(This fic begins in the middle of "Still". You know the scene.)
"So you do think there are still good people around!" Beth crowed triumphantly. She and Daryl had just sat down to what he jokingly called a "redneck feast", and he was working the lid off of a jelly jar.
Daryl glanced at her and nodded briefly in affirmation. Her mouth widened in a gleeful grin.
"So what changed your mind?"
Daryl risked another glance before mumbling. "You know."
"What?" Beth gazed with unabashed curiosity into Daryl's face, as if trying to read something there. "Come on, tell me. What changed your mind?"
With the warmth of those clear blue eyes burning through him, he was having trouble formulating a response. The moment stretched out longer than he intended. He was vaguely aware that his heartbeat was picking up speed. "You did," he wanted to say, but he was paralyzed by the unfamiliar surge of emotion washing over him. He'd never been good with words, so he couldn't tell her that it was everything about her—her persistent joy somehow undimmed by the world's horror, her stubborn determination not just to stay alive, but to live—that had pulled him back from the brink of darkness. Unable to voice his feelings, he shrugged, but for once, he didn't look away. His eyes met Beth's, willing her to read the thoughts written in them.
He was gratified to see sudden awareness bloom on her face as a pink stain spread across her cheeks. Gulping, she uttered a tiny, almost inaudible "Oh."
His heart was beating so hard now that he was sure she could hear it in the lengthening silence. The air between them seemed heavier somehow, and yet alive with unspoken words. Daryl's hand itched to reach up and brush the strands of Beth's messy hair back from her cheek. Would her skin feel as warm as it looked? He had almost gathered the courage to move when the sound of rattling tin cans from outside brought them both to their feet.
Thinking of the dog, Daryl grabbed the jar of pig's feet from the table. "I'm gonna give that mutt one more chance," he said, motioning to Beth that she should stay where she was. He was halfway to the front door when her suddenly strident voice brought him up short.
"Daryl, wait!"
He turned to see her standing in the entry to the kitchen with his crossbow in her hands.
"Take this, just in case it's not the dog."
Her words snapped him out of his haze, and he mentally kicked himself. Gettin' careless, Dixon. Putting the jar down on the floor, he took the weapon from Beth and cocked it, then pushed her gently behind him while he approached the door on silent feet.
As he moved down the front hall, the familiar sound of the dead moaning and shuffling their feet carried faintly through the slats. Sliding quietly sideways into the parlor, Daryl took up a position at the window. Slowly parting the curtains a bare inch, he peered out into the purpling dusk. A small herd was gathered in the yard in front of the building. They had not yet sensed prey; they were just milling about in that aimless way they had, bumping into each other and lurching haphazardly against any obstacles in their path. Daryl had just about decided to hunker down quietly and wait for them to move along when he noticed something that made his stomach drop and adrenaline surge sickeningly into his veins.
Parked off in the shadows to the side of the small fenced yard, at an angle that would be unseen to anyone looking out the front door, was a black sedan. Daryl didn't remember seeing it on their way in. As he peered steadily at it, a faint plume of exhaust curled up from the tailpipe. Someone was inside.
Moving as quickly as he dared, he retraced his steps to the kitchen. Beth stared up at him, questions in her eyes.
"We might be in trouble, girl."
Daryl knew better by now than to expect histrionics from Beth, and she didn't disappoint him this time, either. Rising smoothly to her feet, she turned and rummaged swiftly through a kitchen drawer, coming up with a large chopping blade and a smaller paring knife. She bent to tuck the small one into her sock, against her ankle, and stood up, holding the wickedly sharp chef's knife out in front of her.
Despite the possible danger, Daryl felt a swell of pride rise up in his chest when he saw the determination on her face. Quickly, he explained what they were up against: walkers on one hand and strangers on the other. "We don't know which kind they are, Beth. You should hide." He saw the objection rise up in her eyes before it formed on her lips, and spoke to cut her off. "Let me feel 'em out first. I know you can take care of yourself, but…" he swallowed and looked at the ground. "I'd just feel better. Please."
