CHAPTER FOUR

Daryl—wearing his poncho with the Southwestern American Indian artwork pattern—drove the Dodge Ram 1500 truck down the deserted street at a moderate speed. Unlike yesterday, he didn't have to speed downhill to get past a group of walkers, and he didn't have Carol beside him to worry about; today was going to be a quiet day of hunting, but he was going to use the drive time to think, and there was plenty for him to think about.

The first thing on Daryl's mind was hunting game:

The only food left in the prison was oatmeal, and Daryl was already sick of having it for his three squares a day. Rick said he'd put a group together for a food run after they finished rebuilding the prison, but Daryl wasn't going to wait for Rick's stomach to start growling. He looked down at his old Horton Scout HD 125 crossbow lying on the passenger seat and grinned; it would be bittersweet to use his old crossbow on a hunt again.

Daryl thought the best place to hunt would be Yellow Jacket Creek. The water was clear, its path wide, and the trees along the creek bed offered plenty of places for him to hide and wait for game to wander along.

Daryl wasn't worried about running into walkers or scavengers; what worried him was the amount of meat he would bring back to the prison. Last year, when the world had gone to shit, killing a few rabbits or even squirrels had gone a long way to feed the group. But now that Rick had taken in the civilians from Woodbury, the group's numbers had doubled. No matter what Daryl caught, people would still be stuck with eating oatmeal tonight.

Another thing on Daryl's mind was Merle. Daryl scowled and he gripped the steering wheel tightly as he thought about his older brother:

•••

A few days ago, Merle tried to carry out the deal the Governor had offered Rick: If you want peace, give me Michonne. But the more time Merle spent with Michonne, and listened to her say that he was throwing away his chance at starting over, the more he realized he couldn't go through with the deal. Merle stopped the car, let Michonne go, and continued on to the feed mill.

Back at the prison, Rick had changed his mind about the deal, but he and Daryl discovered Merle had left with Michonne. Daryl went after them, but he found Michonne making her way back to the prison. Daryl continued on with the hope of stopping Merle in time.

Daryl approached the feed mill cautiously with his new Stryker Strykezone 380 crossbow at the ready. It was the aftermath of Merle's ambush and walkers were feasting on dozens of the Governor's dead soldiers. One walker sensed that someone was behind it, so Daryl aimed down his crossbow's iron sights and squeezed the trigger.

THUNK!

The arrow struck the back of the walker's head and stuck out its forehead, and it fell dead across the Woodburian soldier that had been its meal.

Daryl kept moving in search for Merle, and he had just removed an arrow from his crossbow's quiver when he saw a walker feasting on the corpse of a young man. The walker looked up with blood and flesh dripping from its mouth and Daryl's arms fell to his sides and it felt like his heart dropped into his stomach.

The walker was Merle.

Daryl started to weep and his crossbow and arrow fell to the ground. The walker Merle stood up and Daryl saw the single bullet hole in his big brother's chest. It stepped over the young corpse it had been eating and staggered towards Daryl.

Daryl cowered like he did as a boy when his father, with a leather strap in his hand, staggered drunkenly towards him, vowing to whip his youngest son "Within an inch of his miserable fucking life".

The walker Merle was nearly upon Daryl, and he shoved it away. It staggered towards him again, and this time Daryl shoved it hard enough to spin it around. The walker Merle staggered towards Daryl a third time, and Daryl shoved it back for a third time. Daryl unsheathed the Busse Team Gemini knife at his side, and when the walker Merle staggered towards him a fourth time, Daryl lunged forward, stabbing it in the shoulder, and the momentum of Daryl's leap sent them both falling to the ground. Daryl sat up, pulled his knife free, and began stabbing the walker Merle in the forehead until his grief got the better of him and he fell backwards and wept uncontrollably.

