near the main entrance.
"Okay, so I might know where there's a clock. Follow me," I say, begining to walk. Neither of us say much, both lost in our own heads.
Eventually, I spot the big front doors, and glimpse the clock.
It's a big, ugly, menacing structure which looks about eighty years old. It's so big infact, that it has a door, the handle rusted and ancient looking. No wonder they call it a grandfather clock. Still, besides the look of it, it seems harmless.
As I get closer, however, it seems . . . Strange. A trail of blood trickles down the wooden door, and I feel my hand slip into Carl's.
My hand hovers over the handle, and I feel slightly sick.
Carl looks at me, concerned.
"Clem, you know you don't have to . . ."
I'm fine," I reassure him, not feeling fine at all. He doesn't seem to buy it, but nods anyway.
"Okay, well, just be careful."
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and open the door.
It's not pretty.
Blood is spattered on the inside of the clock, as is the victim.
Tavia, her large frame crushed and pummedled by the clock. Bits of bone are sticking out from her arms and legs, and the words "tick tock" are written on her forehead in blood.
Carl doubles over, taking deep breaths to stop himself from puking.
I'm not so lucky.
I dart into the visitors toilets and throw up in the basin.
It's so, so horrible. Why would anyone do something like that? Where are the others, Rick, Tyreese, Michonne? What if something happens to Carl when I'm not there? What if he's being killed right now?
I begin to panic and, after rinsing my mouth out and hurriedly drying off, join Carl in the hallway.
The clock's door has been shut again, presumably by Carl, and one look at him shows that he's really struggling. He hugs me tightly for a few minutes and I try to calm down.
"It's so horrible," I murmur, my head on his shoulder.
"How could someone . . ."
"I don't know," he says, sounding deflated.
"I just don't know, Clementine ."
QOTD
Who's excited for Christmas?
