I'm ready with the first chapter of my summer fic project today, folks. I'm really excited to try something new. And here it is—a post-season three story about Daryl and Carol's friendship. For my other ramblings, drawings, and other goodies, please visit my tumblr—under the name "Praxid."

I really look forward to jumping into this fic—it's really different from what I've done before, and I'm thrilled to be able to share. Thank you!

Tribulation:

Carol woke early that morning, so there was barely a hint of light swelling at the windows beyond her cell. She looked up at the wire frame of the empty bunk above her head. Its blue-striped mattress. Beyond that, the shadows of the bars cast patterns on the walls.

She'd made it to another day. So had everyone else. She lay there a moment, reflecting on that.

And as she climbed out of bed, a cough echoed out against the concrete from somewhere down the cellblock. The prison was never quiet—and with all the Woodbury newcomers, there was always some sound in the background. Something that reminded you that you were never alone, here. Not really.

And Carol could hear her bunk creaking under her weight as she got up. And she didn't want to wake the others so early, if she could manage it. So when she grabbed her boots off the floor, she carried them in one hand. Padded out on the concrete in her socks. The cold worked into her feet.

The first thing Carol did each morning was check on the baby. So she headed that way. Heard the aglets on her shoelaces clattering together, quietly, where they dangled in the air.

And as she got close, she saw that Beth was curled up on the floor, against the side the crib. Fast asleep, with the cool, grey light falling over her shoulders.

Carol knelt down next to her, and put her boots on the ground. Laid a hand on Beth's shoulder. Stroked it, lightly.

"Beth… wake up."

Beth opened her eyes, then. Looked up at her with a bleary smile.

"Mornin'."

And both of them heard a noise from above. Someone moving, up on the second level, where Daryl slept. And Carol knew that he was up, too. Moments later, she recognized the sound of his footfalls on the stairs.

Beth pulled herself upright. Made to head for the crib. Carol touched her arm, again.

"No, Beth—you go get some rest. I'll see to things this morning."

Some fifteen minutes later, Carol had gotten the coffee ready. She'd been working away in their makeshift kitchen. And Daryl sat on the stairs at her back, watching.

She poured a cup for him—black—the way he liked it. Turned to hand it over.

"Here."

He took it without a word. Gave one of those little nods of his. The kind that stood in for a thank you.

She went back to their kitchen stores—the shelves of food they'd gathered to hold them for the winter. Yet again, scanning the metal racks, she realized how little there was. She knew it wouldn't last with so many people in the cell block.

Everyone knew it.

And Carol rooted around, trying to decide what to use for breakfast.

And behind her, she heard Daryl pick up his crossbow. Probably checking over its works. He'd had it propped against the stairs, beside him, since he came down to sit with her. He wouldn't have brought it along unless he was going hunting.

She asked him about it, without turning around:

"Going out, again?"

He still didn't say anything. And Carol knew that meant he was.

She turned around. Looked at him.

"That's three times this week."

He shrugged. Took a swig of his coffee. He didn't want to say much about hunting trips—about what a risk he'd been running. How dangerous it was getting out there. She could tell.

There were swarms of dead all over, these days. Worse than ever. The herds were moving—gathering together. There were just too many—and they were too close to the prison for comfort.

She went back to the storage shelves. Decided to make up the bit of oatmeal they had left. She could fix him that fast—so he'd have some food in him for his trip.

She'd barely made it across the room when she heard him clear his throat. And he spoke up for the first time that morning:

"No."

She turned to look at him, hand still stretched out for the box.

"Daryl—"

"Later."

She raised an eyebrow at him, then. But he held firm.

"See what I get when I'm out there, first."

And she knew what he meant. Once he'd gone hunting, they'd know if they could spare it.

Daryl put down his mug. Started pacing the floor. And she saw that he'd left his jacket hanging on the railing, next to his crossbow, and that coffee mug.

So Carol took the moment to grab one of the granola bars from a box on the shelf. Made sure he wasn't looking, and slipped it into one of the pockets.

And moments after she did it, Daryl turned on his heels and came back again. Took the coat, and the bow. Headed out towards the barred doors with their tired, grey paint. Stopped a moment, and looked her over. Met her eyes. Paused, there.

And he held the gaze a bit too long for his own comfort. She could see it in his face. So he broke it, and looked down at the floor.

Carol stepped forward. Spoke, quietly.

"You look out for yourself."

And he looked up, then. Smiled a small, gentle smile. That little tug of the lips she knew so well.

"Always do."

He stepped out through the cell block gate. Shut it, carefully, behind him.

And he was gone.

Daryl took one of their trucks out into the farmland, on a rural route overrun with dead weeds. Left it there, at the side of the road, so he could go out into the wilderness on foot.

