So...Here's a different type of Walking Saints fic. Not sure if anyone will like it. I've always seen ones with Daryl and Connor and the brothers and Daryl but here I am hoping to try something new. Hopefully y'all like it. Well we'll see. And please don't hate me for what I've done. *hides under desk*

Chapter One: Descension

He had lost them all. All of them. They were all gone. He tried to get the images out of his head, the screams out of his ears. The bullets had flown so rapidly he was sure he had gone blind. His head was about ready to explode, his body was almost broken. He wasn't even sure where he was all he knew was that he was surrounded by water. Harsh water that fell atop the crashing waves. It was supposed to be soothing, he was supposed to be comforted but the nightmares filling his head refused to give him that peace.

He could hear the babies crying from beside him but he couldn't bring himself to wake up. The fear was clutching onto so tightly he feared he would suffocate. But he had to stay alive, she was all that was left. She, in all her innocence, was all he had left.

They had all died. The Governor had eliminated them all, he had overcome them. The prison had fallen. It had all fallen. Fallen apart.

She wouldn't stop crying. He tried to open his eyes but the memories had their claws so deep in him he couldn't even move.

How long had it been since the prison? He didn't keep count. The days passed with a torturous sun, furious winds banging against the windows. The nights came by with glittering stars and towering moons. She had started crawling, frustration nearly matching the sorrow in his soul. A blossoming child amongst all this death.

He had let them all down. They had given him their lives and they had died for it. For what? For a war. What war? The Governor's war.

Finally his eyes snapped open and he looked around. The room wasn't filled with screams, death didn't fill his eyes. He looked down at the crying baby and he tried to hush her. Sweat was clinging to his forehead, crawling down his neck and seeping through his shirt. She sank against his side, her tears soaking up onto his chest. She calmed. How did she calm when all he brought was death?

Carl! Where was Carl? Carl was gone. Gone, gone, gone. Gone just like everyone else. He blinked away the images. Why hadn't he died? Why hadn't they just taken his life? Everyone else had nothing to do with it. All innocent. He had blood on his hands. Lori, Shane, T-Dog, Patricia, Jimmy, Amy, Jim, Jacqui. Their blood stained his hands so why hadn't they come for him? He was guilty. So guilty.

He hadn't seen them all go down but he had seen their bodies, seen them reanimate. They had all crawled back into the prison, trying to cling to the only life they had known for so long, the life he had fooled them into believing in. The Governor had gone once the prison rang silently with death. Arrogant and victorious. They were going to torch the place he had overheard. He had to get out, find the others and get out.

He locked himself in their cellblock with his baby, clutching onto her hoping she wouldn't die on him too. He could hear them in the separate cell where they used to eat, clawing at the gates viciously. His family, his group. He cried, the tears falling endlessly, just like hers did.

He saw Glenn and Maggie, their blackened flesh rotting. Daryl reached for him, his eyes vacant, hungry for what flesh was left on his bones. Carol with that ugly bullet wound in the middle of her eyes, her body clinging to death so harshly. Hershel's other leg seemed to have been blown off during the battle, he dragged himself towards the gate with angry growls. Beth's body was riddled with bullets, in death her face was distorted so unlike the angelic softness she had before. Merle gnawed on one of the Governor's soldiers who had gone in to check the prison's status, all the flesh ripped off the body. Michonne laid dead, three bullets in her, two before her reanimation and the last after death from the Governor's soldier. And then there was Carl, the sheriff's hat off his head, his eyes watching him with hunger, with judgment. You killed us.

Days passed and her cries grew worse. She was hungry, her face red. Just like the blood that had been shed. He knew what he had to do. He knew what she needed. But it was in that room. Going in there meant- he couldn't do that. He couldn't kill them all. He had no ammo, his revolver was empty. All he had was his knife. He decided to rot away, languish in his own nothingness and die out. But her cries kept coming, her screams grew louder and she got weaker. He was so weak himself. How much more death was he to be responsible for? He knew what he had to do.

He rose up from the bed, leaving her small trembling body in its place. Taking the key ring from his pants he locked the cell she was in. If something happened to him it would be better for her to die from starvation than from being ripped apart.

He stood in front of the cell gate watching them mercilessly reaching out for him. He withdrew his knife, the blade seemingly dull in the stale light of the prison. He reached out with the key and set them in the lock, trying to avoid the hands that clawed for him, yearned for him to quench their hunger.

Wouldn't it be better? To throw himself to them and let them eat away what remained of him. Let them pass the sentence to judge what he had brought on them. But she was still crying, calling him back to life. He had to live somehow. Somehow for her.

