"I'm not stayin' in this suck-ass camp!"
- Beth Greene, 'Still'
"It's like a damn romance novel."
- Daryl Dixon, '30 Days Without an Accident'
…
There'd been a saying, before the turn: if you ask a Georgian for water, they'll give you wine.
Or moonshine, Beth thought from where she lay upon the damp earth, trying not to open her eyes. Why the hell did I ever tell him I wanted a damn drink?
Light streamed through the trees overhead and she squinted through her fingers. There it was, a right devil of a headache. Quicker than a rattler it had creeped up on her in the night. Settled in, coiled inside, made itself at home. Now it was hissing in her head, bearing down on her insides, and her stomach lurched precariously.
Still squinting bleary-eyed into the too-bright canopy, all she could remember was the obvious: they'd been lit last night. Oh, and there'd been a fire. A big one. I think we might've started it…
For a delirious, terrifying moment, she wondered if, sometime in the night, she had indeed been bitten. Some serpent or undead thing, teeth and fangs sinking into her skin in the dark. Maybe this is it, she thought for a heart-stopping second.Maybe the fever's finally takin' hold.
And then, just as the daylight had made its garish self known to her blinking eyes, memory flooded through her and she sat up, gasping in relief.
For she recalled it now: they'd burned it down. That old, run-down shack, and all that went with it. All gone. Up in smoke. Floating its way up into the moonlit sky.
And then, boldly—or perhaps foolishly, she could not yet decide—they'd run through the night.
Exhausted and weary, she and Daryl had halted by a little stream at first light. After stringing the few cans and scrap metal they had between the trees surrounding a small clearing, her companion had insisted, gruffly, that she needed something to drink. Something other than moonshine. Carefully—gently almost, even—he'd handed her his water bottle. Not tossed it, this time. And then with a grunt and a wave of his arm, he'd gestured to her to lay down and get herself some rest.
And rest she had. Somehow, she'd slept until the sun was high, the day already grown oppressively hot and humid as usual.
Dragging herself up off the forest floor—by now she was used to snatching what sleep she could on beds of dewy grass, pine needles, leaves, and a tarp, if she was lucky—she stumbled to the edge of their camp to heed the call of nature. Afterward, she tried to make her way back to lie down again, but she'd only taken a few steps before her stomach heaved violently.
Daryl, who'd been standing against a big oak keeping watch, with what looked like an unlit cigarette in his mouth, was at her side in two long strides. She sensed rather than saw him: his hand upon her back, the other on her arm, holding her up.
Belatedly, Beth realized she hadn't eaten much of anything yesterday; all that had come up was watery bile.
"Thought you might be feelin' it," he muttered.
"Sorry," she mumbled after the heaving had subsided. Every item of her clothing was as filthy as the next, so she just wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and hoped for the best.
"Ain't nothin'," Daryl said softly. Beth thought he was trying to sound reassuring. Crouched there beside him, she could feel his gaze upon her, heavy as the humidity even now bearing down on her. "This one time," he continued, "I was dead drunk, passed-out on the sofa. Merle brought this lady-friend 'round in the middle of the night—"
That had her attention. "Merle had a girlfriend?"
"Yeah, some, I guess, over the years. Never lasted too long. Anyway, she left her bag or whatever on the couch. This real fancy, expensive thing. I didn't know it, but at some point I must'a got up and puked in it. Later, she went to get her lipstick or a condom or somethin'. Screamed fit to wake the dead. Last thing I saw was the door slammin' behind her."
"What did Merle do?" she asked, expecting another story of a gun being pulled, or something similarly violent.
Something akin to a smirk appeared in the corner of Daryl's mouth. "Nothin.' Next day he acted like he'd just had the best night of his life. He'd been drunk off his ass. High too, most like. Didn't remember a thing. Never did see that lady-friend again though."
Beth couldn't help but laugh, then. But she had stop immediately as her stomach hurt too much and her head was still throbbing something fierce. She wondered just how many such tales Daryl had. "I done a lot of things," he'd said, back at the shack.
Without another word, Daryl led her over to the big oak tree. Carefully, he helped her sit down against it. Beth watched him as he rummaged through their pack, looking for something, and pulled out a piece of coiled wire they'd scavenged from the car the other day. Handing her his water bottle, he instructed her to drink it all by the time he came back.
"Where're you goin'?" Beth nearly choked on her sip of water. He can't mean to go off huntin' now…
"Stayin' hydrated ain't enough. You need to eat somethin'. Protein. It'll take the edge off. I'll be right over there, settin' up a snare. Behind that grove of river birch," he added, when he saw the look on her face. "I'll stay in hollerin' distance. Best keep that knife ready all the same."
Beth managed a weak nod, but Daryl seemed satisfied, and he turned from her and strode across the clearing and into the trees, crossbow in hand. She watched him go, and with a sigh leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Carefully, she took several small sips from the water bottle, thinking that perhaps while she waited she could indeed drink her headache away.
As the afternoon progressed, the air only seemed to grow hotter and more humid. Cicadas hummed in the trees overhead. For Beth, the period of their buzzing had always signified late summer, the feeling of going back to school. High school. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
The end of the world might've robbed her of her full education, but she still remembered things. There'd been this biology lesson in her sophomore year in which they'd studied the life cycles of insects. Cicadas, she remembered, could remain hidden under the ground for years, and only lived above the surface for a short time. In the world above, they sang, mated, and died. Beth thought about how the world used to be, years and years ago. Native peoples had lived off this land for millennia. And later, settlers had carved lives out of the harsh wilderness. Women perished in childbirth. Children rarely reached adulthood. Maybe things have just gone back to the way they were before, she thought. Short lives, full of song.