And he went out far, through the fields. Found himself knee deep in the dead grass, and wilted queen anne's lace.

They needed things. Everything was running low—and he'd helped the others forage for medical supplies and warm clothes and bedding for the old folks. They'd all been throwing in a hand with that sort of thing. But the food—that was different. Nobody else knew how to get fresh meat. Just Daryl.

It was dangerous out here. He knew it. He'd had to give up his regular hunting grounds—nearer to the prison. They were swarmed with walkers. So lately, he'd had to start pushing out deeper and deeper into the wild.

That was something else he could do that the others couldn't. Moving through the wild places. It was something they needed—and needed him for.

And really, aside from all that—he liked being out here. It was dangerous, yes, but it was the only chance he had to be alone. Really alone. To take in the quiet. To think.

And Daryl needed that. It was something he looked forward to.

And who knew what he'd find, out here. A few squirrels could make for a good dinner. With luck, he'd bag something bigger. A turkey. A deer.

Before he knew it, he was standing at the forest edge. The wind picked up on the leaves, and it felt cool and damp on his face.

It smelled like it might rain.

He stepped into the press of the trees. Dark and close—so the light looked dim and hollow through the tangled branches. Pushed through the mess of briars there, and off into the wilderness.

Carol spent the day like she always did. The morning was all taken up with kitchen work. Taking stock of their supplies, and trying to dole them out as best and as fairly as possible.

People trickled in, and she fed them. Listened to them talk together. Watched them gather into little groups. The various new people from Woodbury. Tyreese, Sasha, and Karen—sharing one end of a table. Maggie, Glenn, and Hershel, at the other side. Carl, sitting near Michonne on the stairs, holding his baby sister.

Rick, off in a corner, alone.

And just like Daryl, Rick didn't want anything when she tried to feed him. So Carol saved him some of what she'd put aside for herself, and made him eat it after everyone else was finished.

The stag was large.

Daryl paused. Watched it standing there in a clearing, peeling the bark off one of the younger sapling trees.

It was knee deep in the tall brush, upwind. Didn't know he was there.

And it was massive. Beautiful. If he could just get the thing back to the prison, it'd be enough to feed everybody for a good while.

Daryl felt a little tremor of excitement, at the thought. Imagined bringing it back, for everyone to see.

But that was getting ahead of himself. So he tried to focus. Started to follow it carefully—methodically. The way he'd been taught. After a while, it started to sense something was there—watching. It was skittish. He worked hard not to startle it—to set it bolting away.

Instead, he waited. Patiently. Stopped thinking about anything else. Forgot all the thousand worries about the group. Forgot about the prison and The Governor and everything that had happened. There was nothing but the sound of the wind in the dead branches, and the deer's huffing breath.

It felt just like any hunting trip when he was younger. Like Merle should be with him, circling around from the other side of the trees. Using their calls to guide him. That language they had, for hunting, that only the two of them knew.

And he thought of taking his shot a few times, as he moved. But he didn't. He'd got the stag heading back towards the farmland—towards his truck. And it'd be easier to bring back the closer it came to the forest edge.

So Daryl was patient.

"Alright, Mr. Fischer. You know the drill."

Carol knelt on the floor next to the old man, where he was sitting on a bunk. She was going to check his blood glucose level. They'd been doing their best to manage his diabetes—struggling to keep it under control with what little they had to do it.

So she reached out. Took the man's hand, and leaned in with the lancet.

"… just a little pinprick."

And Mr. Fischer looked out, away from her. Didn't flinch when she worked out the little drop of blood. Just stared out past the barred door, and towards the windows. His eyes were clouded over with cataracts, and Carol wasn't sure how well he could see what was out there.

She found herself pausing a moment. Watching Mr. Fischer's face. They wouldn't be able to keep him stable forever. Days. Maybe weeks.

And he was frail. His hands shook where she'd placed them down on his knees.

He had no future.

But Carol breathed in—hard—and leaned down over the meter, and the test strip:

"How've you been since last time?" she asked, "Feeling ok?"

He nodded, quietly. She wrote down the readings on the meter, to show Hershel later.

And Carol carefully pulled off Mr. Fischer's slippers—the ones she'd found for him a few weeks ago. Just sitting there in the cell Oscar used to use.

She carefully rolled off the compression stockings he had on under them. And Carol ran her hands along his legs, then. His bony feet—searching the skin for sores.

And he kept looking off into the distance. Spoke up, after a while:

"Looks like rain."

And Carol cupped the old man's feet in her hands, close—trying to warm them as best she could.

"Yeah," she said, "It does."

Daryl took his shot when he reached the shadow of a low valley. A perfect hit. And he watched the wounded stag struggle, pushing through the grass, before it dropped down on the ground.

