A/N: Here it is! The first chapter in my sequel to "More Than Survival." This time around I plan to include the other characters more. Let me know how you like it so far. :-)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead, except on DVD, but I don't think that really counts.

Shane lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching his wife sleep. Her chestnut hair had grown long enough to require combing and her body was noticeably thicker around the middle. Shane rested his hand on her belly, a strange mixture of awe and trepidation coming over him, as it did a lot these days. That was his baby growing inside her. Shane never thought he'd ever get the chance at a family of his own. The closest he got was when he took care of Lori and Carl after he thought Rick died. Shane tried not to dwell too much on how badly that ended. What's done is done. Fortunately, he and Rick managed to regain their sense of friendship, and he and Lori were on civil terms, at least.

Marilyn stirred and mumbled something in her sleep, making Shane smile. She was such a sweet girl, almost ten years younger than him and ethereally beautiful. She'd survived plenty of horrors since the walkers overran the world, sometimes by doing things she had a hard time forgiving herself for later. But those experiences helped her understand the sins Shane himself was burdened with. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that she knew him better than anyone else on earth, including Rick. And he definitely knew her better than any woman he'd ever been with. That wouldn't have happened if Shane hadn't been half-dead when they met. He would have followed his old pattern of seduction and eventual disinterest once the novelty of the sex wore off. In his weakened state, however, he and Marilyn spent hours, days talking to each other. Sharing everything about themselves. So when he was finally strong enough, the first night they spent together felt like so much more than just sex.

It was almost enough to make him believe in fate.

Marilyn woke with a jaw-popping yawn, rubbing the grit from her eyes and blinking owlishly at the face hovering over her. Shane smiled, and Marilyn's heart sped up like always. He was such a gorgeous man, so masculine and strong, bull-headed at times, yet always treating her so gently. She just knew back in high school he was the popular jock who always had a cheerleader on his arm, what her mother once referred to as a "career heart-breaker." Being married to him, carrying their first child, Marilyn often felt like she was living a fairytale. One of the harsh lessons she learned since the apocalypse was that life didn't get this good. Yet here they were.

"Mornin', baby," Shane drawled, his accent sending pleasant shivers down her spine, "Sleep okay?"

Marilyn nodded. She was prone to bad dreams and restless nights. They both were. "Yeah. You?"

Shane smiled again, the hand on her belly inching its way beneath her T-shirt to stroke her skin. "Guess we both had a good night." Then he leaned down to kiss her, Marilyn's arms went around his neck, and they welcomed the new day in the best way possible.

The older he got, the less sleep Dale seemed to need, which meant he was usually up before most of the other residents of the converted office building they all called home. Since he liked to make himself useful, he often helped Nana Shino prepare breakfast for everyone. He and the matronly Japanese-American puttered around the kitchen that was once a company break room, talking companionably while they worked over the car battery-powered cooking ranges.

Today Dale decided to make something special, a batch of his world-famous johnnycakes. They still had quite a bit of cornmeal left, and he figured if he made the cakes small enough, he could ensure everyone got a chance at trying them if they wanted.

Dale hummed a pleasant tune as he dropped a spoonful of batter onto the hot skillet. The loud sizzle and the rising aromatic steam brought memories of lazy Sunday mornings with his wife, Irma. Mornings spent sitting across from each other in the breakfast nook, dressed in their pajamas and bathrobes, chatting over coffee and reading the paper. Funny how it was the little things Dale found himself missing the most.

"Something sure smells good."

The feminine voice brought a smile to Dale's bearded face, chasing away the melancholy that threatened to wreck his mood. He looked over his shoulder at the approaching figure of Andrea, her hair and nightclothes still rumpled from sleep. She came up beside him and rested her head against his shoulder. "You're making little pancakes?"

"Johnnycakes," Dale corrected.

"What's the difference?"

"They're made out of cornmeal instead of flour." He turned the cakes over with a spatula to let the other sides brown.

Andrea smiled wistfully. "Too bad we don't have any butter. Or maple syrup."

Dale nodded in agreement. "Honey will always do, in a pinch."

There was a plate where the first half-dozen finished cakes were placed. Andrea picked up the bear-shaped plastic bottle off the counter and squeezed a dollop of honey onto one of them, then picked up the still-warm johnnycake and took a bite. "Mmm," she sighed in contentment, chewing slowly.