•••

Daryl gripped the steering wheel tighter until his knuckles turned white. Merle was dead and buried in the group's small cemetery at the prison, but his big brother's death still hurt for several reasons: because Merle could've gone back with Michonne, because Rick put the damn idea about the trade into Merle's head, because Merle died for the group but the majority of them didn't give a shit, and because it had been the first time Merle did anything for someone else and it wound up getting him killed.

Then Daryl remembered what Carol told him the morning after Merle died. "He gave us a chance".

Daryl loosened his grip on the steering wheel and his expression relaxed. Carol was right. The group wouldn't have won the war if they went up against the Governor's army. Yes, Rick, Michonne, and Carl brought back plenty of guns and ammo from their trip to Castle Rock County, but the Governor had the numbers and an experienced crew of killers. After Merle's ambush, the Governor was forced to build a militia from the civilians of Woodbury, and Rick used their inexperience against them.

The Governor and his militia attacked the prison, entered Cell Block C, and found it seemingly abandoned. The Governor then entered the prison's dark hallways; which the group had nicknamed the tombs.

The Governor fell right into Rick's trap.

The prison alarms rang, flash bangs exploded, and the walkers that lurked inside the tombs staggered towards the disoriented and frightened militia. Within seconds, they dropped their weapons and ran out of Cell Block C, where they were met by Glenn and Maggie, who were hiding behind pallets stacked across the catwalk overlooking the prison's courtyard. Glenn and Maggie fired their guns into the air, scaring the militia either further. Within moments, they leapt into their vehicles and sped back to Woodbury.

The group won the war, and it was Merle's sacrifice that helped make it possible. But the Governor had escaped; he slaughtered his own militia soon after their retreat from the prison, and he had caused Andrea's death in a secret torture chamber in Woodbury. Daryl swore that after Merle's burial he was going to find that weaselly son of a bitch, and rip out his other eye, and he'd throw the rest to Michonne.

But Daryl understood that revenge would have to wait a while longer; the group at the prison needed to be fed and they needed to be safe, and that led to the last, but most bothersome thing on his mind…Carol:

Yesterday, Daryl reluctantly accepted Carol's help bringing back Merle's corpse for burial, but they were the ones who nearly had a funeral when they got into a gunfight with a Latino gang that happened across the feed mill. Daryl was furious at himself for letting Carol accompany him on a personal mission, but he admitted it then, and he admitted it now: she saved his ass.

Carol had come a long way from the timid, abused housewife Daryl had met at the quarry outside Atlanta. When the group was forced to abandon Hershel's farm, and live on the road, he protected her and taught her how to shoot whenever ammo could be spared. Daryl also had to admit that Carol had looked after him too, making sure he ate during the lean times and had warm clothing when the winter season arrived. And yesterday, Carol held his hand during Merle's funeral. Daryl blushed at that memory; he and Carol did a good job of looking out for each other.

Daryl looked to his right and saw he had reached the stretch of road where the forest and trees were briefly replaced by open fields, so he turned the steering wheel in that direction and the Dodge Ram 1500 plowed across the field like a lone buffalo roaming across the Great Plains of the West.

•••

Daryl parked the truck amongst a sparse clearing in the forest; he thought it was a necessary precaution: the bridge across Yellow Jacket Creek was an idea ambush spot for scavengers, and more importantly, the sight or sound of the truck, or the smell of its exhaust, would frighten any game along the creek.

Daryl picked up his Horton Scout HD 125 crossbow from the passenger seat, and climbed out of the truck. Daryl put the truck's keys in his jean's pocket, closed the truck door softly, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder as he looked around the forest; there wasn't an animal or a threat in sight. Daryl took a deep breath, and began walking slowly through the forest. As Daryl made his way to Yellow Jacket Creek, he thought about his first interaction with Carol back at the quarry outside Atlanta:

•••

Daryl held the axe in his hands and brought it down onto the log placed atop a stump.

WHUKK!

