A Fortune - in Dimes
Author's Preface:
I should warn you: This story will contain spoilers for the TV version of The Walking Dead. I may draw from any presently aired seasons (presently episode three of season three), and I am watching the new episodes as soon as they air. I do try not to give things away that haven't happened yet, but I'm not perfect, and foreshadowing can be far too fun. I intend for this fic to take place sometime between S02E05 "Chupacabra" and S02E09 "Triggerfinger," however, please keep in mind that I am taking creative license and playing with the timing of everything somewhat. I used several lines from "Chupacabra," however I hope it was not too many. I do not intend to write a blow-by-blow of the episodes, rather, just recapping the moments I'm changing. The story is going to veer away from season three as I currently envision it; Muses and characters willing (Carl really had a mind of his own, I expect that will only strengthen with time). Finally, on to the story! I have not had this Beta'd, nor edited by anyone other than myself. All errors are mine, and mine alone. Hope you all enjoy this short story, and may The Walking Dead live a long and prosperous time on air!
DISCLAIMER:
I do not own The Walking Dead. I do not own the characters herein. They are owned by the people who own them, which I believe includes, but may not be limited to: Robert Kirkman, Tony Moore, Charlie Adlard, and AMC. My apologies if that is an incorrect or incomplete list.
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Chapter One: Guardian Detective
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"WALKER! We got a walker!"
Rick heard Andrea's shout clearly, and hurried over. He told her not to fire, that Hershel needed to deal with this... But no one seemed to listen. Apparently he was only the leader when it was convenient. Rick snagged his revolver from Dale's camper, and started running for the treeline, the shambling figure was making its way slowly toward them.
Time felt like it sped up for the sheriff deputy. He ran without reservation, and he made it just in time. The adrenaline surged through his veins, and something wasn't right. The limping figure was too familiar... Then it hit him, and it felt like his chest was being torn open by that bullet all over again; Daryl Dixon was a walker. Feeling as though he was suffocating, Rick drew his revolver, and took aim.
"That's third time you've point'n that thing at my head. You gunna pull the trigger, or what?"
The voice seemed to echo in his head. Then, with a gasp, Rick realized that the hunter wasn't dead; Hell, he wasn't even slurring his speech... too much. Rick lowered his gun-arm, and relief washed over him like icy water. Time resumed its normal pace, and a wry smile could be seen tilting the deputy's lips up. Not a moment later, Dixon flew backwards; the gunshot's repercussion making the day seem far too quiet, then the thud of the hunter's dead weight hitting the ground sliced through the group. Two stumbling steps forward before Rick Grimes fell to his knees with a terrible, heart wrenching scream.
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Later, when he tried to recall the event, Rick wasn't sure who had declared the man still alive. What he remembered was that stark contrast of blood against the sepia tones of the world they lived in- It was so vibrant. He remembered the warmth of the man on his shoulder as he helped carry him back; that the ears wouldn't go over well with Hershel; the feeling of the pulse in the arm draped over his neck; the words Daryl muttered indignantly, "I was kidding, man!" and most especially, Rick remembered how unequivocally decimated he felt when Daryl had died in front of him. 'No, not died,' Rick often corrected himself, 'Fallen. I thought him dead, I was rent in two, sundered by all accounts. But he was alive. He is alive.'
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Meanwhile, in the farmhouse...
The gunfire's concussion shocked Carl awake. By the time he ran to the open window, his side reprimanding him loudly, two figures were on the ground; and his father's voice, while faint, was assaulting his ears with grief, fear, and pain. In a moment of surprising clarity the boy thought, 'That is the sound of a soul being shattered.' It never even crossed his mind that it might have been Lori who had been shot; He knew that he was the main reason his parents were still together; He was young, not stupid. The lump on the ground was too big to be Sophia, so his mind found the next most important person to his father and, vicariously, to him: 'Shane's dead.'
He limped to the hallway, closing his door behind him and waited for the news of Shane's demise to arrive.
It never did.
Shane Walsh and Sheriff Deputy Rick Grimes carried the limp form of Daryl Dixon, Hunter Extraordinaire, between them. Someone had opened the door for them. Hershel called out which room to go to, and the shock that painted Carl's face as the situation clicked into place was plain for any who looked; Shane always seemed so much taller than his father, but carrying Daryl, they almost seemed the same size. Daryl. Daryl?
