Please bear with me—the site is barraging me with technical difficulties in uploading this. If you're reading this, though, it means I have come out on top. Woman 1, Machine 0. So I really hope you're seeing this!
Chapter 12 for you all, today. I don't have much to report on this end—Chapter 13 is in the final editing stages, so hopefully this week will see a fast update. Check out my tumblr, under the name of "Praxid," to check out my sketches and general nerdy musings. Thank you and hopefully I'll be talking to you all again soon!
Cage:
Daryl stood over his brother, where he was lying out on the floor, asleep. Merle was noticeably thinner. Still strong, yes, but his face… it was hollowed out. His hair was longer—a mess of greying, wiry curls. He looked older than he did before.
And then Daryl slipped away as quietly he could. Left Merle there, sleeping.
He needed to think.
He stepped out into the living room. Paced around on the floor. It was covered with trash and smelled real bad.
Carol was still with the girls in there. There were five of them. He looked them over more carefully than he had, before. The pale, drawn skin—the emaciated bodies. The hollow eyes. They were addicts, every one of them. He knew enough about that shit to see they were in deep.
Daryl's mind was reeling. He tried to sort it all out while Carol talked to those women on the floor. Their voices blended together in a blur while he worked through what was going on.
Clearly, Merle had settled into this house with some of his friends—people from that circle of addicts he ran with. People Daryl didn't know, and didn't want to know.
One of the girls had mentioned someone named Timmy—she'd said he was out on a supply run right now. Must have meant Timmy Tucker—Billy Tucker's younger brother. Billy had been one of Merle's best buddies—had been ever since they were just kids. And that lasted right up until the day the walkers came. That was the day Billy Tucker shot himself in the head.
So when Merle got separated from Daryl—lost his hand—he must've come home to roost. But their daddy's house was burned out, and he couldn't really stay there—clearly he'd tried to hole up in Daryl's bedroom, at least for a while. But that couldn't really be a long term arrangement. He had to find somewhere else—and he must've remembered this place. Remembered staying here when the two of them were kids. Out here in the farmland, you could see anything coming at you from a long way off. It was remote. And that made it relatively secure, all things considered.
So Merle gathered those old friends around him, and settled on in for the long haul. From the sheer volume of trash piled up on the floor, Daryl figured the group had been here at least a couple months, already.
Daryl looked over to where Carol was sitting on the floor, listening to those girls. They were telling her their names. She had one of them by both hands—just a little slip of a thing. Maybe seventeen years old. Pale, with strawberry blonde hair. She shyly whispered that her name was Joellen.
But he couldn't really focus on her. On what any of them were saying, really—Merle was in the next room, and he needed to decide what to do about that.
Really, Daryl already knew what they had to do. They needed to get out of there—fast—before Merle woke up. If they moved quickly, they might just get out without his ever realizing they'd been there at all.
So he went to Carol, and tugged her up by the arm. Pulled her right out of the girl's hands.
"C'mon," he said, dragging her towards the door.
"We're leaving."
Before Carol knew what was happening, Daryl was pulling her through the living room, and away from the girls on the ground.
And Carol struggled with him.
"What are you doing?"
She started to pull away and Daryl just tugged her back again. Leaned in past her to where the girls were sitting on the floor.
"You never saw us. You hear me?"
He pushed in a little closer. Narrowed his eyes. The girls shrank against the wall.
"We weren't never here."
He let go of Carol's arm a moment, and really got close to their faces. Crouched over them.
"The two of us—we're just some fucking figments of your fucking imaginations."
And then he pulled his handgun. Didn't point it at them, but made sure they saw it.
"We clear on this?"
She didn't understand. He was terrorizing the poor things. She called out to him—shocked.
"Daryl!"
He closed his eyes, then. Let out a hard sigh. As if saying his name had ruined something for him.
Then he regrouped.
"You didn't hear that—none of you. You won't say one word to nobody. Get it? Not one word. Or I'll come after you, you hear me?"