The axe's blade cut the log in two and stuck in the stump. Daryl pulled the axe free and caught movement out of the corner of his right eye, so he stood straight and looked in that direction to see Shane leading Ed Peletier out of the camp. Yesterday at dinner, Ed grabbed Carol's wrist and threatened to beat her unless she gave him a bigger portion of rabbit stew, so Daryl threw the bastard on the ground, and twisted his right wrist behind his back and made him scream until Shane put Daryl in a chokehold and pulled him away. Today, Ed's wrist was wrapped in gauze, and when he saw Daryl glaring at him, he turned white, looked at the ground, and ran ahead of Shane.

Daryl snorted in contempt; he bent down, picked up another log from the pile, set it atop the stump, and brought the axe down harder than before.

WHUKK!

Daryl pulled the axe free from the stump and watched as Shane lectured Ed. They were too far away for Daryl to eavesdrop, but he heard Shane say words such as "domestic abuse", "won't be tolerated", and "stick together". Ed was nodding at Shane's statements in a disinterred manner. Finally, Ed said, "I won't do it again."

"All right," Shane nodded, and he slapped Ed's shoulder like he would a teammate. The two men went their separate ways: Shane smiling proudly at the way he handled the situation; Ed annoyed like he'd been given a ticket for littering. Daryl shook his head in disgust; he picked up another log, set it on the stump, and then he raised the axe and brought it down, splitting the log in two.

WHUKK!

"Excuse me, Mr. Dixon," a timid voice said behind him.

Daryl looked over his shoulder and saw Carol Peletier standing timidly a few feet away, her arms folded across her chest. Her young daughter Sophia stood behind her slightly, looking at Daryl with a mixture of fear and awe.

Daryl pulled the axe free and leaned it against the stump before he turned around to face Carol. "What do you want?" he asked as he wiped his hands clean.

"I…I just wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday," Carol answered.

"What? You mean when I kicked your husband's fat ass?"

Carol looked down at the ground and she squeezed her upper arms nervously. "I mean when you pulled Ed away from me," she answered when she looked at Daryl again.

Daryl looked at the timid housewife for a moment and he nodded in appreciation. "You're welcome."

Carol blinked; it was clear to Daryl that she didn't expect him to respond positively, if at all. "Well, Ed usually isn't so ill-tempered," she said hurriedly. "It's just that those monsters are everywhere and we're all scared and tired and hungry—"

"Stop, there's enough bullshit in this camp already," Daryl interrupted.

Carol's eyes widened and Sophia giggled.

"W-what do you mean?" Carol asked nervously.

Daryl nodded towards Shane, who was talking to the widow, Lori Grimes. "Do you believe that cop's speeches about the army marchin' on Atlanta like Sherman did?"

"You mean Deputy Walsh?" Carol asked as she glanced at Shane, who had said something that made Lori smile. "Yes, I do."

Daryl snorted in amusement.

"I'm serious, Mr. Dixon. Ed told me the government set up special training programs for police departments across the country in case of another 9/11. Maybe the police were told to collect survivors and stay outside a major city and wait until they were rescued?"

Daryl looked at Carol and noticed that her eyes were pleading for him to believe in Shane Walsh; he picked up a log and set it on the stump. "Maybe," he said as he picked up the axe.

Carol smiled and she hugged Sophia to her side. "Well, I've bothered you long enough, Mr. Dixon. Thank you again."

Carol and Sophia turned around and walked away. Daryl watched them leave, and saw they were standing taller and walking with confidence. He grinned, turned back to the stump, raised the axe, and brought it down onto the log.

WHUKK!

•••

Daryl realized he was grinning now and he stopped in his tracks; he unslung the crossbow from his shoulder, thumbed its safety "off" brought it up to his shoulder as he checked the forest: he was alone.

Daryl lowered the crossbow and cursed himself silently; if a walker had staggered along while he was remembering that brief talk with Carol, he'd have gotten his throat bitten out and he likely never would've known it.