Thoughts of high school brought on other memories, ones she had worked hard to put away. Memories of the girl who'd had butterflies in her stomach the first day she'd started seeing Jimmy; the girl who'd sung in church to please her daddy; the girl who'd crooned old folk tunes and rock songs to please herself. In the years since the outbreak, Beth had sung for all manner of reasons, but whenever she had the chance she tried to sing what she liked. A Tom Waits song, one of the many she'd sung to Judith, came to her then:
Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
When all the world is green
As the words to the slow tune danced on her lips, she recalled with sudden force the last time she'd sung it aloud: the day her father died. As she'd heard the commotion out in the prison yard, she had crooned a verse to soothe Judith before strapping the whimpering baby into her carrier and leaving her in the cellblock with Lizzie, Mika, Luke, and Molly. On sheer instinct, Beth had run to help the others outside. Her father still hadn't returned, and somehow in her heart she'd known he was out there, in mortal danger.
Oh, Daddy. Beth swallowed back the lump in her throat. You'd be glad to know that even after everything, I can still sing.
A twig snapped behind her and she inhaled sharply, startled out of her painful reverie. Within seconds, the knife was in her hand. But when she looked across the clearing it was just Daryl, standing quietly at the other side, his eyes fixed upon her. How long has he been standin' there?
"Hey," he said, lowering his gaze. He seemed to be staring at something in his hand.
"Hey," she replied, as brightly as she could. "Catch anythin'?"
"Just waitin' on the snares," he motioned in the direction of the grove. "Found these."
Slowly, he approached her where she was still sitting down against the oak tree. Standing now above her, he bent to hand her one of his rags, wrapped into a bundle, and pressed it gently into her hand. Curious, Beth opened the little package and was greeted by the sight of a handful of carefully-picked, brilliantly red raspberries.
Of all the things… He couldn't have known. He couldn't have known they were her momma's favorite. Their delicate scent immediately brought back summers long gone, picking the wild berries with her mother, Patricia, and Maggie, and eating them with fresh cream from their farm. Making fruit pies; Shawn eating three slices before being scolded; her daddy saying they were the best in the world. She fought back the sudden tears. Beth Greene wasn't supposed to cry anymore. Then why does the simplest thing make me want to weep?
Daryl was still standing there above her, as if waiting for a reply. He must have seen the stricken look on her face. "You alright?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said, hastily scrubbing her face. He's seen me cry enough for a hundred lifetimes. "I—I love these. Thank you," she added, looking up at him.
Daryl nodded, and before she could say anything else, he had walked back across the clearing and into the trees—to check on the snares, she presumed. An odd tightness filled her chest as she watched him disappear into the birch grove once more.
And then she realized: I've seen him cry now, too.
…
Beth ate the berries slowly, one by one, savoring each bite. The sweet tartness, the crunch of each little seed. It had been so long.
As she ate, the realization, the understanding of the true value of this unexpected gift washed over her. How could she ever forget her father's admonitions? After the farm, on that the winter on the run—and later, at the prison—he'd always insisted they needed to find and collect as much fruit as possible. To prevent scurvy, she knew. Before all this, she'd thought that was an ailment that only affected settlers and sailors of yesteryear. But then she had seen it take hold of a few folk who'd been on the road too long, the older, frailer ones especially. Beth shuddered now to recall what it had done to their teeth, their hair…their bones. Ever after, she had done her utmost to prevent in it the children under her care.
No, fruit was not just some luxury from before the turn to be missed and sighed for longingly. Out in the wilds, it was life…or death.
When she reached the last small berry, she let it melt over her tastebuds, let it linger upon her tongue, and finally, with regret, let it slide down her throat. If she hadn't already decided not to cry today, she would have done so then.
Once she had finished, she began to grow restless. The air sweltered; the oak's thick, protruding bark dug uncomfortably into her back. Gnats flew around her face and eyes, some making a daring attempt to crawl up her nose. She batted at them mildly; she scarcely noticed them, anymore. Fidgeting, she played with the charms on the bracelets on her wrist for a while before shifting once more, trying to find an angle that wasn't agony on her spine.
In that moment, she would have given much for a shower and a bed, but unless they could find safe shelter such luxuries would remain a distant memory. Still, Beth felt she had to do something, and decided she would settle for a dash of water on her face.
She stood up then, still a bit shaky, but when she felt sure that she wouldn't pass out she hobbled over to the stream. She knelt down on its bank, the cool mud seeping soothingly through the torn knees of her jeans. As she leaned over, a lock of hair fell into her face, and she realized it was crusty with…something.
"Ugh, seriously?" she groaned aloud.
Beth was no stranger to messes; while caring for Judith she'd experienced her fair share of baby spit-up. Nowadays, it seemed she was more familiar with walker-guts than anything else, and it had been far too long since she'd properly cleaned herself up. Screw this, she thought. Splashing another handful of water over her face and hair, she was determined now. She hoped she wouldn't be sick again. What a waste of perfectly ripe raspberries that would be…
Her head still throbbed something fierce, so much so that she decided to undo her ponytail for the first time in…well, she wasn't sure how long. Ever since she'd stopped writing in her diary, ever since that night she'd torn out its delicate pages and burned her own, hopeful words, she'd lost track of the days.