Carol didn't have words. He just pulled her away as fast as he could. When they were outside, she yanked her arm from his grip, and spun around on him, furious.
"God, Daryl—what the hell do you think you're—"
He stepped in close. Hissed the words at her, right in her face.
"Trust me."
And then he looked to the door, nervously—as if he thought something was about to happen.
Carol froze. The look on his face—they were in some kind of trouble he wasn't going to explain to her. So she nodded. Went with him to the bike, and they sped away.
When Daryl pulled up in front of the painted lady, he didn't say a word to her. Just left the bike there on the grass and went directly upstairs to the tower. Evicted T-Dog from watch duty, and paced around way up in there—above the rest of the house, all alone.
And Carol went out to the back yard—way out by the iron fence, beneath the oak trees. Sat there in the grass. Looking up to the house, she could see him in the windows of that tower, walking around in a circle.
From the observation tower, Daryl watched the light move across the sky. It was already getting dark when Rick went up to check on him.
Daryl glared at him. Knew he'd have to tell him everything—and sooner rather than later. And that just made him feel more trapped. He was like a rabbit in a snare. There weren't any options.
Rick didn't say anything at first. Just sat down in one of those chairs they'd been using on watch. Picked up the binoculars and played with the strap.
"Been talking to Carol," Rick said, at last. It was obvious she'd told him everything that happened.
Daryl couldn't stay still. Started pacing around in a circle again. And Rick spoke up again.
"So it was Merle in there, wasn't it?"
Daryl stared out into the trees. Was sure his face said it all.
And he knew he'd made a mistake. Slipping away from Merle—trying to keep him from knowing they'd been there. It wasn't going to work. Daryl had been thinking it over. They'd forced in the door. They'd left a gunshot in the wall. And those girls—there was no earthly way they were going to keep their mouths shut when it came down to it.
But Carol had been there. Merle would have seen her. And Daryl couldn't imagine letting that happen.
So he turned to Rick.
"I gotta go back there, don't I?"
Rick nodded.
"Seems to me that's the only way for us to get a sense of how this is going to go."
And he looked back at Daryl, calmly. He had this weird way of standing back from a problem Daryl couldn't entirely identify with.
"You need some backup?"
"No," Daryl said, "Last thing we need is to have him wake up and see you standin' there."
"No—it's better I go it alone."
For the second time that day, Daryl slipped into his aunt's house. This time, he was alone.
And no one was in the living room. He heard voices down a hallway, and was careful to step silently through the trash on the floor. Made it to that back bedroom where Merle had been sleeping. He'd parked the bike down the road—so it'd be well out of earshot. No one knew he was there.
When he stepped inside, he looked around. That bedroom was mostly empty. There were piles of clothes. Some bags and boxes full of supplies. A bedroll where his brother was still lying out, fast asleep. He hadn't moved at all. Was still out cold next to that woman. And Daryl could hear him breathing.
It was strange to be so near him, again.
Daryl drifted to the far end of the room—to the window. Merle had a collection of Daryl's wood carvings there on the sill. He must have taken them with him from their daddy's house. And Daryl didn't know he liked those things enough to do something like that—Merle despised that particular hobby of his. He always made fun of him for wasting his time making little wooden toys.
But he'd taken them—the best ones. Kept them close.
Daryl reached out, touched one carving. A flower—one he'd carved a few years back. He'd chosen a fine, white cedar so it would perfume the air around it. It was a rose. A Cherokee rose.
One of them bloomed for Merle after all.
And well over a year before, Daryl was sitting out in the cab of his daddy's truck. He'd parked about fifteen minutes before, and hadn't gotten out of the thing yet. Just sat there, sipping his gas station coffee from the paper cup. Watched the clouds move around in the sky. Watched the cars move around the prison parking lot.
He'd put this off as long as he could. But he really had to do it. Merle had been inside for over six weeks, and Daryl still hadn't come to see him.
So he dropped his paper cup back into the holder. Watched the yellowed air freshener dangling there on the rearview. That cardboard pine tree had been green, once—years ago, when their daddy was still alive.