The forest rose up on one side—on a sharp hill cut through by erosion. Fallen trees from the summer storms clung to the far side—torn from the edge of the hill and toppled down. Overgrown with brush, and winter weeds.

The woods opened up to the farm land, there—only a couple miles from the truck he'd left parked out on the road.

And he paused. Stopped to reload the crossbow. Didn't want to go out into the open air unarmed.

So when Daryl heard the stranger's footfalls, he was looking down. Didn't realize what they were, immediately. Thought it was just an animal, rooting around in the brush.

But it was a man.

He looked up from the bow to see him standing there. Wearing dirty flannels, tugging a bit at the stag's massive rack. Seemed like he was looking it over for bites—trying to figure out what took it down.

That guy didn't notice the arrow wound, immediately. The shaft had broken when the stag fell. And so the stranger knelt down beside it. Reached for his hunting knife, to clean and dress the thing.

Without a moment's thought, Daryl immediately pushed forward.

"Hey!"

The man's face spun towards him. He had long hair and a messy, scraggly beard.

"Hey!" Daryl called, gesturing with one hand:

"Get away from that!"

The man jumped up on his feet. Jerked his rifle towards Daryl. Aimed for him with shaking hands.

Daryl drew the crossbow at the same instant. Trained it on his face.

"Back off, buddy," he said, "It's a big goddamned woods. Go find your own kill."

The man shook his head.

"No…" he whispered. Real soft. Like he wasn't talking to Daryl. Like he was talking to himself.

He stared at Daryl, pale and quiet:

"No, no, no, no…"

Daryl stepped forward. Steady on his feet. Clenched his jaw.

"I ain't gonna tell you ag—"

The man let out a sob. Moved closer. Daryl tensed to fire. They were face to face, and the dead stag lay forgotten at their backs.

"No... it's the tribulation…"

Daryl furrowed his brow.

"The hell you—"

The stranger fired.

Daryl let off a shot in the same moment—threw himself to the side, and dropped on the ground. And he knew he'd been hit. Felt his leg give way beneath him. He'd been shot in the thigh.

He let out a rough, agonized shout, and it echoed off the hills all around him.

That afternoon, Carol spent some time with baby Judith. Talked to her. Tried to make her smile. She thought it was important to set aside some time like that for the baby, each day.

The cellblock was pretty quiet. Maggie and Glenn had gone out on a supply run. Hershel was off with Beth, doing something in the yard. And Michonne was somewhere in the prison halls, making sure the gates were still secure.

Others drifted in and out, as they went about their business.

As things quieted down, Carol pulled out one of the storybooks they'd scavenged, and read to the baby:

"Next to a great forest there lived a poor woodcutter with his wife and his two children. The boy's name was Hansel and the girl's name was Gretel. He had but little to eat, and once, when a great famine came to the land, he could no longer provide even their daily bread."

She moved through the story. Told Judith about the wicked stepmother's plans for the children:

"Early tomorrow morning we will take the two children out into the thickest part of the woods, make a fire for them, and give each of them a little piece of bread, then leave them by themselves and go off to our work. They will not find their way back home, and we will be rid of them."

Judith pawed at the page. Got the binding in her mouth a moment, before Carol could pull it away.

And she continued:

"No, woman," said the man. "I will not do that. How could I bring myself to abandon my own children alone in the woods? Wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces."

Judith didn't sit still, through it all. Was really getting so she wanted to pull on everything. Had a hand on Carol's ear. Then on the hem of her shirt—tugging at the lace, there. Got a finger in Carol's nose—and when Carol laughed, Judith did, too.

"Oh yes," Carol said, pausing in the story, and letting Judith paw at her face:

"You like noses, don't you?"

The little girl got a hand in the side of Carol's hair, then. Babbled at her. Carol babbled back.

Soon—sooner than it seemed—Judith would start talking.

Carol turned a page. Moved on.

"Don't worry, Gretel. Sleep well. God will not forsake us."

And as she read, it occurred to Carol that she'd never heard Daryl's truck pull up—didn't see him with the others as they drifted back and forth through the cellbock.

Usually, he'd be back by now.

But she'd been busy, looking after everyone. And he had plenty to keep busy with himself, most days.

So she pushed it to the back of her mind.

Daryl had landed on top of his crossbow. Felt it digging into his side. And before he could move, the man was on top of him. Had his knee on Daryl's chest, and his hands clutching at his throat. Yelled in Daryl's face:

"You can't be here."

A string of spit dripped down from his mouth. Onto Daryl's cheek. And he started shouting in earnest, then:

"Matthew! Matthew!"

Daryl grabbed at him hard—trugged at his arms. Grappled with him. Struggled for purchase on the loose earth.

"Matthew!"