Shaking herself back into the present, she now wriggled out of the blood-stained yellow shirt and, pulling it quickly up and over her head, set to washing it as best as she could in the swift-flowing waters of the creek. She had no soap, not even a washboard like in the olden days, but she squeezed and sluiced and rinsed and hoped for the best. As she wrung it out a final time, she watched as thin, red rivulets slid over her hands, into the water, to be carried away downstream. That's right, she thought, wash it all away…
After cleaning herself up the best she could, she returned to the inviting shade of the oak tree. She laid the shirt, which was at least no longer stiff and reeking with blood, sweat, and grime, out to dry in the afternoon sun beside her, and moved to sit back down. But as she knelt down once more, out of the corner of her eye there was a sudden dart of movement: the whip of a thin tail, a flash of electric green.
Once, long ago, she would have screeched in fright, or shoo'd it off the farmhouse porch lest it slink inside. But no longer did she fear those that crept or slithered or crawled in these woods. It was only a little lizard, claiming her spot in her absence. Or, perhaps, she considered, it was she who had stolen its spot.
Now, as she watched it scurry away, she felt almost sorry for the loss of its colorful presence. It was rare thing, to encounter something so small and harmless. Something that only wanted to share her space. Something that did not want to eat her, or tear her flesh from her bones. Something that would not even sting, poison, or bite.
As the creature disappeared behind a mossy log, she sighed after it. "Careful, now," she called. "Don't let anything eat you today, okay?"
Alone once more in the sweltering heat, she resumed humming to herself. As she shook her wet hair, droplets of the fresh water trickled down her face and neck and down her chest, sliding down along the raggedy necklace that held the little pendant close to her heart. She shivered at the sudden, small pleasure.
Working her fingers through her damp, tangled tresses, she found herself wondering how much longer Daryl would be with that snare and began to worry, just a little. He said he'd stay close.
It occurred to her that she was still shirtless. As she bent to look through their pack, searching for something dry to wear, she swatted away a couple mosquitoes, drawn to her expanse of bare skin. It could only have been mid-afternoon at the latest, but they were out in full force. Beth often thought that if walkers didn't eat her alive, the mosquitoes certainly would.
Her quick search through the pack revealed nothing but the remaining stacks of cash, candy bars, matches, and the souvenir spoon she'd picked up on a whim—belatedly, she remembered that she'd left her old tank tops in the changing room back at the golf club. With a sigh, she moved to put the still-wet shirt back on again before the mosquitoes really did finish her off.
It was then that the cans rattled loudly on their string at the edge of the camp. Beth didn't waste a moment; she stood up quickly, pulling the bone-handled knife from her belt in one swift movement. Standing up so suddenly made her head throb and her vision blur, but she forced herself to remain on her feet. It was a walker—of course it was—and it had entangled itself on the alarm. Its guttural snarls and clumsy, flailing movement made a huge racket.
Beth didn't have time to ponder where it had come from, whether it was a lone straggler from the shack that had somehow stumbled after them all night, or if these wandering, mortal remains had once been some poor soul, lost in the woods, who simply hadn't made it. She had only time to decide, in an instant, that she had to do something about it. If I don't finish it quick, all this noise will attract others. Fear gripped her, as it always did when facing a walker alone, but she pushed it aside. I won't be gutted, she thought, resolute. It had become a mantra, of sorts, these last few years, ever since the day she'd decided to live.
She approached the thing slowly, cautiously. As she did, she caught a whiff of the familiar stench of rotting flesh. Peering at it carefully, she saw that half its face seemed to have fallen away, revealing horrible, deadly teeth on one side of what used to be its cheek. It wasn't a fresh one, that much was clear. That was a small comfort, sometimes.
The walker hissed and growled and flailed. In vain, for it was stuck fast. For now. Beth almost felt sorry for it. Almost. For, sooner or later it could easily rip its own arm off in its attempt to reach out and free itself, and then she'd really be screwed. Somehow, she'd have to get close enough to finish it whilst avoiding its grasping, clawing nails.
She was still working out how best to reach its head, thinking maybe she'd need to find a long stick, when she heard a rustle in the leaves behind her. She spun around, fully expecting to find herself surrounded, when something flew past her and emerged with a squelching thud from the other side of the walker's head. The now-dead walker slumped to the ground.
Daryl stood at the other side of the clearing, his crossbow still raised. A brace of rabbits hung limply at his side. "Heard the cans," he said, lowering his weapon.
Still gripping the knife fiercely, she looked down at the walker at her feet and then turned her gaze to the man before her. "I had it."
The look Daryl gave her suggested he thought otherwise, this time. Beth saw herself in his eyes at that moment and knew she must appear quite a sight. Some half-crazed, wild thing with her knife raised, her damp hair loose and frizzy in the heat, and her shirt… Oh lord, my shirt. Even though she was clad only in her bra and in a decidedly disheveled state, she stood up straight, held her head high, daring him to say something.
When he didn't speak a word, she made to move past the place he stood to fetch her shirt, but before she could take two steps, her vision swam and she crumpled to the forest floor beside the dead walker. She managed to break her fall with her free hand; nonetheless, an instant later Daryl was at her side, the brace of rabbits dumped, unceremoniously onto the ground.
"You hurt?" His voice was thick with concern.
She shook her head. "Just this stupid headache. Stood up too quick, I guess."
For the second (or was it third?) time already that day, the man helped her to her feet. But as she stood facing him, it seemed finally to dawn on him that she was in a state of undress. He quickly withdrew his hand from her bare shoulder, stepping backward away from her as if he'd been burned. Turning slightly, his eyes averted, Daryl picked the brace of rabbits off the ground, and moved to the edge of the clearing. There, he knelt upon the ground, unsheathed his hunting knife, he laid out the limp forms of the small, furred creatures and began to slicing through their pelts.