Dale grinned, pleased with her reaction.

"These'll go really well with the oatmeal," she declared, though in fact they'd used up the last of the oats that were still edible some time ago and now ate a concoction of rice, sugar, and canned milk. Sort of a runny rice pudding.

Dale deposited the next few cakes onto the plate and picked up the bowl of batter to dollop out some more onto the skillet.

Andrea's smile faded a little as she thought about the things that disappeared with civilization. Not just electricity and everything that ran on it, but mundane stuff like dairy products and grains. Things she'd never given any thought to until they just weren't there anymore.

"I miss Wonderbread," she sighed.

Dale chuckled.

"When I was a kid my mom would give me the heels whenever she bought a loaf. I'd eat them with a big glass of milk." Andrea smiled wistfully. "D'you ever think we might ever have flour and milk again someday?"

Dale's eyes got that faraway look whenever he was pondering something, even as his hands still went through the motions of cooking. "I think," he said carefully, "that unless there's already a large enough community to sustain an agrarian lifestyle somewhere in the world, it could be centuries before cattle and grains are domesticated again, if not longer. There just aren't that many of us humans left."

Not living, anyway, was the grim thought they both left unspoken. There were still plenty of dead shambling around even a year after the plague struck.

Andrea cast her eyes down and fiddled with the ends of her robe sash. "What makes you think humans'll still be around that long?" she asked, her voice low.

Dale reached over and gently lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his warm gaze. "Do you know what Darwin once said about survival of the fittest?"

Andrea shook her head, the corners of her mouth turning up in expectation of yet another memorized quote from the older man. Dale's mind was like a reservoir of snippets of wisdom gathered from great thinkers long past.

"He said, 'It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.'" Dale smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Humanity's an infinitely adaptable creature. Even after all that's happened, there are still enough of us stubbornly holding on to keep the species going. I have every faith that humankind will still be here a thousand years from now."

Andrea smiled, her hope renewed as always whenever she talked to Dale. She leaned in and kissed the older man, his whiskers tickling her face. As she drew back she murmured, "I still miss Wonderbread."

Dale sighed, "Me too."

Lia grimaced as the alarm on her wristwatch beeped to life. Eyes squeezed shut, she fumbled with the watch until she hit the right button and blessed silence returned. She rolled over on the bed and reached out to the space on the mattress beside her, finding it empty, the sheets cooled. Her eyes opened then. She sighed, Daryl was out hunting again. After months of sharing the same bed - or rather, the same mattress on the floor - he'd gotten good at sneaking out without waking her. He was always chastising her for not getting enough sleep. Like he was one to talk, she thought sardonically.

It wasn't that she didn't trust him or anything, it was that she worried about him whenever he went off alone. Everyone else stuck to the buddy system when they left the safety of the office building. Hell, Daryl was one of its staunchest enforcers...as long as it didn't apply to him.

Lia sat up with a groan and ran her fingers through the tangle of thin braids on her head. It took a few seconds to motivate herself to stand, then she shuffled out of her and Daryl's room and made her way to the bathroom everyone shared on that floor. A quick use of the toilet and a hasty sink bath later, she emerged feeling a little more human. She went back to her room, changed out of her night clothes into jeans and a T-shirt, and trotted downstairs to the main floor. The big lobby that was now the main rumpus room was crowded with children ranging in age from infancy to early teens, with a sprinkling of adults here and there. At the moment they were all engaged with eating breakfast. Lia wended her way between kids lounging on beanbags and in chairs until she reached the kitchen where she found the indefatigable Nana Shino as expected.

"Good morning!" the old woman called out cheerfully. She handed Lia a bowl already filled with mushy ricemeal. "Dale also made corn cakes, if you'd like one."

"Johnnycakes," the bearded man corrected. He offered one to Lia with a smile. "Figured they'd add a little variety to the usual fare."

"Thanks." Lia bit into the small, flat cake, then nodded appreciatively. "This is good."

"You'd be surprised how easy they are to make," the old man informed her.

