So, this is the longest chapter yet. It was actually a ton of fun to write. Sorry about the ridiculous length and bloodiness. I've been getting a TON of great feedback and it's really, really motivating me. Have a great new year, all of you. Much love and, as always, enjoy!

Hunting with a Dixon: Part II: A Cruel World

"Hey."

Carl's voice took Beth by surprise, and she lost grip of the cup she was cleaning. It slipped from her hands and dropped into the washing basin, splashing the concrete floor surrounding it with lukewarm sudsy water.

"Sorry," Carl apologized as he knelt to help Beth clean the mess. She shooed his hand away with an embarrassed half-smile. She blushed profusely as she mopped the floor with an already damp towel. Its frayed, graying edges created a soggy fringe.

"'S okay. Didn' see you there."

The wide brim of Carl's hat shielded most of his face from Beth's view. She couldn't tell what expression he wore. She held up the wet towel with one hand and chuckled nervously.

"Guess I need a new towel."

She stood to retrieve a dry rag from the supply closet and Carl jumped to his feet, blocking her path. She stared at him, perplexed.

"Carl, I need-"

"You were right." He stated suddenly, hands in his pockets. "Carol and Daryl are definitely in love."

.:|:.

Carol awoke to the smell of damp leaves and a snuffed campfire. She sat upright, rubbing her neck uncomfortably. The hair on one side of her neck was plastered to her head. She ran her fingers through the short silvery tufts. Her back ached something awful.

Daryl was still fast asleep. His breathing was heaving. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. He was scrunched up on the floor of the Hyundai, leaving the entire backseat area free for Carol. She noticed an extra blanket had been flung over her. She peeled it away and laid it over Daryl's freezing body.

You didn't have to do that. She thought as she reached for her boots. They were resting on the rear deck above her. There were bits of blood, flesh and brains embedded into the grooves on the bottom. She couldn't help but be amused at how casually she flicked them away.

Slipping the boots onto her feet, she scooted down towards the door and carefully pushed it open, making sure not to wake Daryl. Cold morning air rushed in. He groaned and fidgeted in his sleep. She slid out of the car, her shoes sinking into the moist soil. Cautiously, she closed the door, leaving Daryl to catch up on some much needed rest.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself tightly to conserve body warmth. The sky was dreary and overcast. A lonesome bird cawed somewhere overhead.

The fire was long dead. The ashes were chalky and cold. There wasn't a trace of heat lingering in the embers. She scavenged for fallen sticks and twigs to reanimate the flame, but it seemed they were all dewy and no good for kindling. After several endless moments, she came up with a few good branches and fumbled in her pocket for her lighter.

It was another hour before Daryl finally emerged from the confines of sleep. Carol was sitting cross-legged by the fire, chewing on a granola bar. It was a bit stale and the little chocolate chips were rather waxy, but food was food. Suddenly the side door of the car burst open and Daryl came jumping out, hopping around on one foot as he struggled to get his boots on.

"Goddammit!" he swore as he nearly tripped and fell straight into the dead, wet leaves. Carol snickered. She tried to be discreet, but he caught her amused grin and flashed a condemning look. She averted her gaze, trying to stifle her smile.

"The fuck you gigglin' at? An' why the hell didn' you get me up sooner?!"

"You've been exhausted for days, Daryl Dixon. Admit it. You needed to catch up on your rest. Can't have you fallin' asleep on the job." She explained sweetly after swallowing a bite of granola. She winked and he narrowed his eyes even further. She wondered how his lashes didn't bar his sight completely.

"An' if I slept through a herd? Then wha', Doc?"

Carol rose to her feet, crunching the shiny red wrapper up in her fist. She stuffed it down into the box it came from and offered an unopened bar to Daryl. He swiped it from her hands. She smirked, patting him on the shoulder.

"You're welcome."

Daryl grunted in response, ripping open the foil.

"Cheeky bitch." He muttered.

.:|:.

It was the third day.

Carol was foraging through the wilderness for anything that could be of use. She picked berries she found growing on shrubs and collected fallen nuts scattered beneath the trees. Occasionally she stumbled across an abandoned shack and raided it for supplies and more food. The two resolved to always stay within shouting distance, but they occasionally drifter farther apart. Daryl needed solitude and silence to track and hunt properly. Carol left him alone as he requested, relying only on her own knife and gun for protection. She wasn't going to be a burden.

Not a burden.

That was Carol's mantra. She'd repeat it in her head over and over every morning.