Beth just stood there for a moment, arms at her sides, watching him work. She wasn't sure what exactly had just occurred. Living rough together like this, well… awkward moments had happened before and were bound to again. At least we're both still alive.
Her top was still there, laid out to dry on the mossy roots of the big tree, waiting for her. To get to it, she'd have to pass close to where Daryl knelt, skinning the rabbits. It's just my dirty old bra, she smiled to herself. Not like there's much to see here, anyway.
As she stepped slowly past his crouched form, her boots crunching against the leaves, Daryl didn't look up, but she could sense him pause, only for a moment, before resuming his work.
When she reached the base of the tree, she found that in the humidity of the day, the garment was still not quite dry. She could see that the spatters of blood on the once-yellow fabric had not quite disappeared—they were just no longer as defined. It was almost as though they had blended into one giant splotch. She supposed it had been a futile task from the start: some stains might never fade completely, no matter how hard you tried to scrub them out.
Pulling the damp shirt over her head, she searched through the open backpack and found some of the matches they'd taken from the country club. Now fully clothed, she squeezed past Daryl once more and knelt down in the center of the clearing. She didn't require instruction; she just set to work.
As always, she used her bare hands to dig a small hole, wherein she placed twigs and leaves for kindling. She struck the match, dropped it into her carefully constructed pile, and blew on it gently.
She smiled to herself, pleased. It was one of the few, small pleasures left to her, out here. To witness her handiwork, the tiny tendrils of smoke, followed by beautiful, crackling flames. To watch it grow, and wake to swift and roaring life, there in the middle of the grove.
…
They ate in silence. Once she had consumed her fill of the seared meat, the light-headed, woozy feeling faded, and she began to feel less like hell warmed over and more like Beth again. Daryl was right—she had needed that protein. She even felt ready to run again now if it came to it, though she had to admit that, for tonight at least, she hoped it wouldn't.
The afternoon stretched on into evening, and as the thick, oppressive heat of the day dissipated into the cooler night air, Beth remained seated by the fire. Silently, Daryl took care of removing the dead walker from their camp and repairing their makeshift alarm. For her companion to go long periods without speaking was hardly unusual, but for a time she began to wonder if he'd clam up again, like he had during these last long, numb weeks on the run.
But no, that was before. Before he'd helped her find the moonshine. Before she'd accidentally said the wrong thing at the cabin. "I've never been in jail," she'd blurted. "Is that what you think of me?" he'd replied coldly, before unzipping his fly and taking a piss right in front of her, as if to show what he'd thought of that. She'd been so mortified by the thoughtless words that had flown out of her mouth before she could stop them that she'd not even had a chance to consider whether she should be embarrassed by that.
Afterward, Daryl had dragged her outside in some kind of strange fury. She could still feel it, the way he'd held the crossbow under her chin, pressing her against him, his arm tight across her chest. He was just bein' a jerk, she told herself. And yet, she realized she was not annoyed by it now, nor had she been then. Just...surprised. For she could never have imagined Jimmy or Zach holding her like that, hard and fast and rough. Absurdly, she now flushed at the memory of it.
Beth wasn't stupid. Some part of her was, of course, aware of her companion. Such thoughts had never really bothered her, never concerned her before, and they didn't now. She wasn't afraid of him. Not like that. The thought was laughable. As if she could fear the man who had undertaken to risk his life each day for the last two years in order to protect her and her family, not to mention countless others. No, it was men like the Governor—Beth shuddered with remembered anger at what he'd done to her big sister—they were the ones to fear.
As tightly as she clung to the hope of finding the others someday, she knew that she had to consider the possibility that Daryl might be the only living person she had left in this all-too frightening world. And after what had passed between them, after the moonshine, after burning down that place—so full of painful reminders for him—she didn't truly believe that he would withdraw from her like that again. They had been living in each other's pockets, in each other's sweat and blood, for weeks. What did a little glimpse of skin here and there matter, really, after the horrors they had seen?
She chanced a glance at the man then. He had finally settled, seating himself across from her, and was staring into the flames of their small campfire as it burned steadily.
Before, she had been upset—and more than a little frustrated. Not because of Daryl's poorly-timed lesson, or even the things he had said, but because of how he'd been before. How he had given no sign that he still cared. Not just about her father, not just about the ones they'd lost, but also…well, she'd felt so alone all those long weeks, with him all closed-up. As if nothing mattered. As if even she, still living and breathing beside him, hadn't mattered. Beth had been close to despair when she finally decided: to hell with the man, she was going to get herself a damn drink.
It had taken half the day to find one, and they'd passed through forest and country club alike, and had seen the usual strange and troubling sights held within such abandoned places. Daryl had hardly spoken a word, only grunted and grumbled and snarled at her until he'd snapped. And then, just as she'd nearly fallen into the abyss that had been waiting for her all those weeks, he seemed to suddenly want to help her. He'd smashed that bottle onto the floor with such force that she'd nearly jumped out of her skin, and then he'd led her to the moonshiner's shack.
And there, they had found far more than just moonshine.
She knew it now. Knew that Daryl had still cared, had cared perhaps more deeply than ever. She understood now that he had blamed himself for everything that had happened. For failing to track down the Governor. For losing the prison. For her father, even. But Beth also saw clearly that, however skilled a fighter, Daryl Dixon was still only just one man, and there was nothing more he or any of them could have done against the surprise attack. She had never once had mind to blame him. But Daryl, who had protected them all for so long, had shouldered that load onto himself all the same. And when the weight of it had finally broken him open before her, she hadn't thought, she'd just acted on instinct, holding him tightly as he wept. She would never forget the feel of him through that beat-up old vest, how he had slumped in her arms as though there was nothing left inside him to hold him up.