"Sure, long as we have cornmeal," she pointed out, thinking of some of their dwindling stores. Canned goods weren't a problem yet, but anything bagged or boxed was becoming harder and harder to replace. Many of the little out-of-the-way grocery stores they normally raided were starting to show damage from the weather and lack of maintenance. Water seepage and mold were finishing off what the rats and bugs didn't get. It wasn't a life-threatening problem to their little community - there were plenty of alternative food sources available - but it was kind of a downer. And in this post-apocalyptic world, bad morale could be as dangerous as any disease, leaving them distracted and vulnerable to attack from walkers and marauders alike. Bare survival wasn't enough. Even the smallest indulgences could keep them going. It was why, whenever she was out on a supply run in the city, Lia always kept her eyes peeled for candy, books, comics, and games they didn't already have. It was why, even though batteries were a precious commodity, they still kept a few set aside to use in the portable CD player so they could occasionally play music for everyone to enjoy.

And it was why Daryl went off hunting so often, even when it wasn't totally necessary.

As if he read her mind, Dale asked, "Daryl off tromping through the woods again?"

Lia nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure he'll be sorry he missed your johnnycakes."

"I can save one for him, no trouble."

"Thanks," Lia said, then walked away to find a relatively peaceful spot to eat her breakfast.

Daryl knew he was being followed. He even knew who it was. Jessie, a fourteen-year-old girl who was the oldest child in the menagerie of orphans that Lia and Nana had taken in. Every chance she got she trailed after Daryl when he went on his hunts, not because she had some creepy crush on him, but because she was determined to someday become adept enough at tracking that even he wouldn't be able to detect her. The girl was like Lia in that way, once she latched onto a particular skill, she stuck to it doggedly until she got it right. Daryl had to admit she'd improved a great deal over the last few months. He actually had to concentrate to pick out the sounds of her passage from all the natural forest sounds. But she was still a long way from getting the drop on him. Pretty soon he'd end this little game like he always did, sometimes by circling around and surprising the girl, other times leaning against a nearby tree and waiting for her to catch up. He'd smirk, she'd roll her eyes, then she'd head for home and Daryl would be free to continue his hunting in peace.

Everyone needed some alone time. Daryl just needed it more often than most others. If he didn't go off on these jaunts through the woods the frustration and resentment would grow until he became impossible to live with. There was a time when Daryl wouldn't have given a shit one way or another, but not anymore. It wasn't just because of Lia, though she was a huge part of it, he'd also grown to care for and in some cases even love the rest of the group. The dozens of orphaned children and the bunch from Rick Grimes's group of refugees. Funny how it took the end of the world for Daryl to finally become more of a people person.

A new sound halted him mid-step. Not behind him, but coming from somewhere ahead. Something was moving through the thick foliage, and from the sound of it, it was big. Maybe a deer, maybe a geek. Either way it was dead once Daryl got it in his sights. He promptly relegated Jessie to the back of his mind and concentrated on what lay ahead. He moved with slow confidence, barely stirring the blades of grass beneath his hiking boots. It was almost as if he was a part of the forest, and in a way, he was. He'd probably spent half his life tracking through heavily wooded areas just like this. Until recently, hunting was the only true joy in his life, the only time he didn't feel the pressure and inadequacy that normally haunted his waking hours. Of course, all those troubles were gone, for the most part. Chased away by Lia. It scared him sometimes how dependent he was on her. Fortunately, she seemed just as dependent on him, so that put them on even footing.

The noises of whatever it was he was creeping up on lacked any kind of subtlety, which made the possibility of a walker more likely. Too bad, Daryl was hoping for a deer. Deer were useful. Only thing geeks were good for was fertilizer.

Daryl crouched behind a scraggly clump of bushes and carefully parted the tangled growth just enough for him to peek through. As he'd suspected, it wasn't a deer. But it wasn't a walker, either. It was a man. He was kneeling down next to a colony of mushrooms that grew around the base of a rotted tree stump. While Daryl watched, the stranger plucked one of the mushrooms and examined it, obviously trying to decide whether it was edible or not. He was dressed in black shoes, dark brown pants, a black shirt, and a tan corduroy jacket. Resting beside him was a camping backpack and a guitar case, of all things. He looked like nothing more than a struggling musician hitchhiking his way to LA in search of fame. His straight black hair was long enough to fall into his eyes, and his face sported several days' worth of beard. Instead of looking scruffy, though, it only made him look gorgeously rugged. And the man was gorgeous, even Daryl had to admit it (said admission never to be uttered aloud so long as he lived). He looked a little like that Irish actor, Colin-something.