Daryl strained to look out past him—to see if this Matthew was about to come out of the woods. If he did, he'd make quick work of Daryl, now that he was down.

The stranger panted. Started ranting at him:

"Matthew... Mark, Luke, and John… Paul came later. Like the Holy Ghost."

Daryl pushed hard to the side. Let out a grunt. Saw an opening and cuffed the stranger's jaw. The man lost his grip, and Daryl was on him in an instant. Grabbed his shoulders and forced him down in the dirt.

"The Holy Ghost, he gonna come around late."

Daryl saw the man had managed to draw his hunting knife. Grabbed him by the wrist as he moved to strike.

There were tears running down the man's face. His voice cracked as he spat out the words:

"…he always come around late."

And Daryl started to really feel the pain in his leg, then—from his wound. Felt the warm blood on his skin.

This crazy motherfucker was going to kill him.

"… it's too late," the man murmured. And Daryl shouted in his face. Wrenched his wrist to the side. Got a hold of the knife handle, and wrenched it free.

Without thinking, Daryl twisted it around, and rammed it into the man's chest. Left it there, buried to the hilt. Rolled over, and saw the rifle, there. Aimed for the head, and shot the man with his own weapon.

The sound reverberated in the quiet air, and went silent.

Daryl heard his ragged breath, echoing close in his head. The pain bloomed through his body. The blood was spreading. Soaking his pants leg. Spreading out and out, and onto the grass. Looking down at it, he started to feel dizzy.

And in that moment, he heard a noise. A throttled groan. Looked up, and saw a handful of walkers, filtering in from the trees and moving towards him.

There might be even more behind.

"Shit."

He grabbed his crossbow. Struggled to stand, and make some kind of escape.

Carol kept watch late that afternoon. Leaned out from her perch, over everything—way up in the surviving guard tower, looking out over the trees.

She spent a few hours up there, as the sun started to wane. Trained the scope of her rifle on the leaves. On the heads of the walkers moving around, out below her. Practiced taking her aim, even if she never fired.

And she heard Beth out below, singing to herself as she carried something in from one of the cars—just back from a supply run:

For the beauty of the earth—for the glory of the skies—
For the love which from our birth, over and above us lies
Lord of all—to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.

The sound of her voice was faint. Cut in and out, depending on the way the wind was blowing. But Carol could follow the melody. She knew that song by heart.

Daryl couldn't run.

His leg gave out underneath him the moment he put his weight on it. He crumpled—stifled a cry of pain. Swore to himself, under his breath. Twisted around to look at the walkers.

Seven or so, drifting from the trees. They were on the other side of the valley. Moving into the open air.

He couldn't let them see him.

So pushed himself up. Panted hard against the pain. Leaned on the crossbow, and made his way forward.

It was agonizingly slow—he threw himself forward on his good leg. Leaned hard on his bow, and dragged the bad one behind him. And he fought the urge to look back, again. Heard the sounds of the things moving around in the winter grass.

They were getting closer. From the sound—more were coming. A good few dozen, probably splintered off from one of the larger herds. Drawn by the sounds of the fight. The gunfire.

He felt nauseous. Light headed. He was losing too much blood. The fear clenched at his gut, and twisted.

There was no fucking way he'd be able to outrun them. And he knew his truck was less than two miles away. But it may as well have been on the moon.

He heard his breath in the air—short and fast and shallow.

"No," he whispered, "Fucking pull it together."

He tried to get a goddamned hold of himself, then. Scanned the valley. There were at least thirty. They hadn't noticed him yet, but they would.

Daryl cursed. Threw himself behind one of the fallen trees—burrowed into the close space between the trunk and the steep incline of the hill.

And he looked up, from there, into a grey sky.

He lay there, barely hidden from view. It was shit for a hiding place—but it was the only one he had. And slowly, the walkers filled the space around him. Hours passed. The sun started to set. As silently as he could, he tried to bind his wound with the fabric of his flannel shirt. The bleeding slowed. And he knew the bullet hadn't hit any major cables—or he'd already be dead.

And Daryl sat there, helpless and alone. As it got dark, the dead drifted back and forth around him—grey and shapeless in the winter fog.

Carol walked the perimeter as the sun set. Spread out the walkers that perpetually strained against the fence. In the low light, they were only shapes. Indistinct. Formless. The fog rose up as the air cooled, and she wandered through it like a ghost.

As she finished the circle, and got back to where she started, the light began to go dead.

And it was then she noticed it—Daryl's truck. The one he'd taken out that morning—it wasn't in its place, parked by the stairs into C-Block.

So she went inside. Saw Rick with some of the others, crowded together in a small cluster, leaning in close, and talking quietly. They all looked up as she walked towards them. Stopped whatever they were discussing, and stared at her.

"Where's Daryl?" she asked.