He breathed out a heavy breath before he reached out and turned the key in the lock. He stepped away from the gate knowing that in their viciousness they would push it open. They came at him, their bodies decaying and dragging at him. He rose his blade, let out a raging yell and dug his knife into Carol's head. She fell and sloshed when he pulled the blade out. Maggie grabbed at him, ripping a hole into his shirt but he reached up and tore the knife through her neck. He felt Hershel grabbing at his legs as Daryl came on him. He screamed again as he felt their clawing fingers trying to take him apart. He slashed at Daryl's throat, let his boot come down with all his force on Hershel's head before he dug his blade into Daryl's head. Glenn came behind him, hugging him to him, wanting to rip him apart. He pushed at him and turned around quickly, the knife stabbing through his dark eye. Beth's broken body shot to him, flailing as he pushed her off and crushed his knife into her forehead. Merle left the soldier's barren corpse and came at him with more strength than them all. His teeth widened but he was quicker, sticking the knife in through his mouth before pulling it out.

Then there was Carl. So small. So dead. His son. His eyes were no longer blue, his skin was no longer alive. He was vacant, he was gone. Gone. He was staring at him, wanting every piece of his flesh. He was judging him. You killed me. You, my father, killed me. Why? Why? He attacked, so viciously he almost overwhelmed him. Tears sprang to his eyes as he pushed at his small throat. He got a tight grip on the knife and with his eyes closed he plunged it into his head. He fell down onto his chest, the warm blood leaking everywhere. He laid there like that, wishing that his weight would crush him, corrupt him and take him to the hell this war had sent him to. His son. His boy.

But her cries came to him again and he pushed the body off, unable to look at him again. He rose up, so damn weak with hunger and pain, and made his way into the connecting cell. Everything was a mess, things were thrown over. They had been spoiled but still he checked and still he found it. The canister of formula and the bucket of good water. He sighed with victory and made a bottle. He hadn't done it in so long. Slowly, weakly he went back to the cell he had left her in and fed her, cradling her where his heart was and he slept.

They stayed there for one more night and then he knew they had to move. He packed up what he had left and he escaped during the dead of night even though he knew how dangerous that was. He took a car, loading it up with what supplies he took and drove away. The last good car. He got away from the ruins of the prison, the bodies of his family. But the nightmares stayed with him, the pain clung to him and he knew it wouldn't release him anytime soon. He had failed them all.

They changed cars whenever he could, found more supplies and when he had stumbled on a faraway daycare he looted it of everything he could find. Finally he had reached the coast but by then he was so dazed he couldn't think straight. All he knew was survival and keeping the baby that was with him alive. He found a house that was near the water. A writer's house it seemed, there was tons of paper, a typewriter. It reminded him oddly of Misery, that movie he had seen an eternity ago. Stephen King. Who was Stephen King? Lori had loved him. He closed his eyes. He didn't know Lori, he had no life before.

And now here he was, lost to himself and abandoned to everything. The baby in his arms so much different from the day he had left the prison. How old was she? How old was he? What was he? He was death.

He took her small body into his arms and she sniveled. Her hand was holding onto the fabric of his soaked shirt. He wanted to smile but couldn't remember how.

He moved into the kitchen and routinely made her a bottle before taking out the stale and molded bread. He nibbled at the piece slowly, achingly. With the baby in one arm he checked off what he had used just now on his inventory list and sighed. They were almost empty. How much longer could he survive? They were entirely isolated. No walkers. No people. No danger except the approaching death that came in the form of starvation, of simply dying out.

He looked down at her beautiful face and he shook his head as much as he could. She wasn't going to die. Oh but he brought death with him everywhere. Lori, Carl, Shane, Daryl…I know! I know! He should have listened to Morgan. He should have blown himself to bits with Jenner. I know! I know! Death followed him at his heels.

He brought the suckling baby into the bathroom. He didn't dare look at his haggard face in the mirror. His skin must have been clinging to his bones by now, his eyes must have been sunken in. He didn't even feel like a man. He was a figure of survival for the one person he had left.

Carefully he set her down to sit against the wall and he released himself with a sigh. He scooped her back up again and carried her into the living room. She moaned when he collapsed onto the couch but he snuggled her close to calm her. He was too tired to do anything, his soul had lost its vigor, his body its strength. The Governor had stolen it, it was back at the prison. He was so tired, so damn exhausted. He no longer slept, just floated in a daze of memories that wouldn't give him the ability to rest. He didn't deserve it. They couldn't rest anymore. They were dead.

His eyes slid shut and his mind hung in between darkness and the sweet suckling sound of her mouth. A creak snapped his eyes open. She had fallen asleep and so he carefully rose, slipping his arm out from beneath her. The creak came again followed by the soft echo of shoes on the wood floorboards. He dug into his pockets for his knife and withdrew it despite his shaky hands. He knew that in his state he wasn't much of a threat but just like what had happened at the prison his rage, his paternal need to keep her alive would help him overcome whatever it was waiting for him.

The midday sun poured onto the guys face as they came closer to each other and he stopped in his tracks. Those blue and slanted eyes, that same darkening glare.

"Daryl?" He croaked out, his throat so dry it hurt.

He looked over the man, confusion beginning to show on his face. "Are you alright?"

That wasn't Daryl's voice, not his accent. But that was his face. Because Daryl was dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Just like everyone else.

"Daryl?" He called out again even louder. The exertion weakening him just as the knife fell from his hand.