It was the "please" that did it. It was so out of character coming from the brusquely diffident Daryl that before she knew it, she'd allowed him to push her gently into a coat closet and close the door almost all the way. A mere crack remained through which she could peer out at the back door and the viewing room where Daryl waited in a crouch, his crossbow trained on the exit.
It seemed like an eternity passed frozen in silence, but it was really only about five minutes before they heard the clomp of boots mounting inexorably up the steps to the back porch. Three men, maybe four, Daryl guessed from the sound. He readied himself for whatever was about to burst through the door.
But the attack he was expecting didn't come. Instead, there was a light knock. When Daryl didn't answer, a friendly-sounding voice called quietly through the door. "We'd like to come in and talk. We don't want any trouble."
Daryl wasn't sure what to do. His mind was filled with one thought. He must protect Beth. But what was the best way to do that? He was armed. Why not hear the visitors out and see why they had taken the risk of approaching? If he denied them entrance, would it come to violence? Not for the first time, he wished for Rick and the rest of the group. Not only would Rick have known what to do, but Daryl could see now how much stronger and less vulnerable they were all together. Hadn't they proved that by pulling each other's bacon out of the fire time and again?
Daryl sighed. As his daddy used to say, wishes were for fools. He and Beth were alone here, and he needed to make a decision. He aimed a gravelly whisper at the closet where Beth was hiding. "Stay hidden. I'm gonna see what they want." Beth stirred uncomfortably. She didn't like this, but she would obey. She stepped back a little deeper into the shadows, making sure that she could still see Daryl's profile through the opening.
Raising the volume of his voice to be heard through the door, Daryl called out, "Come on in, then."
A large blond man was first into the hallway, followed quickly by his two companions, one wiry and balding, the other dark and smirking. And they were all wearing police uniforms. For a moment, Daryl's mind stuttered, his jaw clenching as he flashed back through memories of grubby cells at county lock up and stop-and-frisks on nighttime roads. Following Merle around had guaranteed a certain amount of contact with the boys in blue, and Daryl had to remind himself that there were no real cops anymore. The turn had made them all into the same thing: survivors. At least until they stopped surviving.
The dark-haired man had a bandana tied around the palm of one hand, and Daryl knew instantly that he was the most menacing of the three, despite being smaller than the blond giant by several orders of magnitude. While his friends gazed at Daryl, Bandana's small, dark eyes were shifting all around the hallway and the into the connecting rooms, as if looking for something.
Daryl kept his crossbow trained on the visitors as they entered. "What can I do for y'all?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
The big one spoke up. "We were actually thinkin' we could help you." His mouth spread into a grin that somehow never reached his eyes. "See, we've got a pretty good setup—food enough, medical care, if you need it."
"I don't," Daryl interjected.
Blondie went on as if he hadn't spoken. "What we need is people." He flashed his grin again. It looked strangely feral. "We were hoping y'all would want to come back with us."
A chill gripped Daryl, a premonition of danger. "Ain't no 'y'all'. It's just me," he said tersely.
Bandana leered at him. "Now we all know that isn't true." He dropped his hand casually to rest on the butt of the handgun he wore slung low on the belt around his waist.
Daryl recognized the implied threat. He swung his bow around to aim at the dark-haired man, but before he could loose a bolt, Baldy brought his police nightstick swinging through the air to crash down hard on Daryl's left wrist. Pain rocketed through him and the crossbow went clattering to the ground, where it was kicked away by the thin, bald man. Immediately, he and Bandana launched themselves at Daryl. Daryl managed to land a fist across Bandana's cheekbone, throwing him off balance, but when the large blond man wrapped a meaty hand around Daryl's injured arm and squeezed, the resulting flare of agony broke his concentration, and before he knew it, he'd been forced to his knees, Baldy and Blondie on either side of him. Bandana stood before him, glaring at him with a look that could have torched Atlanta.
"I was afraid it would go like this," sighed Blondie in his ear.
Daryl was stoic, silently willing Beth to stay quiet in her closet hideaway. He knew her, and the possibility that she would make some misguided effort to come to his aid caused cold fear to wash over him.