Nothing. That's what he'd told her he'd been, before. To hear him say that—him, who'd been pretty much everything to them at the prison—well, it damn-near broke her heart. Even though she knew it couldn't have been true. Nobody was nothing. No, she knew in her heart that a man like Daryl Dixon could never have been nothing.
And Beth, well, she hadn't minded being something for him, then. In fact, she'd found it strangely comforting, to know that he'd needed something that day too, and not just a damn drink.
When she glanced up at Daryl again he was still staring distantly into the fire, playing with his knife, his lank hair shadowing the rough-hewn contours of his face. The set of his jaw was grim, his expression implacable. With his muscled arms resting on his knees and that knife glinting menacingly in his hands, Daryl appeared every inch the hardened warrior. But back at that cabin, as he'd trembled in her arms, he had seemed small and forlorn. Like a child.
Beth had to wonder if anyone had ever let him sob his heart out without calling him a pussy, weak, or…worse. She thought of Judy, of Luke and Molly and the other kids in the prison; even after the world had gone to hell they'd still been allowed to be children as long as they needed to be, to cry if they were hurt, to be comforted if they were sad. She'd seen to it that it was so. She wondered if Daryl had ever been allowed to be a child. With sorrow she recalled what she knew of her own father's harsh upbringing, and thought she could guess the answer.
As night fell upon the grove, the firelight cast flickering shadows on the trees around them. In the mossy branches above, the cicadas buzzed away relentlessly, their humming melding with the sounds of nocturnal creatures stirring.
Beth remained close to the fire—the smoke kept the majority of the mosquitoes at bay. With her belly full of the sweet berries and lean game meat, she felt relaxed, warm, and almost…content. She had expected the usual pang of dread at the prospect of moving on, of another day and perhaps another full night of running. But even the unending darkness of the forest seemed less threatening tonight. As if, for just one night, they could pretend this was just some camping trip, and that they weren't just a string of cans away from death.
While smacking a stray mosquito from her neck, she realized her hair was still down—it had almost dried completely by now, a frizzy mess as usual no doubt. She would have to put it back in its ponytail and braid as always. Unbound hair and grasping walkers did not mix. As her fingers moved through the pulling and plaiting motions, she resumed the slow tune that she'd sung to Judith the day they'd all had to run for their lives: "We can bring back the old days again, when all the world is green…"
She had meant to be quiet, but her clear voice rang like a bell through the trees. The sound seemed to rouse Daryl from whatever spell had fallen over him. He shifted, put his knife down, and prodded the fire with a stick—it cracked and sparked suddenly. His eyes lifted then, reflecting the brightness of the flames. Beth met his gaze, and as she did, her voice caught in her throat. She ceased humming, but she didn't look away.
Finally, Daryl cleared his throat. "You, uh, you feelin' better?"
She smiled, more pleased in that moment that she cared to admit. "Headache's gone, just like you said."
Daryl nodded. "Good."
Beth ventured further. "So, what's the plan? We movin' on tomorrow?"
"Mmm. Thought we could follow the stream, see where it leads."
"Don't you know?" By the ease with which he'd found that cabin yesterday, she thought he knew these woods better than anyone.
He shrugged. "What was there months ago, might not be now. Thought we could see what's left."
She wasn't sure she was hearing him right. "You mean, like supplies? Shelter? People?"
"Beth, don't… I just mean—"
"Daryl, I know you don't—" Beth stopped; they'd spoken at the same time. "Go ahead," she laughed.
"You first," he insisted.
"No, what were you gonna say?" she said.
"Never mind," he shrugged, and poked at the fire again.
When he didn't reply, Beth didn't push the topic further. No matter, she could guess what he'd meant. "Ain't nothin' worth seein' out there anymore anyway"—wasn't that what he'd said back at the cabin?
Her gazed drifted from the man before her to their fire and back again. Her eyes fell upon the form of his crossbow, propped on its side next to him. Something inside her stirred at the sight of it. Some curiosity that, since yesterday, had only deepened. For Daryl had been right; she'd never used such a weapon before.
She'd watched him shoot it, over and over, that very first winter on the run. Ever since, she'd always admired the way he handled that bow. With it, he had provided their group with both protection and sustenance, both on the road and later at the prison. Not only that, but it had never seemed to her the sort of weapon just anyone could use, day in and day out. She guessed it must have taken him a hell of a lot of training and practice—not to mention strength—to wield it with any sort of skill; she could hardly pretend she hadn't noticed the way the muscles of his arms strained whenever he drew it.
While Beth still had the small pistol that she'd taken the day they fled, she'd run out of ammo long ago. She couldn't help but think how handy it would be able to shoot walkers from a distance again. And the crossbow had the extra advantage of being quiet.
She spoke then, without any preamble: "I…I know there's still a lot I don't know. About bein' out here." She motioned to the woods around them. When Daryl just stared at her, she realized she would just have to get right to the point: "Your offer. Does it still stand?" she added, feeling bold.
"My…offer?" He sounded taken aback.
"You know," she said, smiling at him. "You said you were gonna teach me how to use it. Your crossbow. Remember?"
"Oh." Relief washed over his features. What the hell did he think I meant? she wondered. "Guess I did." He seemed both amused and yet uncertain, doing that chewing thing he did with his mouth when he was thinking on something.
"So…will you…?" she asked tentatively.
He shrugged. "I—uh. I was drunk." He spoke quietly, not quite meeting her eye.
"So was I," Beth grinned at him.
