He was fucking tired of rain. Of his clothes stiff from dirt and getting wet and then drying. Too many days in a row.
And he hated these guys. They all had the same constant vigilance he had; no one spoke much. Everyone was holding onto what they carried, fingers gripping tight. There wasn't much word about what happened next. Joe held onto that tight, too.
He didn't give a shit, except he hadn't had a choice when they found him. And he suspected – wasn't sure – that they might know where Beth is. Or have her. They had a feeling of a settled camp about them; they couldn't just be struggling along in the woods with nothing over their heads like he and Beth had been. But he figured they were waiting. Waiting for him to slip-up so they could kill him and take his shit. Or waiting for him to prove something valuable so they could go to the next level.
But then, the days went by. And there was nothing settled about them at all. They fought, they yelled, they stripped each other's gear after beating the hell out of one of the group and leaving him for dead. They were mobile killers, with an uneasy bargain, but he wanted out. He was sick of the silence, the banter that passed for conversation. He was sealed up tighter than he'd been in a while and though he'd spent most of his life that way, now it didn't fit him.
One day, along the track, he saw it. Beth's sweater. The shredded one. The stains could have been blood or rust. Could have been anything. He couldn't do anything then, though. They camped at sunset each night; they walked until Joe said they could stop. But he noted the sweater; noted everything around them.
Then the next morning, he was gone. Slept with his pack on him, and just rolled to his feet and stepped away. Back to the sweater, which was now soaked into the mud. It was raining again.
He was fucking tired of rain.
Of running.
Of hunting.
Of searching.
Of thinking.
He heard noises behind him. Talk. Yelling. And then, tired or not, he started running, too.
The sun rose. He was in a tree; slept there most of the night. He knew he'd gone west. Toward the tracks. Toward Terminus. He thought that was bullshit, but he was out of plans. And he was starving. As the sun rose, the morning fog burned off, he saw it. A house. Less than a mile off. No smoke from the chimney. But still. Shelter. He slowly started climbing down the tree.
He woke up. Was it a day later? Two days? He was in a bed, boots off. He moved, slightly. The springs crinkled. He froze. Was he caught? Alone?
He shut his eyes. Was he awake or dreaming?
He listened for noise. The house was silent around him. White walls. A bookshelf. A red carpet on the floor.
He was still dressed. His boots nowhere around. A glass of water on the nightstand. A candle.
There was a window and it was open. He could hear birds squeaking through the trees. Jays, from the sound. Probably knocking some other smaller birds from their own nests.
His body felt heavy. He heard a rumble of thunder in the distance, the slurring of raindrops, soft, then hard. Then, sleep again.
This time, he woke in night. The half-moon in the window, rising. And he was not alone.
Beside him, on the bed, was Carol.
Dressed. In clothes he'd never seen. She held a shotgun.
"Carol?"
"Yes," she said, lighting a candle on the nightstand.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I found you," she said. She put her hand on his shoulder, pushed him back to the pillow. "Shh. Just sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
He woke, then, and he needed to move. He picked his way, barefoot, through the house, the floors creaking. He was on the second floor; the room he was in was the only one not trashed or blocked off. He walked down the stairs and saw the open room. A fireplace. A sofa. A table with a jigsaw puzzle on it. A tea pot.
Carol, at the bottom of the steps.
"I've got something for you to eat," she said. "Come on."
She fed him, rice and macaroni and apples from the orchard behind the house. She made him tea. She gave him some cream for the cut on his head. She gave him a towel and poured buckets of boiled warm water for a bath. She stood outside the door, handed him fresh clothes. He didn't ask where they came from; she turned away, let him dress in privacy.
The bathroom was giant. Two sinks. A large mirror, the size of the counter. The toilet a ridiculous turquoise, which matched the sinks and the tub.
He buttoned the shirt. Pushed his hair from his eyes. He looked like someone else. Like a minister. Like a probation officer. Like someone who worked in an office. The pants were dark brown, canvas. Something you'd paint houses in. Lots of pockets. But the shirt? The shirt was pure white, something you'd wear to court.
He came out. She was standing in the kitchen. The teapot on the stove.
"The gas hooked up here?" he asked. Again, he wondered if he was dreaming. Was this before the Turn?
"There's still propane in the tank," she said. "Not much, I'd guess, but some."
He nodded.
"So what's the plan?"
"The plan?"
"What're we doing? Where are we going? Who else is with you?"
"You're with me," she said. "There's no one else."
He couldn't ask her, not the first few days he was up and about, what happened. She named the names: Lizzie, Mika, Judith, Tyrese. But she wouldn't tell the stories and he knew he shouldn't ask.
He told her nothing about Beth. "Just gone," he said, and that was enough. She turned from him when he told her, their scraped-empty dinner plates between them, and said she was going to bed.
He sat in the living room, on the sofa. The man of the house. Listened to her go up the stairs and lie down. A big wind came up through the woods and rattled the open windows, so he slowly went about closing them.