Not that any of this mattered. He was still a stranger trespassing in what Daryl considered his territory. The last time he encountered living people in these woods he damn near wound up dead and eaten. This guy might be harmless, but he might also be some psycho out killing whoever he came across and taking everything they had. And what about Jessie? Daryl could still hear her progress through the woods behind him, getting closer. What would this stranger do if he caught a glimpse of the pretty blonde girl? All kinds of possibilities, many of them very bad, ran through Daryl's mind. As much as he disliked the idea of committing murder - and it was murder, he didn't kid himself on that score - Daryl wasn't about to take a chance on the man's intentions when one of the kids was at risk. So, without hesitation, he quickly stood and pointed his crossbow at the stranger. The man's eyes widened in shock and the mushroom fell as he raised both hands in a warding-off gesture, but there was no time for him to speak.

Then Daryl heard a click behind him.

"Mister, you'd best put that crossbow down if you know what's good for you."

Shit! The noise behind him, it wasn't Jessie at all. Daryl silently berated himself for being so idiotically careless. He briefly considered firing the crossbow anyway and trying to dodge before the second man got off a shot, but he knew the odds of surviving such a foolhardy move were pretty slim. He started to lower the crossbow.

"Take the arrow out of it first," the voice behind him ordered, "And put some slack on that string."

Great, there went any possibility of grabbing up the crossbow and getting off a quick shot. Shit shit shit! Daryl muttered that and a few other choice words while he did as he was told. He lay the now all-but-useless weapon carefully on the ground - no way was he gonna drop it and risk damaging it.

"Now, put your hands on your head and get down on your knees."

"I ain't gettin' on my knees," Daryl growled, "I'm dyin' on my feet if yer gonna shoot me."

"I'm not gonna shoot you 'less you don't cooperate," the man's voice said tensely, "Now get your hands up, or I will kill you."

Scowling, Daryl interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on top of his head. He still remained on his feet, however. That was one thing he refused to give in on. It was a useless act of defiance, since there was little chance he could escape before the bastard shot him, but pride wouldn't allow him to even appear to be begging for his life. He heard the soft crunch of feet on the undergrowth and the second man came into his line of sight. This one was a black man, apparently middle-aged, though his hair and short beard had yet to show any gray. He was pointing a revolver with a steely-eyed look that said, even though his conscience might haunt him for it, he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in Daryl's skull at the slightest provocation.

The black man glanced at his companion, who'd risen to his feet. "You alright, Hess?"

"Yeah," the man answered, only a little shaken, "Just caught me off guard, is all."

The man with the gun asked Daryl, "What're you doing here? Do you always ambush folks who're passin' through?"

"These're my woods," Daryl answered in a low voice filled with rage barely held in check.

"Somehow I doubt your name's on any deed," the black man remarked drily, "Not that that kinda thing matters anymore."

"We should probably kill him," the first man, Hess, suggested, "He's obviously dangerous."

"You shoot me 'n' every walker in a mile's gonna be drawn by the noise."

"That's not something you need to worry about," Hess retorted.

It was then that a faint rustle drew everyone's attention to where a new arrival stood aiming her bow at the man with the gun. Jessie. She had followed Daryl after all.

But Daryl could tell, even though her aim was steady, that Jessie wouldn't be able to shoot. He could see it in her eyes. She'd never killed a living person before. Animals and walkers, sure, but never human beings. By the time she finally worked up the nerve to release the bowstring it would be far too late. Daryl knew this, so he did the only thing he could.

"Run," he said. He didn't shout, he didn't have to. He'd spent many weeks training Jessie in these words, conditioning her to obey him without question. No sooner did he utter the word than she was gone, dashing through the woods as swift as any deer.

The man with the gun clenched his jaws in frustration. "Dammit. Hess, go after her."

Hess ran, following the direction Jessie went.

Daryl smirked. "He won't catch her. She's fast 'n' she knows these woods better 'n either of ya."

The black man stared at him levelly. "Like my friend said a minute ago, that's not something you need to worry about."

Daryl stared down the barrel of the gun and had to agree.