"Yeah. Guess you were." The corner of his mouth turned up; he still seemed oddly amused by her request.
"Okay…when can we start?" she asked, unable to hide her excitement.
"Whoa there, hold up." He put his hand up as if to slow her down. "Shootin's one thing. But it don't mean shit if you don't know what you're lookin' for. Or how to find it 'fore it finds you."
"What're you sayin'?" she wasn't sure what to think; it sounded almost as though he didn't want to teach her after all.
"You tell me," he said, looking at her intently.
Beth pondered for a moment, remembering not only the long-ago winter on the run, but also these more recent weeks since the prison. How Daryl navigated the woods with such ease. The way he read the forest around them like some internal map he had memorized by heart. How it seemed at times that he could sense things before they happened. She recalled—for how could she ever forget—her ill-fated attempt to find the children. Maybe if I'd known more about it at the time…
"I know," she said, looking up at him. "I need to know how to find things out here. How to track."
"That's right," he nodded. "If you're serious, I'll teach you."
"Course I am. Wouldn'tve asked if I didn't mean it." She stood up then, brushing off her jeans, and started toward the big oak tree.
"Hey," Daryl called after her. "Where'd you think you're goin', Greene?
"If I'm gonna learn, I should start at first light, right? So we'd better get some rest." Daryl just looked at her. She grinned down at him. "You comin'? Or you just gonna sit there by yourself all night?"
…
As their campfire burned steadily down to embers, they sat side by side a little space away, their backs resting against the big oak.
Without a word, Daryl had risen to follow her to the base of the tree. To her surprise, he had seated himself right at her side; his crossbow he rested on the opposite side of himself. As though its mere presence there at the edge of their camp was enough to guard against whatever lurked in the shadows beyond.
Beth hoped they would have no use for the big weapon tonight. Hoped they would not need it again until the morning. Until her lesson. She felt her heart begin to lighten merely at the thought of it. Of having somethin' to look forward to, after all this time.
Though the oak's bark was no less sharp than earlier, she rested easier now. She had discovered that if she arranged the backpack behind her at a certain angle, the ridges didn't dig so painfully into her spine. Still, having slept most of the day away, it would be a while before sleep would claim her again.
She felt decidedly odd tonight. It wasn't like being buzzed the previous evening, when she'd been in some kind of delicious haze that she wished would never end. Last night, she had felt as though some part of her were slowly catching fire. Tonight, she felt that fire in every fiber of her being. As though anything she touched would be set alight. Or burst into flame.
Tonight, she couldn't blame it on the moonshine.
Beth looked over at the man sitting next to her. He was chewing on that rolled cigarette again. Maybe it's his last one, she considered. "You ever gonna smoke that thing or what?" She nudged him playfully on the arm.
"You don't mind?" He sounded surprised.
"Why would I?" She didn't think he should stop doing whatever he needed on her account, especially not if it made him feel better. Comfort of any kind was precious, out here.
As Daryl reached into the back pocket of his faded brown jeans for a match, or lighter perhaps, and at the sudden movement, the feeling of skin against skin, her heartbeat quickened.
Beth didn't know how it had happened, but they were sitting close. Real close, their forearms almost touching—she could sense every movement of his arm as it brushed against her own. Her head was nearly level with his shoulder and she wondered if the stray wisps of her hair were tickling him. She smiled at the thought. "God forbid you ever let anyone get too close." Had it really been only yesterday that she had shouted that to him? As he was now…well, Beth felt she could easily sit here beside him all night.
For a moment, just the briefest of moments, something irresistible, irrepressible came over her, and she let her head tilt to the side, to rest upon his shoulder. The warmth that flooded from him was almost overwhelming, as though the very sun had soaked into him and now emanated from his skin. She expected him to jerk away, but when he said nothing and made no sudden movement, she closed her eyes, rested there a little longer.
When she opened her eyes once more, she thought perchance that sleep had indeed overtaken her and she had fallen into some kind of dreamland. Because that was when she saw them. Little lights, blinking in the darkness. Fireflies.
They must've been out for a while now; she didn't know how she hadn't noticed them sooner. As she watched them, a strange sensation came over her. Something in her gut, twisting painfully, only this time not with the remnants of too much moonshine. After a moment, her head still nestled against him, she nudged Daryl and whispered. "Look."
The man had said not a word the whole time she'd been leaning against him. He remained silent for a little while longer now. His eyes followed to where she pointed toward the faint lights flashing slowly against the darkness of the trees. She felt him shift beneath her then. "Ain't seen any 'round these parts in a while," he finally said.
Her heart fluttered wildly, then. For as he spoke, the low murmur of his voice rumbled right through her, all the way from the top of her head, through her body, and down to the very tips of her booted toes.
She drew a small, steadying breath and reluctantly lifted her head from the warmth of his bare skin to peer up at him. "Yeah, I remember. Before the turn, I heard folk say they were disappearin'. From certain parts of the state. That maybe it was climate change or pesticides killin' them off or something. I remember feelin' sad about it." She paused for a moment, breathing the night air into her lungs, as though in reassurance. "Maybe now there's not so many chemicals 'n stuff, they came back again."
"Yeah, maybe," Daryl agreed, looking straight ahead. He still hadn't lit the damn cigarette, but held it between his teeth, chewing on it thoughtfully as he considered her theory. "Before your farm," he glanced down at her briefly, "we were at this camp, outside Atlanta."
"Oh, I remember," Beth said, intrigued that he'd bring it up again now. "Glenn told us a little about it, that winter."
