Chapter 2
Daryl rifled through the boxes upon boxes of things he'd gathered from the nearest stores. He triumphantly pulled out a first aid kit from one of the boxes, opening it to discover antibiotic ointment, bandages, alcohol wipes and other things. He heard her sigh softly and made his way back into the room and peered over the couch.
Her brow was furrowed in her sleep, and her head moved gently from side to side as if she were saying no. Whatever dream she was having, she wasn't enjoying it.
He moved around to kneel by the couch, and his gaze moved over her. The bruise around her eye had become darker, and the scratches seemed to have stopped bleeding. Her wrist was a little swollen, possibly badly sprained or broken. Somebody had definitely roughed her up. He'd seen it before on his own mama. She'd hide the bruises she could, and the others she'd always have some stupid explanation for. He'd had his own bruises and scars, and they needed no explanation. His father was a cruel man who ran his family with an iron fist. He'd become even harder after Daryl and Merle's mama died. There had been no escaping him, not until the bastard OD'd in the back of his car after picking up a prostitute named Margie. He'd died in the throes. Daryl was fourteen when it happened, and he'd spent the better part of the next four years being bounced around eight different foster homes.
He turned his attention to the contents in the first aid kid, opening up one of the alcohol wipe packets. He grimaced as he gently wiped at her cuts, knowing it had to sting like a bitch. But she just moaned in her sleep.
He went back to the kitchen for a clean rag, dampening it in the fresh bucket of water he'd gotten from the well outside. He cleaned each of her cuts before rubbing ointment on each one. Her arms had long scratches, like somebody had been holding into her and she'd jerked away as their nails scratched down her skin. He'd seen it plenty on his mother, a woman who had been so quiet you could forget she was there if her worthless husband wasn't constantly pushing her around and treating her like a damned diseased mutt.
After he finished cleaning her wounds and putting medicine on them to avoid infection, he moved to her face, where there was a small cut bleeding just beneath her hairline. He gently dabbed at it, soaking up the small trickle of blood. He cleaned it and used a swab to put medicine on it. When he was finished, he put the first aid kit away and poured himself a cup of coffee.
The storm was beginning to let up, and he listened to the way the rain washed over the roof, the occasional drip trickling down from a crack in the ceiling. He sighed and moved to grab a bucket to set under the drip and collect the water, and as he did so, he heard her shift on the couch.
"Ed?" she asked. Daryl froze. He watched as she fought to open her eyes, and he moved over to the fire place, glancing over his shoulder as he poured another cup of coffee, placing it on the coffee table for her when she woke.
Her hair wasn't quite as damp now, and as it dried, he noticed how it began to curl just slightly. She had nothing on her to give away her name or who she was, but he figured she was his age judging by the streaks of grey in her auburn hair. She had smooth, pale skin that was freckled just where her shirt dipped in front. On her hand, he saw a pale strip where perhaps a wedding band was worn.
"Ed?"
"Hey," he murmured, finally making his presence known to her. "You alright, lady?" Her eyes fluttered open, and she moaned, bringing one hand gently to her forehead, squeezing the bridge of her nose as she tried to figure out where the hell she was and how the hell she got there. She winced as a bolt of pain shot through her arm. She lowered her hand and examined her wrist. "Think it's broke." The woman turned her head toward him, blinking a few times, as if not remembering she'd run to his door screaming for help, as if she hadn't collapsed in his arms. She sat up a little, her movements quick and sharp. "Hey, it's ok. You're ok." She took a couple of quick breaths, as if she was trying to decide if she should cry out or not, but then a look of realization hit her. Why cry out? Nobody would come. Nobody but the dead.
Daryl grabbed the steaming coffee cup off the table and extended it to her.
"It tastes like shit, but it'll warm you up." She eyed the cup before she reached out with her good hand and grabbed it, eyeing him warily. "Drink it or don't." He moved to put another log on the fire. She jumped at the clatter it made, and he saw her shrink back against the couch.
"The storm," she remembered, her voice hoarse. No sooner had she said the words than a boom of thunder shook the cabin again. She shivered and pulled the blanket up close. She took a tentative sip of coffee, making a face before putting it back down on the coffee table.
"Told ya," he muttered, pouring his own cup back into the pot. "Never thought I'd say this, but I could go for a damned Starbucks right about now." The woman gently rubbed her painful wrist. "Can look and see if I got some kinda sling for it."
"It's not broken," she murmured. "Just sprained." He figured from the tone of her voice that she'd experienced it before, but he didn't want to make any assumptions.
"You a doctor?"
"No," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She dragged her fingers through her damp hair, and Daryl watched her gaze flicker to the door.
"S'alright. Don't think anybody followed you." He saw her duck her head a little before pulling back the blanket to look at her arm. "Put some stuff on 'em. Don't think they'll get infected. Shouldn't scar either." He saw the tears well in her eyes again, and in that moment, he figured she probably wasn't a stranger to scars. "Somebody hurt you?" She flinched but shook her head.
"Branches scratched me when I was running through the woods. Trying to get away from one of those things..."
Didn't see no walker. Branches wouldn't put hand-shaped bruises on her arm. Bruises like daddy used to leave on mama. Like he used to leave on me.
"I'll head out after the storm, see if I can find that walker. Don't see too many of 'em this deep in the woods."
"No, it's probably gone. I lost it."
Sure ya did. Just like them branches sprained your wrist and gave you that black eye and bloody nose. They sat in silence for a moment as the wind braced against the house.
"Name's Daryl Dixon," he said after a few minutes.