It was going to be strange to see Merle—he knew it. Merle wasn't the type who belonged in a cage.
Daryl sighed. He didn't want to do this, but he had to.
He had to.
So he stepped out of his daddy's truck. Slammed the door shut behind him, and headed towards the visitor's entrance.
Merle was fast asleep on a bedroll in his aunt's house, sprawled out next to Jenny Wilkins. He was dreaming something indistinct about walkers, and gunfire, and blood.
And he felt a hand on his forehead. Then his cheek. It slapped him, gently, a few times.
"Merle."
And again. He shifted. Didn't want to wake. Tried to sink back under.
But that voice kept on coming.
"Merle."
Merle groaned. Made to roll over. That hand—it took him by the shoulder. And another hand joined it—a matching fucking set.
Someone rolled him onto his back. Leaned in close.
"C'mon, Merle. Wake up."
It was Daryl's voice. He'd know it anywhere. It was as if he was back home, and Daryl was trying to rouse him after one of those particularly wild benders. He'd always be there, those mornings—would get him out of bed no matter what—ready to help him into the shower and put everything in the house to rights.
And really, he felt like he was back there—that if he opened his eyes, he'd see Daryl hovering above him. And they'd be home and things would be back to fucking normal. None of this shit would have ever happened.
So Merle opened his eyes, and he did see Daryl's face hovering over him. Just like he'd imagined. He squinted up at his brother.
"Daryl…?"
Daryl's lip tugged up, slightly—in that crooked approximation of a smile he had. And he was still holding Merle by the shoulders.
"You ok, Merle?"
Merle didn't answer. Turned his head. Jenny was still there, next to him. Still fast asleep. He wasn't back home. Nope. He was in the house. His aunt's house—their aunt's house.
He turned back to Daryl. Raised his one hand and touched his brother's face. Ran his fingers along his cheek—felt the unshaved stubble. Felt the warmth of his skin.
Daryl was here.
Merle let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. And before he knew what he was doing he wrapped his arms around his brother. Buried his face in Daryl's shoulder.
"God, man… Daryl."
Merle tugged at him, hard—clinging tight against his body. Clutched at his brother's clothes with his one hand.
"Thank fucking Jesus fucking Christ…"
He let out a dry, strangled sob. And Daryl just held his shoulders, firmly, like he'd been doing.
"Things've been so fucking bad, brother…"
And Merle didn't realize it, but he'd started to cry.
"It's all just shit without you."
"Uhm."
Daryl stood at the front desk in the prison lobby. Tried to get the clerk's attention.
"Here for visitin' hours."
The man at the desk looked up, over his glasses. Normally, when Daryl went places—hospitals and offices and the like—he felt real awkward. Felt like everyone was looking at him—at his unkempt hair and shabby clothes. People would give him these wary glances, and tended to try to avoid meeting his eyes.
But not this guy. The desk man at the prison was clearly used to people like him. Didn't bat an eye.
"You send back the visitor questionnaire? All the signatures on it?"
Daryl nodded, and the man nodded back. He had a name tag. Mitch. Mitch looked down at his computer screen a moment, and back at Daryl.
"Inmate?"
"Merle Dixon."
"Your name?"
"Daryl."
Mitch stared at him.
"Uhm. Dixon."
"ID?"
He rummaged for his wallet.
Mitch typed something into his keyboard. He was checking the visitor manifest—the list of people the inmates had given permission to visit them. He needed to make sure Merle had approved him for visitation.
"Well look at that," Mitch said, shaking his head at his monitor.
"Only name he's got down on the list."
Daryl sat with Merle on the floor—under the window. All his carvings were on the sill, right above their heads.
Merle had his chin resting on his knees. He was stark naked. It'd taken Daryl a while to get him up from that bedroll—to get him to calm down enough to just sit and gather his thoughts.
He had never seen Merle so damned emotional. And Daryl wondered if Merle knew their aunt's house was empty when he first came here—or if he'd actually gone looking for Aunt Sarah. Maybe he'd wanted to find a relative. Someone he was connected to.
