Hey there guys! I'm back with a new story! I need to put Full of Grace on hiatus for a while, but I wanted to keep active and I've had this new idea in my head for a couple months, now. It's just too difficult to write FOG at the moment-but I plan to come back to it in the summer. Instead, I'll do this AU that diverges from S3's "Home"-Daryl and Merle don't return to the prison after the others refuse to let Merle join them, there. They go off on their own.
If you don't know what a "dugout" is, it's a dirt shelter people often used during pioneer days. You dig a hole into a hill. It can have a roof of dirt and sod that you roll back over the living space. It's a lot like a do-it-yourself cave. I hope that clears any confusion-it's kind of an esoteric thing!
Anyway, as always, enjoy. I'm really liking this so far. It's been a pleasure.
Chapter One: Resting Place
Daryl stared up at the dirt ceiling hanging over his head—in the dark space of the dugout shelter he and Merle called home.
There was a worm working through that ceiling, this morning—he could see a little, fleshy tendril up there, wriggling around. Trying to make its way out from a crack in one of the support beams. As he watched, it got a grip on a tangle of roots dripping down into the living space. Grown through from the sod he and Merle had used to make the roof, all those years ago.
He was still a little groggy. The light from the doorway looked even darker than usual. And so Daryl almost rolled back onto his side to go back to sleep.
But a peal of thunder rolled out… deep and low. It swelled into a growl that shook the deer hides he was sleeping on. Shook the hardpack dirt floor underneath them.
Rain. Rain was coming.
The worm was wrapped around one of those roots, now—a thin clump of them that reminded Daryl of white, tangled hair. And Daryl—he figured it must've sensed the rain coming. Rain made those things antsy. Made them wiggle around and try to escape before the damp ground smothered them.
But this worm had it all wrong. The stupid damn thing was going the wrong way. Burrowing down, not up.
All at once, it fell. Landed on the floor—between Daryl's makeshift bed and the one where Merle was still sleeping.
He sat up. Gently scooped up the worm, and held in his hand. And he looked at it, a moment, before getting up. He'd put it outside, in some brush. Somewhere sheltered-so the rain wouldn't get to it, and it wouldn't drown. Somewhere that'd make sure Merle wouldn't step on it, when he finally decided to get up for the day.
Merle. He was out cold, over there. Rolled over on one side. Just a lump of dirty, ancient camp blankets and untanned furs.
The thunder rolled out, again. Deep and low. It swelled louder, a moment, then faded away.
Daryl went out to take a piss.
He pushed his way through the oiled canvas they'd hung over the doorway—to keep the wind and wet out. The cold, in the winter. And he kept going, through thick brush they let grow over it all—to hide the entrance, in case anyone managed to make it this far, and got it in their heads to go looking at a place that wasn't theirs.
The thunder broke, again—bright and fast, like a gunshot. There was a flash of light in the dark sky. The ground shook, before the sound faded away in a low rumble. The kind of rumble that got in your bones.
Daryl's fingers were a little sore. His knees. The arthritis, kicking up.
This storm meant business.
And as the thunder calmed down and got quiet, he still couldn't hear anything from inside the dugout. Merle wasn't rustling around in there, even after that.
His brother could always sleep like the dead.
Daryl knelt down—grunted as his knees complained—and he laid the worm in the tangled scrub at the side of the door. It'd be safe there. Wouldn't drown, or get crushed under Merle's boot. And he walked off down the old, dirt path to the creek—one worn down by their boots, over the years. And he thought about the worm as he did it.
Look out for yourself, little buddy.
And then, a third roll of thunder—long and low. Softer, but deeper. Like a hand wrapping around you, and squeezing.
He pissed in the bushes, a little ways from the water.
As he did it, Daryl got to thinking. He'd dreamed something, in the night. It was coming back a bit, now that he was out in the fresh air. It got so you felt a bit suffocated, back in the dugout. It was so small and close, underground, that the air got bad.
But the dream. It was a grassy yard, with shade trees, here and there. Sunlight on the lawn. Tree branches, silhouetted over it—swaying in a gentle wind.
And a farmhouse, in the distance. White, with peeling paint. A few tents, just at his side. Flimsy things. Nylon canvas, with the panels in bright colors—all reds and blues and yellows. And people. A lot of people, from the sound of them talking all around him, where he was sitting in a lawn chair. Eight—or even nine, maybe. Chatting over breakfast. He could hear knives and forks, scraping on plates.
That was weird. He really didn't dream of people, much. Other than Merle, Daryl hadn't seen another human being for at least ten years.
But in the dream, someone came up to him. A shadow got close, and leaned over him.
Things started to get fuzzy, then. Even when he looked up at that shape, it was all a blur. But it was a woman. He knew that, somehow. Remembered it, from all those years ago.
As she moved, the sunlight fell across her chest. And for just a moment, the light glinted against a delicate cross, hanging on a chain, before it faded away.
Daryl leaned over the creek. Splashed some water on his face, and took a drink. Didn't look at his reflection in the water, as he did it. The current moved fast down here, anyway—anything you saw in it would be distorted like some ever-changing, funhouse mirror. But even where it moved smooth and clean and wide, Daryl didn't really look. Didn't really know what he looked like, nowadays.