That would've been a dumbass way to die, Daryl thought. I can't imagine what Merle would say if he saw me behind the Pearly Gates: "What the fuck happened to you, brother? Did one of those stinkin' walker females make love, sweet love to you?"

Daryl chuckled in amusement and resumed his slow walk through the forest. He spotted some deer tracks and knelt down to inspect them: they looked to be a day or two old. Daryl stood up and continued on with more vigor until he stopped again when his nose caught the smell of fresh water; Yellow Jacket Creek was up ahead.

A few minutes later Daryl walked out of the tree line and saw Yellow Jacket Creek. He looked to his left, and saw the bridge in the distance; the abandoned vehicles were still atop it.

Daryl turned to his left and approached the bridge cautiously: he didn't see a barricade in front of it, he didn't see a lookout, and he didn't see or hear any camp activity, so there were no thieves to worry about. He stood at the front of the bridge, lowered his crossbow, and looked at the abandoned vehicles and the dead walkers scattered across it. This was the spot where Daryl risked his life to save a family of Mexicans from walkers, and later put his crossbow to the back of Merle's head to stop him from robbing them of their supplies; he realized now this was the place where he stepped out of Merle's shadow and became his own man. Daryl turned to his left and continued walking along the banks of Yellow Jacket Creek.

A few moments later Daryl stopped in his tracks when he saw two sets of boot prints in the mud: they were his and Merle's boot prints. Daryl followed them into the forest and began to tremble when he reached the spot where the ground had been disturbed: it was the spot where Merle had knocked him down. Daryl leaned against a thin tree and stared at that spot as he remembered his last argument with Merle:

•••

"What the shit were you doin' pointin' that thing at me?" Mere asked angrily as he followed Daryl into the woods.

"They were scared, man," Daryl answered.

"They were rude is what they were," Merle said as he caught up to Daryl. "Rude and they owed us a token of gratitude."

"They didn't owe us nothin'."

"You helpin' people out of the goodness of your heart, even though you might die doin' it. Is that somethin' your Sherriff Rick taught you?"

Daryl spun around and looked at Merle. "There was a baby!" he shouted.

"Oh, otherwise you would've just left them to the biters then?" Merle asked.

Daryl stared at Merle in disbelief when the reason for his brother's anger suddenly struck him: He had just risked his life to save a family of strangers, while a year ago Merle was handcuffed atop a roof, and cut off his own hand to escape.

"Man, I went back for you! You weren't there!" Daryl explained."I didn't cut off your hand neither. You did that! Way before they locked you up on that roof!" Daryl shouted as he pointed at Merle's stump with his arrow. "You asked for it!"

Merle paced to his right and to his left, shaking his head, grinning; it looked like he didn't know if he should shout or laugh. "You know…you know what's funny to me, hmm? You and Sheriff Rick are like this now, right, hmm?" Merle held up his left hand with two fingers crossed together. "I bet you a penny and a fiddle of gold, huh, that you never told him that we were plannin' on robbin' that camp blind."

Daryl glared at Merle. "It didn't happen'."

"Yeah, it didn't. 'Cause I wasn't there to help you!" Merle pointed out.

Daryl took a step forward. "Like when we were kids, huh?" he asked angrily. "Who left who then?!"

"What?! Huh?! Is that why I lost my hand?!"

"You lost your hand because you're a simpleminded piece of shit!" Daryl shouted before he turned around to walk away.

Merle grabbed the back of Daryl's shirt and pulled him backwards. His younger brother lost his footing and fell to the ground. "Yeah?! You don't know—"

Merle's eyes widened and he went pale the instant he saw Daryl's back. He knew about his little brother's two devils tattoos, but there were several scars across his back, just like the ones on Merle's own back. Merle thought instantly of their drunken father, whipping him with a leather strap through his late childhood and into his late teens.

