A/N: This is my first fan fiction ever.
"Well I'll be damned," he thought, peeking through the branches into a clearing. He was about a mile from the abandoned farmhouse with the tiny makeshift bed in the cupboard.
Calling it a clearing was a bit of an overstatement. Waist high weeds and prickly vines choked the crumbling structure at its center. A faded sign hung on its last nail over the door. Cecil's. It appeared to have at one time been a combination convenience store, gas station, and beer joint. God knows he had seen enough of these places in his youth, dragged Merle out of plenty of them before he landed in county lockup again.
He took a whack at the branches with a machete to clear his way and gasped at the shooting pain in his side. Everyone said he'd have to be batshit crazy to continue his search the day after getting both shot and impaled, not to mention two falls down a ravine into a creek bed. And that's why he'd snuck out just before dawn. They were right. He was batshit crazy.
He'd never really cottoned to pop psychology bullshit. Never read a self-help book or seen an episode of Oprah in his life. Never spent a minute telling some pansy ass with a college degree a sob story. Never waited in line with a dozen other sad-sack fuckers to pick up Prozac or Xanax or whatever the fuck people used to take to tolerate their safe, privileged lives.
But he could feel it now, feel it in whatever bones weren't already cracked or bruised from yesterday's collossal shit storm. Daryl Dixon was coming un-fucking-glued.
It wasn't so much the end of the world that was doing him in, necessarily. In fact, he wasn't really sure things had changed that much for him. Hell, he'd been in survival mode his whole life. No, it was more like it had taken the Zombie-Fucking-Apocalypse for his entire total shit life to catch up to him.
He'd been holding it together pretty well-better than most in this group of imbeciles who could barely survive a case of the sniffles, let alone Armaggedon. And then the damn girl had to go missing. He'd lain there in that RV listening to Sophia's mother weeping until something snapped inside of him. Yes, despite the darkness and the danger, he did want to go look for her. But more than that he wanted to be alone, to think about the memory that had been freshly dredged to the surface.
And then the suicidal chick had insisted on joining him. (Or was she homicidal now? His aching head strongly suggested it.) That was the problem with people. Sure, there were times he'd been alone so fucking long he started talking to himself just to hear the sound of someone's voice. So yeah, there probably were advantages to having friends or a family. But once you let people in, the dumbasses just wouldn't leave you alone.
He wasn't sure why he told her about his childhood misadventure in the woods. Everybody was just being so goddamned negative about finding the girl. Hell yes he was gonna look for her, just like he wished someone had looked for him.
When he returned to the RV that night, it was quiet. Carol had literally cried herself to sleep. He lay back on the floor, hands behind his head, and continued his futile gaze at the ceiling. Now he wasn't sure he even wanted to think about it...
Home was a falling down shotgun shack back then, long before the bank took everything and they had to move into the rusty trailer that had actually been an improvement. At least the trailer had heat. But she never made it to the trailer. It was good in a way. She didn't have to see the land that had been in her family for generations lost because of her no account husband.
"Careful, honey," she said in her hoarse whisper.
Thwack! "Done," he said, climbing down from the ladder. The bedroom had no door, but now it had two extra blankets nailed into its frame.
"You shouldn't have to do that," she said.
"I don't mind," he said, turning up the flame on the kerosene heater.
Who else was going to do something about keeping out the winter chill? Merle? Not all the way from Juvie. Daddy? She always claimed he was off on a job somewhere, but even at the age of 5, he didn't buy it.
He sat on the bed beside her and touched her forehead. "How come your teeth are chatterin' when your head's so hot?"
"That's what happens when you're sick, baby."
"Oh. Well, you're gonna feel better real soon. I'm gonna take care of you."
And he did. Weeks and weeks of bringing her hot canned soup-it was all he could find and all he knew how to make-and holding a bucket while she coughed up God knows what. Sometimes it looked like blood. No one ever told him what was wrong with her. He just thought it was a bad cold. At five, that was the only kind of sickness he could comprehend.
"Tell me a story, Mama." She was so good at telling stories. Cowboy and Indian ones were his favorite.
"I don't know if I can, baby. I ain't got the breath right now. Can you just sit with me for a spell?"
"Ok, Mama. I can wait." He grabbed a washcloth from the nightstand and wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead. "Mama?"
"Yes, honey?"
"I thought girls had long hair. How come your hair is so short?"
He remembered when her hair was long and he used to twirl the shiny brown strands around his finger while she told him a story or sang him to sleep. Then one night about a year ago, she and Daddy had one of their biggest blow ups ever. He put his head under the pillow to block out all the yelling, but he could feel his bed shake when something hit the wall four times. And then silence.
The next morning, Daddy was gone again and Mama was cleaning big clumps of hair out of the sink. He'd wanted to ask then, but he'd learned to never say nothing when her eyes were all swollen up like that.
He wasn't sure what made him finally ask now after all this time. She was quiet for so long, he thought she didn't hear him. "Mama? Why'd you cut your hair?"
"I cut it 'cause it got caught in stuff."
"What kinda stuff? Like branches and briars when you're pickin' berries?"
"Yeah, branches, briars, fists-all kinds of stuff long hair can get caught in."
"Huh?"
"Ok baby, I think I can tell you that story now..."
And that's when he first heard about the Cherokee Rose.
He usually slept in her room now, in case she needed anything. He drifted off after the end of the tale, but awoke sometime later and heard her talking again. He thought maybe he was missing more of the story. He almost opened his eyes and turned to her. But something told him not to. That's when he realized she was crying.