There was a lull. Neither of them were talking. They were just sitting together, in the dark, getting used to being side by side again.
Eventually, Merle broke the silence.
"I only got one hand now."
He said it casually—it just was a matter of fact. And he lifted his arms—showed Daryl. One hand. One stump, wrapped up in a cloth. And Daryl nodded to him.
"I know."
Merle looked down at his arms. Held up his one hand in front of his face. Moved his fingers around in the air.
"Just the one…"
He trailed off, then started up again.
"Left one."
Seemed to think it was important to be precise.
And something was twisting in Daryl's chest, then. It was real hard for him to look at that stump.
"Yeah, man," he said, "The left one."
And Daryl got up—rooted around for something Merle could wear. He was sitting there completely naked on the floor, and there was a chill coming in from the window.
"Here, Merle."
Daryl had a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans in one hand. The cleanest he could find strewn around in the dark. He sniffed at them to make sure. And then he knelt down next to his brother. Laid a hand on his arm.
"C'mon, Merle—put this stuff on. It's cold."
Daryl's voice was quiet—almost tender. The words just fell out of his mouth that way. And Merle responded to that. Looked up to him, expressively.
"How the hell did you know where to find me?"
Daryl had no idea what to say to that. Couldn't think of any way he could tell his brother that he hadn't been looking for him. That running across him had been a complete and total accident.
And Merle just kept looking at him.
"Should've known you'd come."
Daryl's stomach started knotting up. He felt sick.
And there was a noise behind them. The girl. She was awake.
She was awake, and Daryl was relieved she'd chosen that moment to get to it.
She sat up, and the sheets fell off her as she leaned over for something on the ground. Picked up a .38 handgun, and pointed it at Daryl.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The guards searched Daryl before they let him into the visitation room. He was tense the whole time. Deeply uncomfortable with those people's hands all over him.
And the doors buzzed opened, and they led him down the hall, and he was right in front of the visitation area. He could see the back of Merle's head through the window in the door. He'd taken to shaving his hair lately—tried to keep those wild curls of his under control that way.
He was right there, sitting at a table. Daryl hadn't seen him in what seemed like ages.
And Daryl went in. Sat down with him. Some others were in the background, at other tables. Talking to their own relatives, quietly.
Merle was doodling on a piece of notebook paper. Intricate, abstract patterns that looked a little like wings.
Merle was always pretty good at that stuff—drawing. Would have been really good at it if he'd taken any real interest. He'd designed some of Daryl's tattoos—the ones on his back.
It struck Daryl funny, then. Merle's ideas. They were literally written all over him. Pierced in deep, under the skin.
And Merle looked up from his drawing, once, and nodded. They didn't really say anything, right away. Daryl just sat at his brother's side. Took in his presence next to him.
He just settled in. Leaned against the table. Watched Merle's hand glide effortlessly across the paper.
The girl had that gun trained on Daryl, and they stared at each other.
Getting a better look at her, Daryl realized she seemed familiar. And he realized she wasn't just a kid, either—was at least in her late thirties. And he'd seen her somewhere before—he was sure of it.
Merle spoke up. He was buttoning his shirt. Seemed pretty good at doing it one-handed, by this point.
"Jenny, stand the fuck down. It's fine."
And that did it. Daryl placed her.
"Wait—Jenny? Jenny Wilkins?"
That was it. She was one of Merle's many, many girlfriends. One of the very few Merle really kept going back to, on and off over the years. Usually, he stuck with the really young ones. Found them easier to deal with. And he dropped them on a regular basis for a new batch.
Merle wasn't really one for a challenge.
But Jenny—Daryl always got a sense that Merle liked Jenny. Not a lot, maybe—not really under the surface. But he enjoyed her company more than most women.
All things considered, it wasn't really a ringing endorsement.
Daryl hadn't seen her in a few years. She and Merle were in one of those off-again periods before the shit with the walkers went down. Clearly, that had changed since Merle had been back home.