Daryl nodded. "Yeah, well…it got overrun. And after, Rick had this notion. He took us to a place. The CDC…Center for Disease somethin' or other. He was tryin' to find someone. Someone to help. Someone with a cure. But there was just this one guy there. Some scientist. Jenner, I think his name was—he said somethin'. I ain't thought on it for a while, but he said that this here," and he gestured around them, "is our 'extinction event'."
Before, Beth might have been shocked by such a statement. But now… "You think he was right?" she asked.
"Dunno, the dude was—well, like I said, he was nuts. Stone-cold crazy. Son-of-a-bitch even tried to blow us all up." Daryl shrugged, a slight smile on his lips. "But maybe he was right. Maybe all them movies was right. Maybe, if this ever blows over, the earth'll be ruled giant bugs or somethin'. Maybe even these fellas," he added, pointing up at the fireflies.
He's joking. Beth hadn't taken the man for a fan of cheesy sci-fi movies, but it made an odd sort of sense. She had to smile at that. The fireflies were an unexpected yet welcome presence, and she wouldn't be dissuaded from enjoying the moment. "All I know," she told him, "is they remind me of when I was a kid. Sittin' on the porch with Maggie on summer evenings. We used to catch them and put them in jars. With holes in the top of course." When Daryl didn't answer, she nudged him again. "C'mon. Don't tell me you never caught fireflies in fruit jars before."
Daryl paused for a moment, looking up into the night. "We called them lightnin' bugs," he said eventually, still staring into the darkness. "And yeah I caught them," his voice was soft as he turned towards to her, "but I never bothered with no jars."
He lifted his hand then from his other side, and she saw it was clasped around something. Just as he had earlier, with the berries, he gently pressed whatever it was into her hand, folding her fingers around his closed fist, holding his hand over her own. He let go, and Beth looked down and saw a faint light between her fingers.
"Oh," she gasped. The little creature flitted against her palm. It glowed brightly, just for a moment, and then rose steadily into the air.
Beth regarded the man beside her, and felt as though she were seeing him for the first time.
He met her gaze, and held it.
Something was burning there, in his eyes. In the very spaces between them.
In the end, it was she who had to look away. She kept her gaze fixed upon the fireflies as they synchronized their flashing, and then faded into the night sky.
…
Hey. I know it's been a while. I haven't written because something happened. Something real bad. And for a long time, I didn't know if we were gonna make it. You see, it's just me and Daryl now.
After the day Zach died, everything seemed to fall apart. People got really sick, some died and turned before anyone could stop them. People got bit. Daddy helped, he saved the people he could. Glenn was so sick and Daddy saved him. Once Daryl and the others got back to the prison with the medicine, I really thought everything was going to be okay. We needed a break. Too many were dead or weak from the sickness. But that's when he came. The crazy man from before. The Governor. Rick tried to stop him, but he had Michonne and…Daddy. He killed Daddy. It hurts to actually write that down, in here. But its true: he killed Daddy. Right in front of me and Maggie. Then his tank took the fences down and we had no choice but to run. I know in my heart that others must have got out. The bus, Maggie, maybe even Glenn. I didn't see Rick or Michonne, but maybe they got away. Carl, too. They're strong. Strong enough to survive, out here.
But what I don't know is…the kids. I couldn't find Judy. I tried, but the prison was burning, and Daryl… well, he and I got out together. We tried to track the kids but… I know Daryl thinks they're gone. Maybe they are. I know we don't always get to have funerals. I know there isn't always a body. But without seeing, without knowing, sometimes it all just doesn't seem real, you know? With Daddy, I saw it happen. I wish we hadn't had to leave him like that. I wish we could have buried him. But at least I know. Everyone else, they could still be out there. If Judy is out there, please let her be with someone who can take care of her. I miss her so bad it hurts. I miss Maggie. I miss Daddy. I miss them all.
I know Daryl misses them too. But he's got his own way of dealing with things. The last couple days, he's been helping me. He even helped me find a drink. A real drink. I know Daddy wouldn't approve, but I think maybe this one time he'd understand.
Daryl's promised to teach me how to shoot his crossbow. How to track. We're starting this morning, so I gotta go for now. I'll write again later, if I can.
…
Beth had awoken early—though, truth be told, she hadn't even remembered falling asleep. How she'd ended up back beside their little fire she had no idea. The last thing she remembered was sitting beside the tree, beside him. Sitting and chatting like they'd always been that comfortable. Like we've always been that close.
She had a sneaking suspicion that Daryl must have stayed awake most of the night again keeping watch. She guessed she'd fallen asleep against that tree and her companion had somehow moved her, had made sure that, as usual, she got more rest than he did. Even though I know he needs it more than me, she thought. He's gotta be exhausted.
Daryl had disappeared behind a tree a few moments earlier—no doubt to relieve himself, and as she waited for him to return, she'd taken the chance to finish scribbling in her journal. As she read back what she had written there, the words on the page seemed somehow empty, inadequate, as if words alone could never convey the depth of such horror and loss. Beth had hoped that writing it down would somehow make it hurt less keenly. But now, all she could see before her were her father's last, terrible moments. She knew she'd have to push it down, push it away, right this minute, or else she'd never be able to focus on the task that lay ahead of her today, the task she had essentially begged to undertake. Daddy would want this, she thought, he'd want me to be able to take care of myself out here.
Peaceful, her daddy had always called the woods. Sometimes Beth felt the same, in the mornings when the pale light filtered through the lattice of leafy branches and everything looked fresh and new. This morning, the leaves and shoots of grass beneath the roots of the tree where she'd fallen asleep were covered in dew. Her shirt was still damp and she was already hot and sticky. She could already feel fresh mosquito bites on her skin from the night before. She knew probably had bits of leaves and twigs and even a few creepy-crawlies in her hair too, but she didn't care. She was glad to be alive, this morning. Moments such as this rarely lasted long, she knew that all too well. All the more reason to make the most of it while it lasts.