Lori said something to Shane, and then the men were carrying the body up the stairs, right into the room across from where Carl had been asleep moments before.
Daryl. Not Shane. Daryl. Daryl had ripped that tormented sound from his father. Daryl held that power. Carl stood, rooted to the spot, as they closed the door and the sounds of medical care drifted from the room. Lori sank to the ground against the wall opposite the door, and Carl stood watch. He was the sentinel, and he wouldn't leave until he knew that they were... He wouldn't leave until he knew something.
Eventually, the door opened, and Carl glimpsed Daryl's form, dirty and clad only from the waist down; modesty forgotten. Lori stood quickly, and Carl backed up against a door in the cross-hallway. In all the commotion, he hadn't been noticed yet, and he decided it wouldn't hurt to keep it that way, at least a while longer.
His father walked out, giving Lori a quick one-armed hug, "He'll be alright."
"I hate to say it, but I'm with Hershel on this one," Shane spoke softly as he closed the door to Daryl's room behind him, "We can't keep going out there, not after this."
"You'd quit now?" His father sounded upset, "Daryl just risked his life to bring back the first hard evidence we've had."
"That is one way to look at it," Shane's weight thumped lightly against the wall, "The way I see it, Daryl almost died today for a doll." So Shane thought Daryl was wasting his time, wasting his blood. 'Sophia wasn't meaningless!' That was new... Shane's attitude. Or was it? Carl wasn't sure just then.
"Yeah, I know how you feel," Carl heard his father respond, then Carl saw him walk out of the hall, past his location without even a glance.
"I'm not out to be a hard case," Shane continued to Lori, "Just bein' realistic."
Lori huffed in response, apparently she was not liking his approach either.
Shane took a few steps forward, "He's just got to start making the tough calls. You know I'm right."
Lori followed him, both of them walking past Carl who was quickly realizing that he was now blatantly eavesdropping. "I may not agree with all his choices, but I respect him," she said, "I know yours and mine, and your way isn't harder. It's the easiest thing in the world to cut our losses and to not help. You keep tellin' yourself you're making the tough calls, you're really just tryin-"
Shane interrupted her, "The only thing in this world I care about now is you and Carl. So I apologize if I appear to be insensitive to the needs of others, but you see, I'll do whatever it takes to keep the two of you safe."
'What about dad?' Carl wanted to know, but he held his tongue. He could find out another time, another way.
Lori stepped closer to Shane again, and whispered so low that Carl only barely caught it, "Even abandoning a lost child?" A pause, "Really?"
Shane's voice, "Yeah."
'You'd just leave Sophia out there, Shane?' Carl knew this wasn't good. A leader couldn't leave their family behind. And the group, the entirety of the group, was family. 'Not just mom and me, Sophia's family too.'
Lori's cold whisper cut through Carl, "My son and I are not your problem anymore... or your excuse." She stormed off, and soon after he heard Shane follow at a more sedate pace. 'As if he owns the world...'
Carl stood there for a few moments, then quietly limped to his bed, and lay himself back down, gasping as he pulled his side. Breathing shallowly, Carl started to drift back into his healing sleep, somewhat morbidly he wondered if he slept like the dead used to: it had taken a discharged rifle to wake him the first time. His last thought as he lost consciousness was 'Daryl... Just what are you, to break my father like that?'
Carl woke once more that night, and only briefly. He had to use the restroom, but he heard Lori crying. It seemed dinner was ready, 'Not hungry, though.' He waited, rather valiantly he thought, for Lori to make her way out of the room before he got up (rather painfully, he was loath to admit) and made his way to relieve himself. On the way back, he saw Carol carrying a tray to Daryl's room, and when she opened the door, Carl noted absently that Daryl immediately pulled the blankets to cover himself, hiding from her like a small child from medicine. Carl smiled widely as he quietly re-entered his room, for he had attained the realization that being weak was part of being hurt. His father was the strongest person he knew, and if his dad could get through being shot... So could he.
The three of them would all heal, in time.
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End: Guardian Detective(EDIT: Fixed a missing "the" and changed a semi-colon to a dash.)