"I'm so sorry," she sobbed quietly. "I shoulda known better. Shoulda never brought you into this shithole-" she gasped. "God I didn't mean it like that. It's just-Merle was bad from the start. And you-you were everything a mama could want. I mean, five years and you ain't turned bad yet!"
He didn't understand how someone could chuckle and cry at the same time, but he stayed perfectly still to see if he could figure it out. She was quiet again for a while.
"But now what's gonna become of you, huh? Won't be long 'fore I'm not here no more. What kinda life you gon' have? What kinda man you gon' turn out to be? You ain't nothin' like Merle and your daddy. But what happens when they're all you got?"
He listened for a long time, but she didn't say anything more. Just cried. Cried and cried herself to sleep.
He made it through the bushes, but kept the machete in hand as he crept through the tall grass. He wasn't scared of snakes, even if one almost damn near killed him yesterday. Plus, he was on foot today. But he kept on the lookout for one of those fuckers, just in case he got the chance for a little payback.
He made it, snake-free, to the front door. The wooden boards that had been nailed up as a barricade long ago had rotted a little over time, as the small tin awning overhead had rusted away. Although it was closed now, someone had forced the door open, pushed and pulled until the rot had finally given way. And there was evidence it had been done recently. Fresh, unweathered splinters from inside the boards littered the ground. Cautiously, he sheathed the machete and unhooked the strap that held his crossbow on his back. He was surprised at how quietly the old door opened. He propped it open with a nearby rock and sunlight penetrated the dark interior.
"Sophia?" he called. He noticed at least a six-pack's worth of empty beer cans strewn on the floor. He crouched down for a closer look. The cans were so old, they still had the kind of tab top that pulled off entirely when you opened them. Upon further inspection, however, the tiny bit of liquid still inside of each of them, was fresh-as fresh as 30-year old beer could be. He winced when he sniffed his wet fingers. Even more disgusting was the pool of vomit nearby. And he'd had squirrel sushi yesterday. He knew disgusting. Somebody must've been desperate for a buzz. Or maybe just desperate for anything to drink at all.
A low moan pierced the silence. Shit! When hunting, he'd learned to do all his cursing in his head. The sound came from behind the ancient checkout counter. He crept slowly to the open end of the L-shaped counter. The moan was coming from something lying beneath an old, filthy Confederate flag. Oh fuck. He crept forward, crossbow at the ready, and nudged the flag with his boot. Every nerve in his body was strained to the limit and his trigger finger was itching. And then he noticed the shoe. Pink and bloody, poking out from the edge of the flag. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. He lowered the crossbow, grabbed a corner of the fabric and yanked.
"Sophia! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!" He wasn't bothering to curse in his head anymore. He shined a flashlight on her to get a better look. She was covered in dried blood and so much grime, her skin looked gray. "Goddamn. How am I gonna tell your mama you turned and I had to shoot you in the head?"
"Daryl?" Her eyes fluttered open. They were sleepy, but bright, blue, and not a bit cloudy. Plus, the last time he checked, Walkers couldn't talk.
"Thank fuckin' God," he said, even though he was pretty damn sure one didn't exist. And then, he looked more closely and got proof there was no benevolent god in this fucking hell.
The right side of Sophia's face was one huge purple bruise further covered in a layer of red scrapes and scratches. Her lip was swollen. And he could tell from the huge dark spots on her once blue jeans that her thighs were caked in blood. No, he wasn't going to have to tell Carol that her baby had been turned into a monster. But he was going to have to tell her that maybe there were worse monsters among the living than the dead.
"Please don't tell Mama about the beer, Daryl," she mumbled. "I was just so thirsty, and it made me awful sick."
"I won't say a word, honey. Not a word." He strapped the crossbow onto his back and started to wrap her up in the flag, then thought better of it and threw the cloth aside. That's all I need-T-Dog kickin' my ass.
He put one arm behind her knees and the other behind her back and lifted. "Thanks," she murmured, then slumped into his chest, unconscious again.
Who knows what all had happened to her over the past few days. Actually, he really didn't know what the hell her asshole dad had done to her in the past. It was obvious he beat the shit out of Carol all the time. He was pretty familiar with that look, the downward gaze, the subtle ways a person could try to make themselves small for fear someone might notice them and lash out at any moment.
Despite growing up poor, he was never really the type to be jealous of other people. But knowing Shane beat the living fuck out of Ed, hell yeah Daryl was jealous-jealous he hadn't acted on that impulse first. That was the only decent thing that prick Shane had ever done. Sure, he kind of saved Carl, but that whole story about Otis really tweaked Daryl's bullshit detector. Besides, anybody was capable of a good deed now and then. Hell, it was a Walker that finally took Ed's ass out for good. And damn, the way Carol bashed that dead son of a bitch's skull in...
There was just something about Carol and Sophia-how they could both be so completely broken and so completely strong at the same time.
It was nearing sunset when he spotted the Greene farmhouse, and Dale, binoculars in hand on top of the RV. He was sure as hell glad it wasn't Andrea. He still hadn't made it to the porch when Carol came running out the front door. He tried to run toward her to make it easier on her, but his energy was totally tapped. He suddenly noticed his side was burning like hell. It seemed to be getting dark so quickly and he was having trouble seeing. The last thing he saw clearly, as the three of them fell into a heap, was Carol Peletier's face lit up like the Fourth of Fucking July, and then everything went black.