Whatever you do, don't be a burden.

A brown shingled roof came into view, peeking out from above the trees. It was midmorning and the canopy of leaves blocked the sizzling rays of the sun, for which Carol and Daryl were immensely thankful. The air, however, was a bit muggy and Carol's feathery hair was plastered to her ears, temples and the back of her neck. She unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and took a sip.

Carol could spy the walls of the house, its white paint stained, moldy and peeling severely, beyond a barrier of vines and shrubs. She tried to push her way through but found the vines to be lined with little teeth. She winced, pulling away.

Tiny little beads of blood dotted her arms and wrists. She almost swore as she picked the thorns from her flesh. Still, she was determined. The house was a decent size. She swore she could make out the silhouette of a shed. Maybe there were garden tools inside—sharp garden tools.

She seized her knife from her pocket, examining the blade. It wasn't very long, but it would do the job as long as she was careful. Minding the barbed vines, she began cutting her way through the foliage, towards the house.

When she finally reached the other side, she was no doubt battered. She hadn't been able to escape all the thorns and more than a few had grazed her. Her shirt was torn in several spots. She had a scratch extending across her cheek. But a little scrape never discouraged Carol.

She hesitated for only a moment. If she went on, she and Daryl would be well beyond shouting range. If anything went awry on either side, the other might not be able to even hear the screams, let alone get there in time. She decided it was a risk worth taking. She'd managed to stay safe so far.

The house was large and located in a clearing. It was enclosed on all four sides by trees and bushes, except for a small path winding through the forest, just large enough to fit a car. She noticed none of the windows were broken. That meant one of two things: either nobody had raided the house yet and all food and supplies were hers to claim, or it was occupied. She hoped for the former. Taking down a few walkers was nothing. Facing a band of terrified, heavily-armed survivors was another story completely.

Carol pressed on the door, testing its give. It seemed flimsy enough, probably immensely weakened by termites. With one hefty kick, the wood splintered and Carol was granted access. She climbed in. Instantly she was overwhelmed by a wretched stench. It was the stench of rot and decay; of death. It was a smell no human should be desensitized to. Yet she was so accustomed to it, she barely coughed.

She held her gun at the ready, knowing the chances of encountering a walker were very high. The house seemed so dark, even with sunlight pouring through the windows. Every shadow was treacherous. Every dim corner could serve as a hiding place for something foul.

There was a layer of dust and grime on everything. She slipped into the kitchen. The refrigerator was overturned. Its contents had spilled out and turned into a steady stream of thick sludge. She felt her stomach heave. She checked the cupboards. A single can of mixed fruit was all she found. She grabbed it, reading the label. Peaches, pears, cherries and grapes, all combined and drenched in thick, sugary syrup. Her mouth watered. She slipped it into her bag.

She moved on from the kitchen, strangely keen to explore the rest of the house. It'd been so long since she'd been inside one. In her mind, their prison was just a residence: a place to survive. Cold metal bars and towering fences weren't exactly comforting. They'd spent a long time on the road after the farm was overrun, never lingering in one place longer than absolutely necessary. It would have been nice to live in a home again.

Carol scaled the winding staircase. It ended in a hallway. There were still picture frames on the walls. She observed the smiling faces sadly. There was a woman and a man with their two little boys and a dog with glossy, golden fur. That family portrait invoked a painful memory.

It was a crisp autumn night, a few years before the outbreak. Sophia was playing with dolls in her room. Ed was zoned out in front of the television, a beer in his hand and his legs propped up on the coffee table in a way that made Carol squirm. She hated when he did that. But she knew she couldn't stop him.

She had just walked in the door, struggling to carry in heavy grocery bags. She stumbled into the kitchen, heaving the bags up onto the counter and unloading the groceries. She'd just been given a raise. She celebrated with a much-needed trip to the supermarket.

Carol had planned a trip to the local mall the following day with Ed and Sophia to take photos for a family portrait Ed's mother had desperately wanted. Since her birthday was but a month away, Carol thought it would be a nice gift. Often she'd wondered how such a terrible man could be created by such a kind woman.

She was humming to herself as she often did when Ed appeared in her path. The thin plastic handles of the bags she was holding were beginning to press deeply into the palms of her hands, weighed down by jars of marinara sauce. She tried to step past him, but he blocked her once more. She frowned.

"What's wro-"

Her question was cut short by Ed's arm shooting out. He caught her firmly by the wrist. She tried to wiggle free. He tightened his grip. His fingernails cut into her skin. He yanked her towards him. She dropped the bags. The sauce splattered everywhere. It looked like a massacre had taken place.