Daryl, embarrassed that Merle discovered their father had whipped him too, shoved his brother's arm away and pulled his torn shirt over his back.

"I…I didn't know he was—"Merle stammered in shock.

"Yeah, he did," Daryl interrupted as he slung his backpack on. "He did the same to you. That's why you left first."

"I had to man," Merle explained desperately. "I would've killed him otherwise."

Daryl picked up his crossbow and arrow, stood up, and began walking away.

"Where are you goin'?" Merle asked with a tinge of fear in his voice.

Daryl stopped walking and faced Merle. "Back where I belong," he answered.

"I can't go with you!" Merle said defeated. "I…I tried to kill that black bitch! Damn near killed the Chinese kid!"

"He's Korean," Daryl corrected him.

"Whatever," Merle said in frustration. "Doesn't matter man, I just can't go with you!"

Daryl lowered his head. He understood what Merle meant, but he was disappointed that Merle wasn't going to try to start over. During the days spent on Hershel's farm, Daryl felt that he didn't belong with the group, but he gave it a chance, and he realized they had become his family.

"You know, I may be the one walkin' away, but you're the one who's leavin'…again." Daryl said as he waved his arrow. And with that, Daryl did indeed walk away, and he didn't look back. A minute later he heard Merle rushing to catch up with him, and side-by-side they walked back to the prison.

•••

The memory of that last argument over, Daryl slid down the tree and sat on the ground. Tears were running down his face, and he wiped them away quickly; he was also breathing heavily, and when he composed himself, he looked at the spot where he and Merle argued.

"You could've gone back, Merle, but we'd all be dead if you had," Daryl confessed. "You gave us a chance, a chance to live again. Thank you, brother. I love you."

Daryl didn't bother to stand up. Instead, he crossed his legs Indian style and rested his crossbow atop his knees. He watched and listened for game or a threat, but the forest was quiet as a church.

•••

How much time had passed? Daryl glanced up at the sun, and he estimated the time had to have been 15 minutes. Knowing he was never going to find game just sitting underneath a tree, Daryl stood up on his numb feet and stomped them back to life one at a time.

A branch rustled in the distance. Daryl raised his head slowly and saw the branch swaying back and forth, a creature was moving below it, but the underbrush in front prevented Daryl from telling if it was an animal or a walker. Daryl raised his crossbow slowly and waited for the creature to step out into the open.

There was a rustle in the underbrush and as the creature stepped out into the open, it was a six point white tail deer; it raised its head and it was chewing on some grass. When it saw Daryl, it stopped chewing and its eyes widened as if it was started by his presence.

Daryl stood still but his heart began to thump inside his chest. The deer apparently decided that Daryl wasn't a threat and it resumed chewing its meal.

Why the hell hasn't it bolted? Daryl wondered. Is it because I ain't a walker?

The deer swallowed its meal, turned to its left, and took a few steps; it looked down at a patch of grass and lowered its head to eat again. Daryl brought his crossbow up to his shoulder and aimed through its red dot sights. The dot lined up with the spot where the deer's heart was, and Daryl slowly wrapped his finger around the crossbow's trigger.

The deer raised its head, glanced at Daryl out of the corner of its eye, and began chewing its meal.

Daryl squeezed the trigger.

THUNK!

The arrow struck the dears heart; its eyes widened in shock and it screamed in pain as the chewed grass fell out of its open mouth. The deer made a mad dash to escape and it bounced off the trees like a pinball bouncing off bumpers.

Daryl lowered his crossbow and watched the dying animal towards Yellow Jacket Creek. On one hand he was glad to have found game to bring back to the prison, but on the other hand he was sorry to kill an animal that had managed to survive in this world for as long as it did.

Daryl lowered the barrel of his crossbow to the ground, slipped his foot in the stirrup, pulled back the string until it locked; he slipped his foot out of the stirrup, held the crossbow in his hand and pulled an arrow out of the quiver as he ran after his prey.