Didn't care.
He was just focused on what he had to do, that morning. There was no real worrying about anything else, when you were out in the wild.
Today, Hunting was out of the question—the rain hadn't started falling yet, but from the sound of things, it was going to—and pretty fucking hard. He might just have time to go check the snares before it really started pissing down. Might have a rabbit in one of those. And that could make for a good enough dinner.
He didn't even think about walkers. Stopped looking for them years ago. Hadn't seen one for a good, long time—almost as long as it'd been since he'd seen any other people. It was safe, way up here in the mountains—not like the towns and cities off in the wider world.
He and Merle—they'd come up here 'cause of that. Felt they could build a life for themselves—one that was better than anyone else could offer, down below.
Daryl wasn't even sure how many years it'd been, now, since they'd made this place their home. Somehow, he lost track of anything but the seasons, passing by. But he knew it wasn't long after he'd left the group he'd been with, back in those days.
They had a prison they took from the dead. And Daryl thought he'd stay there, and set it up to live in, with those others. But it didn't go that way. When he found his brother, the others wouldn't let him join up. Didn't want him back at that prison.
So the two of them—they did the only thing they could do. They moved on.
Daryl remembered leaving them, that last time—though the details were a little fuzzy, now. Merle had his arm around him, as he looked back at those people. He couldn't remember their faces too well, at this late date—but he knew they'd watched him leave. The leader especially—Rick. Rick, he lingered. Looked into the trees, while he and his brother walked away.
And Daryl and Merle—they just kept on walking. Went out far and deep. Ended up here—dug their home into the side of the hill, in one of the hidden corners of the Blue Ridge mountains.
But all that was the past. He shrugged the thoughts of it away. Made his way back to the dugout. Had to go wake up Merle's ugly ass.
He shouldn't have to do all today's work alone.
Still... it was weird that the others came to mind like that. Somehow, that dream must've kicked it all up in his head. Like mud from the bottom of the creek. It'd make the water murky a moment, then the current would clear it away.
Daryl took the long way back to the dugout. Checked some snares they'd put out—all empty.
He kept jabbing at his gumline with his tongue, as he did it. He'd had to pull a tooth the other day—it'd starting aching so bad, he couldn't leave it be any longer. And the fleshy hole it left behind was bugging him pretty bad itself. He kept poking at it with his tongue—the raw spot where it used to be.
A couple days later, the gap still tasted like blood.
Another deep rumble moved through the sky. The clouds churned.
He saw the dugout in the distance, then—off in a clearing on the slope of the hillside. If you didn't live in it, you probably wouldn't know it was even there. But Daryl knew it was there. Every contour of that hill spoke of home, to him.
And for some reason, thoughts of home made him remember his dream, again. Or just the feeling of it, now. It's hard to hold onto dreams, after you really start waking up. You forget. Daryl knew he dreamed something—something good. But he couldn't get it back, now. The more he tried, the faster it fled away.
He lost the sound of the voices, and the light of the cross in the sun.
There was just something about tents. The colors of the tents—just out of the corner of his eye.
Things used to be like that. Back when no one saw a need to hide—when they made things in factories—colorful things that were meant to be seen. And those tents would've been sold in some store somewhere—on a shelf, all packed up in boxes with photos printed on them.
The photos would show happy families, probably—camping out on the Fourth of July. There'd be a picnic table with a red-checked, plastic tablecloth on it. And food. So much food. Plastic plates—bright red. Serving bowls—blue and green. Ketchup and mustard in their telltale bottles. And the tent-label family would stand around and smile at each other, surrounded by all the brightly colored things they had.
Cause people—people used to do stuff like that.
And as he got back to the dugout, he got the idea to wake Merle up, so he could tell him about what he was thinking. About the happy tent people. Was a little curious whether Merle remembered that kind of stuff, too. If he thought it was all as weird as Daryl did. Ridiculous. All those colorful, plastic things people packed up in cars and lugged off into the woods for a day or two—way back when.
He pushed through the brush, towards the door. Stopped to see if his worm friend was still around—but he was nowhere to be seen.
The dugout was really dark, compared to what was outside. Even with the rainstorm. When Daryl made his way back in, he could barely see at first. Had to let his eyes adjust.
Merle was still there—slumped over on his side, wrapped in that old army blanket, and the deer hides.
"Hey," Daryl said, stepping forward. Merle didn't move.
"Hey, Merle."
Still nothing.
Daryl stepped closer. Furrowed his brow. His eyes were getting used to things, now. He could see the dirt walls—walls they rubbed smooth with their bare hands. The small assortment of tools on a shelf made from a split log. The iron cookware—rusty, now—hanging from a nail on a sinew strap.
And Merle's hand. He could see that, too. Saw it poking through the blanket, just a little. It looked grey, in the dim light filtering through the door. Grey and still.
Daryl started to feel a little sick. Things slowed down. He waited a second, and tried again.
"Merle…?"
He kneeled down at Merle's side, then. Shoved him. Nothing.
Daryl grabbed his shoulder and pushed harder. Merle rolled over, limply. And Daryl could see his face. Looking at it, it was obvious right away.
Merle was dead.