"I'm Carol. Peletier."
"That French or something?" he asked, with a little smirk. She shrugged.
"Something," she sighed. She relaxed a little on the couch and rubbed her wrist.
"You need somethin'? Got some aspirin. Some painkillers."
"I'm fine," she assured him.
"You ain't fine. You came runnin' here like you was bein' chased."
"I was. By one of those…"
"Walkers?" he finished for her.
"What?"
"S'what I call 'em. They die, they get up, they walk."
"Makes sense," she said with a little shrug.
"Who's Ed?"
"What?" Her gaze snapped up to meet his, and he realized he'd probably pushed too far too fast.
"Just a name you said when you was out."
"Ed's my husband," she said quietly. "We were camping when it happened. We've been out in the woods ever since." She avoided looking into his eyes. She grimaced and held her hand to her nose, and Daryl noticed the blood trickling between her fingers.
"Here." He tossed her a damp cloth. "Tilt your head back." Carol did as he said, resting her head back against the couch. "It hurt?"
"No," she said quietly. "It's fine." She coughed, and Daryl looked over toward the fire. After a few minutes, the nose bleed stopped, and she tossed the bloodied rag into the fire.
"You hungry?"
"Not really," she lied. She was starving, but the last thing she felt like doing was eating.
"You can have my bed tonight. Got another room, but it's full of boxes and shit I've picked up in town. I'll take the couch."
"I'll sleep on the couch. I don't mind," she said quietly. "I don't want to put you out."
"I ain't havin' you sleep on the couch. You ain't in no shape for that." He eyed her. "Where's your husband?"
"We were attacked," she said grimly. "They got him. I just…I ran. That's when I ended up here. It was my fault. I…I was making too much noise."
Yeah, making too much noise when he was beating the hell out of you. Glad the fucker's dead.
"C'mon. I'll show you where you can get cleaned up," Daryl offered. Carol stood, her legs a bit shaky. She shrugged off the blanket and followed him to the bedroom in the back, where he showed her where the extra blankets were. "Wasn't plannin' on havin' no guests for the apocalypse, but you're welcome to what you can find."
"I need to go back," she said softly.
"Back to your camp?" Carol nodded solemnly. "What for?"
"There are…things I need. Things I doubt you have."
"Oh," he said gruffly, swallowing hard. "We can go make a…run for that stuff." He shifted uncomfortably in her presence.
"I'm not staying. Just for the night," she insisted warily. Daryl eyed her and then the door.
"I got a room you're welcome to. Ain't nobody else bangin' on the door. 'Sides, where the hell else you gonna go?" Carol's eyes darted toward the door. "Really. I ain't gonna turn you out to fend for yourself." She settled down a little and pulled her arms around herself. "Whatever you wanna do. You're welcome to stay here. Heal. When you're feelin' better, then do whatever the hell ya want."
"Ok." Her voice was as soft as a whisper.
"You need me, I'll be on the couch."
"Thank you, uh…"
"Daryl," Daryl reminded her.
"Daryl. Thank you." He gave her a nod before turning and walking out of the room, leaving her alone to her thoughts as the storm kicked up a notch outside and the rain needled the cabin roof in what seemed to be an endless torrent.
Daryl woke sometime in the night after the storm had passed. It was so silent outside that he could hear the owls the coyotes as if they were right on top of the house. He groaned, rubbing his eyes as he heard a whimper from the back of the house.
He strained to hear her, wondering if he should check on her, but he didn't know her, she didn't know him, so what the hell kind of comfort could he offer her? She was an abuse victim. That was for sure. She didn't exactly flinch away from a helping hand, but she'd definitely been slapped around, made to feel like less of a person by somebody. Probably that husband of hers, judging by the freshness of the bruises and the scratches.
He turned on the couch, feeling a rumble in his stomach. He often woke up hungry, but he didn't have the food to waste for a midnight snack, knowing he'd be just as hungry when he woke in the morning.
Still, he got up anyway and moved to the back of the house, figuring he'd check the locks on the back door and check the other windows. When he was satisfied the house was secure, he still felt an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could hear her cries become less muffled, more choking, and he leaned against the wall. He thought back to the time when he was small and his mother would cry for days over his worthless piece of shit father, and how he would crawl up with her in the bed and snuggle with her and promise her he'd protect her. But in the end, he was just too small, and his mother's illness was too weak. Cancer had been the official cause of death, but Daryl had always blamed his dad for putting his mother thorough hell.
Carol's cries softened to the kind of quiet that you could only hear when the house was as quiet as a tomb, which, tonight, it was. He reached out to touch the door knob, his hand wrapping around it. He would check on her. He'd ask her if she needed anything, and she would tell him she was fine. But he figured it was only the right thing to do. But he found the doorknob wouldn't budge. She'd locked herself in. He couldn't blame her. It was hard enough to trust people before the change. Now she had to share a roof with a complete stranger after the trauma she'd been through. Hell, he wouldn't blame her if she slept with a knife under her pillow from then on out.
He gently rapped at the door, his knuckles barely grazing the solid oak.
She sniffled, and the bed springs creaked as she sat up in the bed.
"What?"
"You ok in there? You in pain?"
"I'm fine." Her answer was short and choked, and he knew it was all he was going to get.
"You need anything?"
"No," she replied. With a sigh, he turned and retreated back to the living room, feeling something pull in his stomach, almost a guilt gnawing at him. He felt for her. He knew what it was like to feel completely powerless. But these were different times. It was a different world. It wasn't his business. She wasn't his business. So why the hell did he care so much?