"You went out in this?!" he roared, grabbing at her shirt. His anger over a piece of clothing silenced her. She didn't know how to respond to such unreasonableness. "Are you fucking stupid?!"

"I-"

"You can't wear this shit out, Carol! I won' have you struttin' 'round town lookin' like a fucking whore!"

Carol looked down at her blouse. It was pristine white and sleeveless. She'd bought it for herself a few months prior as a treat. It was nice. The V-neck wasn't even very low. It barely surpassed the cross on her necklace.

"I'm sorry," she whispered meekly. Ed was silent for a few seconds as she stared off into the distance, unable to face her husband. She hoped Sophia hadn't heard. Nothing scared the little girl more than her daddy when he was angry.

"Take it off."

Carol glanced up, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." he spat accusingly. Carol glanced back down at her shirt. Surely he couldn't mean…

But he did. She knew he did. Sheepishly she pulled up her blouse, tugging it off her head and handing it to Ed. He bunched the fabric up in his plump, sweaty hand. He flung it to the floor as Carol tried to cover herself. She prayed with all her might that Sophia wouldn't walk out and see her standing there, mortified and shirtless, in front of daddy.

And just as Carol thought it was over, Ed's fist connected with her jaw. She held her face, trembling, as she sunk to her knees. She could already feel a bruise forming: big and sore and purple and hideous. She didn't even have hair to hide behind.

"Guess we ain't doin' that picture shit tomorro'." He spat as he left Carol to cry.

Carol snapped out of it when she felt a tear slipping down her cheek. She pressed on, pushing the memory out of her mind. The past was the past. The bruises had disappeared. The scars had healed and faded. Ed was gone. He could never touch her again.

The creaks her feet made as she crept through the hallway were loud and pronounced. She tensed up every time she took a step. Her grip on her gun tightened. At the end of the hall was a table. Upon the dusty wooden surface was a thin, glass vase holding a dead flower. She tiptoed towards it and extended her hand. Using her index finger, she stroked a single dried petal. It crumbled. She sighed, and reached to grip the handle to the door on her left. She opened it swiftly. The hinges barely had time to squeal before Carol screamed.

There was a stray shotgun lying in the corner of the room. There were four corpses rotting away in the center. Three of them were motionless and stripped of flesh. One was not. The walker turned, growling. She gasped. She recognized him. He was the man from the photograph. The tattered, fly-infested bodies must have been his wife and sons. She froze at the realization of what had occurred in that very room.

He'd killed his family and then tried to kill himself. But his aim was askew—perhaps from his shaking hands—and he missed his brain. After reanimating, he devoured the people he loved most. It was the worst thing that could ever happen to a someone.

Carol reacted in the nick of time. She was within grabbing distance of the walker. She remembered what had happened to Dale. She wouldn't let that happen to herself. She aimed her gun and pulled the trigger immediately. Instantly, the growling stopped. The bullet blasted clean through its brain. It collapsed on top of her. She let another scream escape as she tried to struggle free. His putrefying flesh was squashed against her face. She nearly vomited as she heaved the body away, wishing she'd never ventured upstairs. She should have taken the damned fruit and never looked back.

But something kept her rooted there for another few minutes. Carol stared miserably at the ruined bodies before her. Once they were a happy family. Now they were naught but carnage. What had gone through those little boys' minds when their daddy pointed his gun at their heads? Did their mother scream in pain when she saw her dear children murdered before her eyes? Or was she first one killed that day? Could they have survived if they'd been given the chance?

Finally, Carol pulled herself away. Tears were streaming. She tore down the stairs, not giving a damn how much noise she made. She was in a frenzy to get away. She would never get that image out of her head, ever.

"Fuck, woman!"

Carol plowed straight into Daryl. He yelled as he stumbled.

But his initial annoyance at Carol's recklessness faded when she failed to jump back or let go. Instead she clung to him, sobbing, and for a few seconds he could do nothing but stand there like a total fucking asshole because he had no idea how to comfort her.

He resolved to just do what felt natural. He let a hand drift up towards her neck and stroked her hair. He wrapped his arm around her waist. He let her cry. He didn't try and break their embrace until she was good and ready.

"Wha's wrong?" he asked tenderly, taking her face in his hands. She sniffed, deciding whether or not to tell him. She softly shook her head.

"'s jus' a cruel world, is all."