The dying deer left behind a blood trail along with its own hoof prints, which illustrated its great stride and desperation to escape, but Daryl soon caught sight of the slowing animal, and it leaped out of the tree line and slid to a stop along the creek bed. Daryl slowed down, and when he stepped out of the tree line, he loaded the new arrow on the crossbow's flight groove and approached the dying animal cautiously.

The deer was lying on its left side, kicking and gasping for air. Daryl walked behind it to avoid its legs and stepped around its head so they could look each other in the eye; he felt he owed it that courtesy. The deer's eyes were pleading, as if it was asking why Daryl had killed it. Daryl, unable to watch the animal suffer, aimed his crossbow over its heart, and squeezed the trigger.

THUNK!

Unlike the first arrow, the second went through the deer's heart. The dying animal jerked when the arrow hit it, and Daryl leapt backwards to avoid its thrashing head and limbs. The deer opened its mouth to scream, but a raspy gust of air came out instead. The deer's thrashing continued for a few seconds and then it went still and died. Daryl stood respectfully for a minute, and then he walked over to the dead animal, put his foot on its chest, and pulled the first arrow free, and with a bit more effort, pulled out the second.

•••

Daryl, with the deer draped over his shoulder, returned to the Dodge Ram 1500 truck. He set his crossbow down against the truck, dug the keys out of his jeans pocket, opened the tailgate, and placed the deer on the truck bed. Daryl then closed the tailgate, pulled off his poncho and let it fall to the ground as he spun around, leaned against the tailgate and exhaled wearily.

I'm sorry about the deer, but I had to do it. We're damn close to starvin'," Daryl thought. He dug into his leather vest's pocket, and took out his pack of Marlboro cigarettes; he put one between his lips, flicked open his nickel plated Zippo lighter, and lit the cigarette. He took a drag on the cigarette and blew out the smoke.

There's goin' to be a lot of happy faces when they see this deer, Daryl thought to assuage his guilt. But he almost bit down on the cigarette when the image of the one person in the group he wanted to see smiling flashed through his mind: Carol.

Why does that woman always stick her nose in my business? Daryl asked himself. I didn't find her little girl in time. I almost got her killed yesterday bringin' Merle back to the prison. She doesn't owe me nothin'.

Maybe she likes me, Daryl thought.

Daryl blinked and then he took another drag on the cigarette and blew out the smoke. Why should she? I'm white trash, wearin' rags; I've got scars and tattoos, and I hunt squirrels in my spare time. I ain't exactly George Clooney.

She don't give a damn about that, Daryl corrected himself. She's not just keepin' an eye on you because you're part of the damn group. She likes you.

She shouldn't, Daryl thought.

How about you? Daryl asked himself. Don't you look out for her? And what was the first thing you did when you woke up from your nap yesterday? You checked to see if she was sleepin' like a baby. You like her much as she likes you.

Daryl took the cigarette out of his mouth, ran a hand through his hair angrily, and stomped around the tailgate. Bullshit! Daryl thought. Yeah, I care about her, but not like that! Hell, I used to go out with bar maids and biker groupies! How am I gonna treat a woman like Carol?

A hell of a lot better than her dirt bag husband did.

That thought made Daryl stop walking around and lean back against the truck's tailgate again. He brought the cigarette up to his lips, took a drag on it, and blew out the smoke.

I…I want to make Carol happy, but I've got a lot of shit to do, Daryl thought. I have to find the Governor. I have to help rebuild the prison—

Michonne probably killed the one-eyed bastard already, Daryl scolded himself. And as for the prison, Rick's got new people to rebuild it; you told him that yourself. The old world ain't comin' back; nothin' left but you, her, and time. So are you goin' to take Hershel's sermon to heart and live again?

Daryl looked up at the sky again; took another drag on the cigarette, blew out the smoke, and thought, Maybe.

TO BE CONCLUDED