Then he sat in the dark with just the candle on the table. Breathing. Silent. Alone. The stories of the dead keeping him company.
No plan. No words. No explanation. Terminus? She shook her head. "You don't want to know, Daryl."
He trusted her on that one. He got lucky and shot a deer. They both worked on dressing it, setting aside for preserving. Skills he hadn't used in a long time. The house had a root cellar. A place to salt meat in the attic. He wasn't sure what he was doing. They ate a lot of venison steak. She didn't like it, he could tell, but she ate it. He could see the cords in her neck, the veins in her arms when she reached to stoke the fire.
And then one night, he couldn't stand it. The silence. The stillness. He went to the closed door where she slept each night and opened it.
She sat up instantly.
"What is it?"
He said nothing. Set down his crossbow. Sat on the bed. Took off his boots, one, then the other.
"Daryl."
Lifted the button-up shirt out of his pants, over his head. Took off his socks.
"What's happened? Daryl? What's going on?"
Stood again. Took off his belt. Hung it over the bed frame.
"Daryl, what's the matter?"
He sat down again. Cracked his neck. Looked at the moon, full behind her in the window.
"Nothing's going on," he said, reaching his hand toward hers. They linked together on the white coverlet of the bed. "And nothing's the matter, either."
"Okay."
"Nothing but that I want to be with you," he said. "That I want to kiss you. That's all."
She sucked in a breath. He could hear it. He'd surprised her. But instead of pulling away, her hand gripped his harder and that was when he shoved himself forward and kissed her, somehow finding her mouth in the dark.
There was the matter of him never having really been with a woman. And the matter of him not knowing anything but what he needed and how it pained him. And the hope he had, that he would not hurt her, that she would not think of Ed or anything else painful. At least not while it was happening.
He unwrapped her like a present, all the layers she wore, everything beneath them so fine and smooth, her body a blessing to his.
He went slow, because he wanted to go fast. Gentle, because he felt rough. Cautious, because he just wanted to risk it all.
The moment he was inside her, he swore, and he braced his hands beside her head, and he said, "Thank you," and she kind of laughed, and then he was moving in her. Soft, sweet, hot. Made for him. Perfect.
"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you."
You could stay up all night and not regret it in the morning, he realized. He was 43 years old and only now just learning that.
You could stay up, touching a woman all night, everywhere, and her touching you back, and still it couldn't be enough. So you didn't sleep. You don't stop. You want and want and want and it's all so good.
You sleep and wake in the morning and she's there, all of her, naked from head to toe, all the way beside you, naked too, and it is enough. It is.
You could eat from a can of peaches, from the same bowl. You could smear the syrup on her tits and lick it off. You could drink whiskey and water and laugh and she could suck you off and you could come before she even started a decent rhythm and she could complain about that but you know she's not mad. She's not mad. She's yours. Enough.
You could splash each other in the bath, the warm water getting cold, but you can't stop slopping soap bubbles over her belly and rubbing your face in her pussy and settling her over your cock afterwards, with her lifted up on the sink counter, the wide mirror behind her strong, curved back. Your hands gripping her shoulder blades while you fuck her, her sighs echoing around the bathroom like a choir.
You could make her sigh. Moan. Whimper. Bite your ear.
You could make her laugh.
You could fuck her and fuck her and fuck her and she would always want you afterward. You could learn to make her come. You could feel her come, around your fingers inside her, around your mouth when you sucked. You could try to make it happen, again and again, until she pushed you off.
You could fall asleep every night, your hand on her belly making you feel like you owned her. But you'd never say that. Never. Just feel it.
He tells her he wishes they'd done this earlier. That he'd said something, that he'd known.
But she says, stop. She says, it is what it is.
He tells her she would have made a good wife. That he wishes she could be his wife. His voice breaks, even though he's saying it low. Like he doesn't want anyone to hear. Even her.
She says, what makes you think I still can't be?
He almost says, what about kids? But doesn't.
It is what it is.
That night, after they eat, he puts away the food and he sits with her on the sofa, quiet. Carol falls asleep in his lap. He wakes her when his legs go numb and they walk upstairs and get into bed, where she then comes alert again, takes her clothes off, takes his clothes off. They have slow sex. Slow, long, dirty, sweaty sex. She says, fuck me. Fuck me, Daryl. Please.
He thinks, my god.
He thinks, I am fucking you, sweetheart. He almost laughs.
She says, Harder.
She says, Bend me over.
He can't believe she talks like that. He tells her so, and she winks.
Never did before you, she says.
Afterward, as the breeze from the open window cools the sweat on their skin, he runs his fingers up and down her stomach and breasts and says, I just love you so much, darling. I do.
Love you too, she whispers. So much.
Then they sleep, holding hands.
At the bottom of the tree, they're waiting for him. All of them.
He sets down his crossbow. Kneels. The first punch he feels. The rest of them he doesn't. His eyes close.
It is what it is.
"Claimed," one of them says, grabbing his pack and crossbow, as the rest of them descend on him.