D. Walker - The Snacking Dead

When she looked up at him again he had fled. A gurgling pack of biters chased after him. She heard screaming in the distance. Then she was alone.

The man hadn’t brained her, and she couldn’t move. The trees swayed gently above her, and Earl rattled his chain.

So there were monsters in the woods. The chupacabra was real. She didn’t blame Daryl for not saving her from it, but she wished he was still around somewhere.

She didn’t miss what was gone anymore. She had kept her family together despite everything. She had fed so many others, and kept her standards as high as possible. She had done her best in difficult circumstances.

Once, she had been just some shy girl afraid of her own shadow, and Daryl had put his hand around hers on the hatchet handle. Lordy, he had been good-looking. He had promised to protect her.

Right now she’d trade him all the grilled cheese sandwiches in the world if he could just sink that old hatchet in her head.

She had a splitting headache, chills, and her neck began to stiffen. The light of the sun burned into her brain. But those sensations were gradually eclipsed by a ravenous hunger. It started from the wound and spread like a brush fire through her whole body. It wasn’t just her stomach that was hungry—every cell in her began to scream with famine. As her life ebbed away, a brutal craving was coming to take its place.

She had done everything she could. Now she waited helplessly for the inevitable.

Things were about to get messy.

S he staggered mindlessly through an agonized fog.Every movement hurt, but stillness hurt more. The world was nothing but indistinct lights, muffled sounds, and a crazy sea of smells. Nothing came before and nothing after. She bumped three times against the same tree.

She had wandered for what might have been hours or years, when a new smell struck her like lightning. An unbearable burning hunger spread from her nose to her gut until it engulfed her. She had to eat. Now.

She saw images of herself biting, and gnawing, and swallowing. The smell made her brain writhe with craving. She had to snack.

The maddeningly delicious odor was trying to hide from her. She choked with rage that the one thing that could take away her distress refused itself to her. It wanted her to suffer.

The snack was sealed in a wooden shack. Thumping on the walls didn’t open it, so she hammered at the glass. The shards caught on her skin as she crawled through the broken opening, but she didn’t mind. It was snack time.

She caught it by the thigh as it tried to escape and took a taste. It was unbelievably hard to chew through muscle, but she put all her force into her jaws. The snack kept trying to twist away. She threw herself down on top of it to quell its thrashing and kept eating. The screaming and writhing finally died away, and she gnashed and tore in peace.

She savored her meal. The long, ropy limbs weren’t as good as the rich, wet middle, so she laid those aside and gnawed the juicy ribs.

This was a good snack, tasty enough, but she felt that with a little effort she could do much better. In any case, the hunger was flowing back fast. She wasn’t nearly full.

Being a walker was no picnic.

serves 2

¼ cup maple syrup

¼ cup light brown sugar

3 tablespoons salt, plus more to taste

4 fresh thyme sprigs

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste

2 (1-inch thick) bone-in pork chops

2 tablespoons olive oil

½ cup strong brewed black coffee

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 In a large heavy-duty resealable plastic bag, combine 3 cups of water, the maple syrup, light brown sugar, salt, thyme sprigs, and black pepper. Seal and shake it up to dissolve the salt. Add the pork chops to the bag and let sit anywhere for 30 minutes at room temperature or refrigerate for up to 4 hours. If chilled, let chops come to room temperature for 30 minutes prior to cooking.

2 Heat a large skillet over high heat, then add the olive oil and let heat for 30 seconds. Using paper towels, dry the pork chops and add to the pan. Sear, undisturbed, for 3 to 4 minutes or until well browned. Flip the pork and cook for an additional 3 to 5 minutes, turning and searing the edges as needed, until a meat thermometer inserted into the pork reads 135°F. Transfer the pork to a cutting board, tent with foil, and let rest 10 minutes before carving.

3 Meanwhile, make the gravy. Over high heat, add the coffee to the pan and simmer, scraping up the brown bits, until reduced, about 3 minutes. Stir in the mustard, turn off the heat, and stir in the butter. Season with salt and pepper as needed. Serve the pork chops drizzled with the gravy.

Hearty traditional dishes look most appetizing when served in a manner that conveys informality. These pork chops take on a devil-may-care look on a rustic wood surface.

D aryl kept to the woods and open fields.He was in a hurry to get back to the others with the supplies, but the state road was nothing but an all-you-can-eat buffet for the biters. Anyway, he still hoped to bag some quail or a wild hog.

A patch of color a ways off caught his eye. He crept through the brush. Tucked in a corner of a wide meadow were four tents surrounded by a makeshift fence, a whole bunch of cooking equipment, and the remains of a campfire.

Some of the campers were still there, at least parts of them. They lay where the biters had surprised them, still wrapped in the chewed tatters of their sleeping bags. Unsteady footprints led off south toward the road. He guessed five or six biters, probably off somewhere picking goose-down out of their teeth right now.

He picked up a jar of mustard from the supplies around the fire. The campers weren’t going to miss the Grey Poupon now.

There was a bloodied depression in the grass a few feet from the fire pit. Someone had fallen and bled out, but they weren’t there now. A set of meandering tracks led off in the direction he was headed. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to run into whatever made them, but he better keep track of where it went. He didn’t need anything coming back to bite him.

He followed the tracks toward the edge of the meadow, where he could soon make out two figures. They were just kids, or had been. A boy and a girl, chained to a tree and snapping at him like famished pit bulls.

Daryl squinted and raised his lip. Just when he thought this world couldn’t get more messed up.

“Well, ain’t you a sorry-looking pair,” he said aloud.

The girl rolled her eyes at him and made a gurgling sound.

“Right back at ya, Sunshine.”