Jenny lowered the .38. Raised a flashlight and pointed it directly at Daryl's face—blinding him completely. Must've been looking him over.
"Well shit," she said, "That your kid brother?"
She put the flashlight down again, and stood up. Completely naked, and utterly unconcerned about it. Gestured to the air while she hunted around for her clothes.
"What is it… uh, Daryl?"
She found a t-shirt, and pulled it over her shoulders. Chuckled to herself.
"Man. Well ain't that nice to fucking see."
She found one of Merle's shirts and threw it on. Tied it in a knot at her waist while poking at a pile of clothes with one foot.
"Fucking heartwarming."
She found a pair of jeans, and threw them on. Padded right by Daryl on her bare feet. Shrugged.
"I'll leave you to your family reunion, I guess."
She tucked Merle's .38 into her belt as she went out.
"Kid brother. Who knew."
And she kept talking as the door closed behind her.
"I had a kid brother—but he got ate."
The winter light glared through the narrow, prison windows, and onto the linoleum table. And Daryl and Merle—they didn't know what to say to each other. Finally, Daryl asked Merle something—the only thing he was really concerned with.
"You ok, Merle?"
Merle just shrugged. But he couldn't fool Daryl. He was feeling it.
Merle didn't belong in a cage.
And after that, they just sat together until the time was up. It left Daryl feeling exhausted. And even so, it was hard to leave Merle in there when it was time to go.
And when he made it back to the car, Daryl just folded his arms over the steering wheel and laid his head down. Closed his eyes, and tried to push the whole experience down deep, where he wouldn't have to think about it again.
When they were alone, Merle started talking about what had happened to him. Told him about that day on the roof. How it went down. What it was like. Most of it, he had already figured out on his own—after all, he'd found Merle's hand lying there. It wasn't exactly news to him.
But then, almost as an afterthought, he threw something in Daryl never expected.
"I saw you lookin' for me."
Daryl didn't entirely understand what he meant by that. And Merle explained.
"In the city. After—after the hand. I was sittin' there near a window and I look up and you're right there on the sidewalk. Just on the other side of that goddamn glass."
"What?"
"Didn't think it was really you, at first. Thought it was—you know—blood loss. Messes with your head."
"But it was you."
"Why the hell didn't you say somethin'?"
"You were with those assholes. Thought you were stayin' with the assholes. Didn't get it."
Merle shrugged.
"Don't matter. It's ok now."
Then he smiled at Daryl. Touched his shoulder, again.
"We can set you up easy, here. There's an empty room right across from Timmy's. And I'm sure some of the girls'll take to you pretty fast."
Offering him some half-starved, terrified women was Merle's concept of being hospitable. And Daryl's face must have betrayed him, because Merle's eyes narrowed.
"That not good enough for you, little brother?"
"Merle…"
He trailed off.
"What, Daryl? Fucking out with it."
"Merle..."
"You gonna leave?"
He couldn't say anything. Just kept stammering Merle's name every time he started a sentence. Had no idea what he would say if he tried.
"Tell me, bro—what you been up to you gotten too fucking good for Merle?"
"Merle…"
"No, ain't just now. You always been too fucking good. Fucking perfect fucking Daryl."
It seemed out of left field. Daryl hadn't ever imagined anyone describing him quite that way. And he just said his brother's name again.
"Merle…"
"What, can't say nothin' but my fucking name?"
He gestured to the air with his one hand. Let out an exasperated breath.
"We got everythin' you fucking need, man. It's pretty safe out here—haven't barely seen no walkers since we came. Just on the supply runs. We got guns. We got the girls."
It was too much. Daryl felt himself getting angry about that. And the words starting coming, then.
"Yeah, and where you find all them girls, anyway? Round 'em up on the street or what? Hit 'em over the head and drag 'em here by the hair?"
"Hey," Merle said, "Jenny can handle herself."
"What about the rest of 'em?"
"Them? They'd be dead if we hadn't found 'em—and they know it."