While she was lost in thought, Daryl had returned. He was packed and ready to go, the bulky backpack covering all but the tips of the angel wings on his vest, his crossbow slung over top of it. With the toe of his boot he nudged dirt and dried leaves over the remnants of their little fire.
"Come on," he urged her, "the day ain't waitin." He was insistent as always, but there was a playful eagerness to his tone this morning.
Beth stood up and quickly closed her journal. She slid the pen between its rings and slipped the little green book into the back pocket of her jeans. Out of habit, she looked around the small clearing, one last glance to make sure she hadn't left anything behind. Their campfire was just ashes now. The few possessions they had between them were either on their person or in that pack. 'Sides, she thought, with a smile, the only thing I've got is in front of me. Brushing dewy leaves and grass from her jeans, she set one foot in front of the other, and determined as ever, followed Daryl out of the clearing.
When she reached his side he had stopped, just past the grove of river birch where he'd set the snare the previous day. Crouched low, his attention was absorbed by something in front of them on the forest floor. "Cm'here," Daryl said, his voice just above a whisper.
Gently, he brushed a few leaves away from something on the ground. Beth knelt down close to him to get a better look, expecting to see the sad, limp form of another small animal trapped there. But she peered closer and could just make out faint marks in the damp earth below. Tracks.
"If we keep real quiet," Daryl said, "we might just see a deer."
"I'd like that," Beth said, and she meant it.
…
They hiked through the morning, walking alongside the bank of the stream, just as Daryl had said. At a certain point, he lifted his hand—the signal to halt; she knew it well by now. Daryl showed her how the deer they'd been following had crossed the stream, which had widened considerably at this point as it cut a swathe through a deep ravine. They were crouched down again, to get a better look at the tracks. Something must have spooked it, Daryl explained, for it to have taken any path other than that of the least resistance.
"Walkers?" Beth tried to keep her voice steady.
"Maybe," Daryl said. "Or maybe it didn't much like the sound of us." There was that slight smile again, she noticed. "Before everythin' went to shit," he continued, "some who called 'emselves hunters relied on nothin' more'n fancy gadgets and tricks. But I always said, all you need are these two eyes, right here," he gestured towards her face, and a callused fingertip brushed against the ridge of her cheekbone. "'s how I was taught," he added quietly. "Just how things were done, in the old days."
"Your dad?" She wasn't sure if she should even ask, but she couldn't help it—she was curious. Curious about him. About the past he kept so well-guarded. The life he'd led, before she had chanced to know him, here at the end of the world. She'd found that once he'd started telling her things, she wanted to know more. Even the things he'd called 'ugly,' back on that porch.
But he just nodded, before continuing on the topic at hand: "There's lot more to it than just what's on the ground. Here," he reached past her to point to the base of a tree, to a spot where its thick bark had been scraped away, revealing the bare wood underneath. "See that, Greene?" he said, his voice suddenly close to her ear.
She managed not to be startled, and peered closer. "Yeah, I see it."
"That there's a deer rub. A whitetail's been rubbin' his antlers," he said, his voice still low and scratchy. "A young buck, most like. Rubbin' the velvet right off. Marks like this, they help you find the trail. And where there's one, more'll follow."
All I gotta do is pay attention to the signs. Beth felt her confidence growing as she began to absorb what he had just imparted. She looked down at the soft ground at the base of the tree, and there they were: "There's more tracks here—bigger ones," she said excitedly, before remembering to keep her voice down.
"Mmhm," he murmured, "That's right." Daryl looked at her, then, and she once again saw that little hint of a smile dance across his face. "Ain't all tracks and rub marks on trees though," he added. "Later, I'll teach you to follow a blood trail."
Blood—it seemed there was no escape from it, nowadays. "Yes, Mr. Dixon," she said with mock politeness, as if she were back on the farm, speaking to her piano tutor.
Daryl rose then, and she felt the warm grasp of his fingers upon her arm as he likewise lifted her, without a single word, to her feet.
The morning sun shone upon them through the trees, illuminating her companion's rough features, and Beth could sense that something in his demeanor had lightened. She'd been surviving in the woods with the man for weeks now, and during that time he had seemed somehow on edge. Like some trapped, wounded beast, always on the brink of raging, clawing its way through the torn and mangled remains of their lives.
And later, even that raging fire inside him had seemed to fade, to just a dark smolder. Barely existing. It hadn't been just the constant threat of walkers, either, nor even the loss of the prison that had nearly extinguished that spark. She'd even wondered, for a time, if he might've been waiting. Waitin' for us both to just…she shivered with the memory of his shadowed resignation.
But then, the night of the moonshine, the night of the cabin, something had changed. And now this morning, Daryl was the most relaxed—the most alive—that she'd seen him in, well, a long time. He's really enjoyin' this, she realized. And so am I.
Together, they left the banks of swift-running stream behind, and walked along the ridge of the ravine, following the path the whitetail had taken along the edge of the forest.
Wherever it might lead—to a herd of undead, to shelter, to living, breathing people, or to yet more wilderness—Beth dared not dwell on it. She thought only of learning to see more signs in the leaves, bark, and earth, and of the man who was teaching her.
Whatever we find out here, she thought with a little smile, at least it's better than sittin' 'round a fire eatin' mudsnakes for the rest of our lives.
…
**** IMPORTANT REMINDER ****
Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you! :)
