Prompt: I would like to see something about Caryl going hunting… and then a storm make them to find shelter or something out of the prison… for asamcedesfan on tumblr.


"Can I try using your crossbow?" It was a simple, innocent question. Carol and Daryl were out hunting; usually he preferred to go by himself but after sneaking away from the group at Woodbury to find Merle about a month ago, Rick had established a buddy system.

"Just in case," he'd said. Daryl had scoffed when Rick blatantly looked at him.

"My knife isn't exactly the best for killing squirrels," Carol continued, squinting as another petrified, angry squirrel scampered up the tree. Daryl had three, Carol had none.

"Not now. I gotta teach ya if ya wanna learn. Plus we've only got one bow, and tons o'guns. You're gettin' better with the guns," Daryl replied, taking aim at the rodent in the tree. He paused, focused—tongue sticking out (which made Carol giggle—and fired. The squirrel tumbled to the ground, arrow sticking out of its spine as blood spurted from the lethal shot. Carol gave a few admirable claps. Daryl bowed as he yanked the arrow out, crunch following the action. The squirrel was thrown with the others. Maybe Carol could make it taste better; it was a wonder what she could do with only a fire and nature.

"Guns aren't useful when huntin', unless you want to draw them to you," Carol pointed out, them referring to the scattering of walkers they'd come across. Daryl nodded, agreeing with a hum, and looked to the sky. His head leaned back, Adam's apple bobbing across the stretched skin. Instead of the clear blue that had been present when the duo left the prison, thick gray clouds blanketed the old pristine picture. "Shit, can't believe we didn't notice the clouds."

"We should probably head back then, if it's going to rain," Carol commented, also straining to look through the treetops at the sky. Last time it had rained, a mighty storm followed. The group was confined to the prison for the day. "How far are we from everyone?"

Daryl shrugged. "Dunno, but we'd better get back before the weather goes to hell." His point was emphasized by a loud clap of thunder. Not even five seconds later, a burst of light illuminated the woods. Carol jumped.

"Do you think thunder attracts walkers?"

"Don'wanna be here if it does." And the first drop of rain plopped right on Daryl's nose. He went cross-eyed to look at it before jerking his head as a signal to 'get the hell outta there.' He broke into a brisk walk just as the sky began to fall. Small drops plummeted down, pattering and splashing onto leaves and bark.

Their fast paced walk morphed into a jog as another crack of thunder and barrage of lightning lit up the sky. The droplets slowly turned into sheets, almost instantly drenching Carol and Daryl. Together the two ran through brush and mud to avoid any divots or astray roots. Carol nearly ran into Daryl when he abruptly stopped in his tracks.

"Daryl, what're you—what're you doing? The prison's at least another mile and a half away…" she called out over the rain.

"We won't make it," Daryl retorted. Rain fell from his eyelashes. "If it was just rain we'd be fine but the thunderin' and lightnin' make for problems." He was silent for a moment. Thunder rang out. "Shelter. Find a house or somethin'." And they were off again, Carol's shoes slushing through the thick mud, Daryl's sideburns and hair flung carelessly into his eyes. He moved a hand and slicked his hair back.

After ten minutes of aimless jogging racing, Carol's throat ccreamed. Every deep breath stabbed at her heart, heaving chest jagged with uneven breath. She was completely soaked, thirsty, and exhausted and was too busy contemplating whether to throw her head back to catch some drops to see Daryl stop in front of her again.

"Please tell me when you're gonna stop," she huffed. Either Daryl didn't hear her over the noise or he chose to ignore her. He turned around and put a finger to his lips.

"Shh."

She could hear the low grumble of his voice. "Gimme your knife." Carol stood, gasping for her breath and reached for her weapon. She found it and thrust it into Daryl's hand, almost dropping it because of the liquid cover. Daryl moved a few feet forward, Carol wandering after him.

A noise; not thunder. It wasn't loud enough, barely audible in the storm surrounding them. A raspy groan, the sound of steel against an occipital bone and the next thing Carol knows she's being shoved by two firm hands through a door. The dewy smell of the rain, blood, and decayed flesh—the moisture caused Carol to wrinkle her nose.

As Daryl bucked the dead walker into the storm, Carol backed as far away from the door as possible. Although being out of the rain, she could still feel the pitter-patter of drops on her skin. She shook her head back and forth like a dog in an attempt to dry the soaked curls of her hair that licked her ears and the nape of her neck. Daryl used all his strength to yank the door closed through the horrific wind. It whistled as it ran along the edges of the shack (Carol assumed).

With a better look, Carol noted it was about the size of her old house's king bathroom. Mud oozed on the walls, personal items strung on the ground. A wet, weathered sleeping bag, granola bar wrappers, and empty water bottles littered the wooden floor.

"Looks like the walker I took out thought he could live in here." Daryl sniffed. "Judgin' by the smell, he didn't last long." The rain continued to beat on the roof, thunder crashing. Carol wondered if the place would hold up. She shivered subconsciously, a wave of goose bumps prickling her skin. The wind caused a cold breeze even in the hot summer air and her wet clothes weren't doing any good.

"Aw, c'mon, it ain't that bad," Daryl noted, shuffling to move the bottles off the sleeping bag. It had the tangy smell of sweat. The floor of the place was already soaked, their clothes dripping continuously. Carol took a bunch of her tank top and wrung it out in the corner. She ran a hand over her face, although it didn't really do anything. Another shiver rippled through her body.

"We'll hafta wait until the storm clears up, or at least the thunder stops. We can go back out in the rain. Rain don't hurt us." Daryl plopped down onto the sleeping bag without a second thought. It reminded him of an old hut he and Merle used to hide out in during the summer sometimes—and it smelled just about the same, too. His tattered shirt rubbed against the gunk on the wall. He didn't care; they'd just get wet later again.

Carol decided she had no option but to join him, settling herself near the closed end of the bag. The rain continued; it possessed the sky. The thunder and lightning and wind—it was all displeasing. She used to love the rain. Falling asleep to the 'pitter' of it rolling off their roof, the thunder rolling in the distance, the whistling the wind caused in the cracks of wood. She had loved it all.

Sophia never liked the storms; when she was a baby she'd scream and cry. Ed always blamed her for that, the nights never asleep because of wailing and punches thrown from an exhausted Ed. Carol smiled.

Daryl turned his head just as she grinned and he raised an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing's funny. It's just… when it rained… before—" Daryl resisted the urge to cringe. Please don't cry. "—Sophia hated the rain. I always told her that it was just God and the angels bowling up in Heaven. The thunder's the ball crashing against the pin, the lightning clapping from the angels." Her grin grew. "It helped her sleep through the storm."

Daryl was quiet.

"My daddy jus' told me to sleep or else the thunder monster would get me."

He snorted. A smirk grew on his lips. He was always terrified of that thunder monster. Carol almost threw her head back to laugh, but stopped herself. The similarities between Ed and Daryl's father were astonishing.

They didn't talk, just listened to the storm. Through the small cracks in the wall they could see lightning brightening the sky for a split second, then dim again. Carol found herself absorbed in the insight she saw, mind taken off Sophia and her wet clothes and Daryl. Her head lulled forward out of fatigue but she caught herself just before knocking her chin against her chest.

"I always slept to the rain," she whispered. Daryl didn't reply; she thought he didn't hear her until his voice filled the room.

"Just don't let the thunder monster getcha."

"Thanks, Daryl."