And Daryl took Merle's bad arm, then—pulled it forward. He could see the track marks. He'd been using hard, again. They'd got him clean when they were running from the walkers. It had been hell, but they'd done it. And he'd just thrown it away again.
"And what's with all this shit, Merle? Huh? Don't you remember what it was like when we were runnin' and your stash went dry? The withdrawal and the walkers, all at once? We go through all that for nothin', Merle?"
Merle leaned back. Looked him over.
"You sure developed a lot of fucking opinions since I last saw you."
Daryl sighed. Felt tired. Felt as tired as he had in that prison parking lot, after that visit. It seemed like that happened a lifetime ago.
And he found himself thinking of Carol, then. Found himself longing for her soft voice. Her quiet presence. It was so easy to be near her.
It was nothing like this.
"Look… Merle. I can't stay here with you. I can't. But maybe… maybe if I talk to 'em all first, I can get everyone to agree to let you come back."
And the look on Merle's face. He hadn't understood that Daryl was still with the group from the quarry. He looked up at him with hard eyes.
"… back?"
Merle shoved him, one-handed. The strength of it surprised Daryl, and it knocked him backwards, onto the bedroom floor.
"Merle—"
"Get out."
He moved to speak again, and Merle pushed him towards the door. His eyes were fiery. Electric.
"Get the fuck out."
Long after everyone else went to bed, Carol lingered at the foot of stairs, waiting for Daryl to come back.
She sat with her flashlight, thumbing through Rosalie's last journal. She couldn't concentrate. The words just didn't rivet her like they had before.
And she had things on her mind. There was only one explanation for how Daryl was acting. Merle had been in that house. Merle was there, and it had shaken Daryl down deep.
And he'd left again—gone off to see his brother. Wasn't back yet. So she waited for him, and read through the diary, on and off—skimming the entries she'd read so many times before.
She didn't know it, but it was the last time she'd sit with that book. She wouldn't read it again.
Really, she'd moved through Rosalie's entries and past them—knew them almost by heart. Knew Rose as well as she could know her. If Carol could only solve the puzzle, she would be able to leave Rose at rest. Let it go. But she had to know. She had to see it. She had to find the answer.
So she flipped through the pages, one last time. Thinking of Merle, Carol settled on one passage she'd read a few times before, but hadn't really thought much about:
12/18/80
Merle. God, Merle. Merle with his beautiful face and his bright blue eyes.
He was at the foot of the stairs, just sitting there, looking into the living room with his chin on his hands. I could see him from up above—from my bedroom door—and I don't think he knew I was there.
I don't know what he was thinking about, but he was so still. So quiet. It made me really wonder.
And with him like that… I wanted to take him in my arms. Felt the old pull from when he was just a baby. I wanted to do it so bad. Like a magnet just drawing me in. I could have just pulled him close and buried my face in his hair and told him—something. I don't even know what.
But I know he wouldn't let me if I tried. Might even try to knock me down. Time goes fast.
It's just too late.
Carol heard the latch turning, and she rose up from where she'd been sitting on the stairs. And Daryl was in the door, framed against the night darkness outside.
"How is he?" she asked. Knew Daryl would understand what she was talking about. He looked right at her.
"Different."
Then he shook his head.
"No—not different."
He seemed frustrated. Like he didn't have the right words.
"Same as ever."
"It looked real bad in there," she said, burrowing further into her sweater—against the chill from the open door. She was thinking of his brother's safehouse.
"It was like… like they'd all just given up on being—I dunno—people…"
He nodded. Got quiet. And Carol leaned a hand on one of those newel posts with the carved faces.
"Are we going to be safe, Daryl?"
He didn't say anything. Seemed lost in thought. But she needed to him to answer her.
"Are we going to be safe?"
And Daryl came up to her, then. Moved in close, and took the sides of her face in both hands.
"You're gonna be safe," he whispered to her. Pressed his forehead against hers. Breathed in, hard, and looked her right in the eyes.
And he said it again, very softly.
"You're gonna be safe."
And then he let her go. Passed her by on the staircase, and headed up into the darkness.