"Where is she?" asked the large man. He had the kind of voice that was more disquieting when it was calm.
Bandana kicked over a chair. Impatience colored his face. "Why are we messing with this one, anyway?" he growled. "We know that yeller-haired girl is here somewhere. Let's just flush her out." He leered into Daryl's face. "Ain't no use lying to us. We already saw her last night when the two of you walked through town. Ain't that many women left, you know. And that gal looks just as fresh and pink as a peach on the tree." He laughed at their captive's suddenly renewed struggles. "What? Were you plannin' on keepin' that pretty little songbird all to yourself?"
Daryl clenched his jaw. Through all the long months since the turn, he'd never felt as helpless as he did at that moment.
"You know," Bandana said conversationally, a wicked gleam in his eye, "if you help us draw her out, we could still share her with you. I'm sure there's plenty to go around."
White hot rage filled Daryl then, and despite the pain in his wrist, he strained against his captors and nearly broke loose. Bandana belted him across the face, leaving a trickle of blood oozing from a split in his lip.
Daryl spat. Gonna take more than a slap to put me down, he thought savagely, remembering worse beatings he'd taken as a kid. The blow to his head had actually cleared it a little, and he pushed aside his anger and his gut-wrenching fear for Beth and forced himself to watch for his moment.
"Hold 'im," Bandana commanded, "I'll find the girl." He began a systematic search of the place, opening all the caskets and twitching aside the curtains to look behind them. As he got closer and closer to Beth's hiding place, Daryl steeled himself for one last, desperate act. He could feel that the hold the other two men had on his arms had slackened somewhat as they became engrossed in watching their friend search. If he could just manage to reach the blade on his belt, he could—
A sudden howl of pain split the air, and Daryl looked up in time to see Bandana stumble backwards away from the closet, Beth's dagger protruding from the side of his neck. His second scream was drowned out in a gurgle as blood welled up out of his open mouth. He went down to his knees, and that was when Beth flew into the hall like an avenging angel, bringing her knee up hard under his chin with a resounding crack. He dropped to the floor, twitched once, and was still.
When the two men holding him turned their attention to their mortally wounded leader, Daryl took advantage of the distraction. Dropping onto his back, he kicked out fiercely and swept the legs from under the blond giant, whose bulk crashed against a small table and splintered it beneath him as he fell. Grabbing the hunting knife at his waist, Daryl swiped at Baldy and managed to catch him at the back of the ankle, slicing his Achilles tendon neatly in two. His high pitched squeal joined the general cacophony as he folded to the ground in agony. On the front porch, the dead grew agitated, their moans louder and more insistent. Boards creaked as they began to cluster there.
Regaining his feet, Daryl spun in a circle, trying to locate Beth.
She was there, several feet down the passageway, trying to sidle out of range of the violent confrontation. As she moved past him, Blondie's hand snaked out and grasped her ankle, causing her to cry out. His eyes swiveled up to meet Daryl's, contempt plainly unmasked in his expression.
Daryl's boot caught him in his left temple, snapping his head back and rendering him instantly unconscious. Beth jerked her ankle out if his now slack hold with a shudder.
Stumbling over to her, Daryl swept Beth into his arms and started checking her for injuries. "You okay?" he panted, grasping her face in his hands and giving her a hard look.
She didn't get a chance to answer. Instead, a quavery voice commanded, "Turn around." Daryl obeyed, and found himself looking into the barrel of a police issued service pistol. The lanky bald man had managed to get to his feet, but he was limping badly, and blood was pooling beneath the streaming wound on his ankle. Pain contorted his face, and a growing anger lit his eyes. "This was supposed to be easy," he spat, motioning to Beth with the gun. "She's coming with me. Now."
Ignoring the gun, Daryl lunged for the man, landing a right hook across his jaw and causing him to drop the firearm. Disarmed, Baldy scrambled backward in alarm until he was pressed against the boarded up front door. As soon as he touched it, a scabbed and pale hand shot through the gap between the pieces of wood and grasped him by the throat. His eyes bulged wildly in fear. Daryl took a step toward him, the impulse to rescue the living still fixed in him, despite the battle he'd just fought for survival. But the dead got there first. The weight of the mob pushing from outside crumbled the feeble makeshift barrier inward, and Baldy went down screaming.
