A/N: I was rewatching Pretty Much Dead Already with my husband, when he commented on how long Sophia had been missing. Doing the math, I came to the conclusion that she hadn't survived very long past the time she went missing. Which got my mind to wondering who among our favorite group of survivors would've done the same math, and come to the same conclusions I did. I could only think of two. The result of those thoughts turned into this story. I hope you like. Enjoy, and please review.
Shane had been surprised to find Daryl already inside the barn when he himself had entered. The look the hunter gave him spoke volumes, as they stood amid the rotting corpses of chickens, rabbits, and other small varmints.
Despite himself, Shane couldn't stop the mental picture forming in his mind. The little girl, with her tennis shoes, rolled up pants, and rainbow t-shirt splattered in blood, ripping into a still-living animal. The guttural sounds of teeth rending flesh, as the undead thing Sophia had become devoured meat, internal organs, feathers...
Glancing up at Daryl, Shane could tell the hunter had already had the same thoughts. Pictured the sweet kid – who was scared of her own damn shadow after a lifetime of abuse – fighting over rotting meat with other Walkers. Unthinking, unfeeling...
A mere hundred yards away from the camp they'd organized to search for her. A hundred yards. All that time... All that searching, all that planning, marking off grid patterns, and she'd been practically on top of them. Rotting away in the damn barn.
Silently, Shane accepted the garden rake Daryl offered him, and began raking up the blood covered dirt, and muck that covered the floor.
Hershel had said Otis was the one who always put the Walkers in the barn. Otis, who'd been with Shane every moment up until his death, a day after Sophia had gone missing.
He knew the others hadn't done the math yet. Carol was so lost in her own grief, nothing was penetrating the fog. Lori, Andrea, Dale, T-Dog, Glen... They wouldn't ever connect those particular dots to figure it out. Rick... Well, he was holding it together enough to find Hershel, and that was about it.
But as he dared another look at the hunter, Shane knew the other man had done the same math he had. Had come up with the exact same numbers.
Sophia had died the night she's gone missing, or early the morning after. She hadn't even made it a full twenty-four hours before being bitten. Before turning into a walking, rotting, undead corpse.
He cursed himself for a fool, unable to stop his brain from figuring the numbers again. She'd gone missing early evening. Otis had shot Carl late the following afternoon. Figuring in time for her to make the change, wander close enough to the farm for Otis to spot her, wrangle her into the barn, and go out hunting again...
Shit. She probably hadn't even survived the whole night. She'd probably been jumped in that little cupboard Daryl had found.
Sophia, being jerked awake by undead, rotting hands.
Yanked out of the cupboard, still half asleep, scared out of her mind.
Screaming, crying for her mama as teeth sank into the flesh of her neck, ripping and tearing at skin, muscle, and veins.
Running, the very life pouring out of her, as she ran in a panic.
Her heart, slowing down, as her steps began to falter.
Falling, alone in the woods at night, as her body began to shut down.
Dying.
Dying.
His hands tightened around the wooden handle, the inevitability of what had happened tightening in his throat, as he struggled to suck in even one breath of air to his lungs, the images of the lost girl's last painful, lonely night on earth assailing his senses.
The quiet tapping on the wall pulled him back, and he looked up, surprised to see Daryl standing, arms folded across his chest, one hand still in a fist, leaning against the wood he'd knocked on.
The two men stood, locked in their pain, as their eyes met. The pain each knew that no one else would ever bear. No one else would put two and two together to figure out just how little time Sophia had actually been alive after she ran. No one else would be able to form those pictures of Sophia's last moments.
No one else would ever have to live with the imagined screams of the little girl, jerking them awake in the dead of night.
No one else would have to live with images of Sophia tearing into dead animals, little more than an animal herself.
It was Shane who broke the look first, scrubbing a hand over his face, unsure if he could live with it. When he dared another glance at the hunter, the other man gave him a slight nod.
They would both live with the brutal knowledge of Sophia for the rest of their lives. Neither one would speak of it, bearing that burden silently, each in their own way.
Until death gave them the only peace they'd ever know.
Finally, they both turned away, resuming the pain-staking job of cleaning out the barn, losing themselves in their thoughts.
Nobody else needed to know.
And not a word needed to be said.