The sun ain't up yet, but Daryl Dixon is.
The air's thick and close already – not hot but wet. It gets in his lungs, makes his clothes tug at him. It's storm weather, sure as anything.
Might be he shouldn't head out today. Might be he'd do better to let it blow past.
But he's got his Stryker prepped all the same, an he's on his way down the hall past the lines of bars that count as home, an the only sound's
(his daddy snoring on the floor, still lying where he fell shitfaced drunk last night)
someone coughing a ways off down the cell block.
It's just his footsteps follow him out, just echoes up from behind, an then he's in the courtyard where the air presses in like a damp rag.
Won't be long, he reckons, as he breathes in deep. The clouds are packed in low; he can see em even in the half-ass light they got set up for the night watch.
If he's any judge, this one'll be a real ripper.
But back inside, there's a whole row of hungry mouths. Back inside, there's
(empty cupboards, same as last week, and ain't no one gonna feed him if he don't do it his own self)
folks who need him. There's folk might give him a nod and a word of thanks when he gets back.
Some summer storm, that don't seem like such a price to pay.
Gate's lit and manned, cleaned up like the whole rest of the place, but that don't help the smell none. He ain't but halfway when the stink's on him, ripe an heavy,
(booze, puke, clothes that ain't been washed since mamma died)
dead flesh too long in the Georgia sun.
Walkers're up along the fence, skin runny with rot, and Daryl glances em over to see how many he's got to handle.
"Nice collection," he says, an he ain't surprised to see it's Carol out here tonight, showing one of the kids from Woodbury, skinny boy with glasses, how a watch is done proper. Seems it's always Carol when he heads out early or comes in late, nevermind whose shift it's meant to be.
"Not so many as last week," she tells him. "Not by half."
"Lucky us." Daryl turns to the kid. "You ready to draw em off?" he says. "Best get this started."
The kid lights out like his shirt's on fire, screaming an waving his shovel like a goddamn flag.
"There's a storm coming," Carol says as the walkers stumble after.
Daryl shrugs. "Ain't nothing I can't handle."
She ain't paying the kid no mind, nor the walkers neither. She's looking at Daryl the way she does from time to time, like she don't much like what she sees.
Ain't nothing worse than that look.
Daryl drops his head an makes one last check: knife, bolts, cord, pack. When she sets a hand flat on his shoulder, careful-like, he
(jerks back from the knuckles just a hair too late, an they bust his lip wide open)
goes real still.
"Hey!" the kid's shouting, real into it. "Hey, ugly, lunch is this way!"
"Anyway," Daryl says, "we gotta eat."
Carol gives his shoulder a little rub. "Can't argue with that," she says.
The sky's getting lighter. He wants to be out past the walls, out past the places the dead are thickest, in time to catch some game before the midday heat starts in.
"We gonna do this," he asks, "or what?"
Carol takes hold of the gate. She ain't the woman he met in Atlanta, that's sure. She's got a gun in her hand, an she means to use it if she has cause.
"Look out for yourself," she says, an she hauls the gate open.
"I'm good at that," Daryl tells her.
He steps out into the Georgia morning, every move
(like nettles, cause his shirt's rubbed the welts from daddy's belt raw all over)
for a reason, every bit of focus on the dead snarling where the kid's got em up by the fence.
Way off behind him, there's thunder, an it ain't much later he sees lightning in the clouds.
Storm's coming, sure enough. Like to catch him, too – but Daryl ain't much bothered. He's seen his share of storms before.
He don't figure one more's like to be the end of him.