Daryl didn't stop to watch. Holding his injured wrist close to his body, he slung his bow across his back, grabbed Beth's hand, and ran out through the back door, letting it slam behind them in an attempt to slow down the herd.
There were a few wanderers who had broken off from the group and found their way to the back of the house, but Daryl dispatched them with fluid grace while Beth stumbled along behind him, her face an even paler shade than usual. Fortunately, the horde was occupied with their kills, so Beth and Daryl were able to skirt around the edges of the yard, hidden by the shadows beneath the pines.
"Finally, some luck," Daryl grunted. "Look at that, girl." The car that the uniformed attackers had arrived in was still running. Daryl assumed they had been planning a quick getaway. Well, now the getaway, and the car, would be theirs. He turned to see Beth's reaction.
The color had drained out of her face, and as he watched, she started to wobble on legs suddenly gone soft. Daryl recognized the signs; she was about to faint. Maybe she was wounded. He snaked his hand around her waist for support and, after checking to make sure the car was empty, eased her into the passenger side. Concern for her tensed his jaw, but he slid behind the wheel and focused on operating the vehicle with one good arm. The one that had taken the blow with the club was starting to throb, and he hoped it wasn't fractured.
Shifting into drive, he pulled away from the frenzied crush of walkers, leaving their three attackers to what he felt was the fate they deserved. He shuddered again at the thought of how vulnerable they'd been, how close to disaster.
The car slid through the warm Georgia twilight with only the low growl of the engine to mark its passing. The few solitary walkers they encountered barely had time to turn toward the sound before they disappeared in the rearview mirror. Daryl's immediate concern was to find a new place to shelter while he checked out the extent of Beth's injuries. He didn't see any blood, but one glance at her pale, silent form in the passenger seat told him all was not right.
After about thirty minutes, they came around a curve in the blacktop, crested a rise, and looked down to see an enormous herd filling the swale below them. Daryl reacted quickly, turning the car around and backtracking to an overgrown private road they had passed several hundred yards back. It was little more than a dirt track, nearly obscured by encroaching honeysuckle and wild buckeye. He'd only noticed it because of a rough wooden sign nailed to a flanking tree that said "The Bowmans" in faded yellow paint. His dad had nailed up a sign just like that to mark the road that led to their ramshackle house in Jasper County. Daryl and Merle had taken a beating one day when he caught them shooting at it with a BB gun.
Daryl carefully angled the car between the trees and onto the dirt packed drive. The tangled vines sprang back into place behind them, and he marveled at how quickly nature moved to reclaim her territory when man turned his back. Putting the car in park, he hopped out and, with a little leverage, worked the weathered sign off of the tree. When the last rusty nail gave way, he almost fell on his butt, but he recovered his footing in the end and made his way back to the car, tossing the sign casually into the brush off the side of the road. If they were lucky, anyone who came looking for the men they'd left back at the funeral home would miss seeing this turnoff altogether.
He looked over at Beth as he got back in the car and was relieved to see that a little of the color was coming back into her face. She was looking back at him with wide, haunted eyes. "I've never… killed anyone before," she confessed in a whisper. "Anyone living, I mean."
So that was it. Slowly, almost tenderly, Daryl reached out to still her shaking hand with his. His voice dropped to a rough murmur, as if she was a small animal he was trying not to scare away. "Beth, they were gonna hurt you. Bad."
"I know," she admitted, blowing out a trembling breath. "I heard." She dropped her gaze to where his calloused fingers were pressing hers and noticed that his knuckles were bleeding.
Daryl said her name again. "Beth." She looked up at him.
"What you did saved my life." His eyes held hers, and as she took in his words, he could see the something change in them. Whatever she saw as she looked at him, it seemed to strengthen her somehow.
"Thanks," she said simply.
After a moment, Daryl put the car in drive and they continued on, deeper into the pines, searching for a new place to rest, if only for a little while.