Chapter 29.

Crash.

It happened too quickly, a cascade of things piling up on one another.

Tires slipping. Gravity becoming meaningless as the truck glided across the road, heaved, pitched. A gnarly crunching, plastic pieces and ditch water in his mouth. Johnny Cash crooning along with a chorus of walkers.

Daryl hit the roof, heard metal crunching, water rushing, a woman screaming. Everything was black and wet and loud. Walkers. Country music. He cut away his belt, scrambled out the window into a flooded ditch.

Rain came down in heavy sheets, cold as ice. Streams ran between his fingers, around his knees, saturated the grass, grayed out the sky.

Daryl barely had a moment to register that they had crashed before the first walker touched him.

He staggered upright, only seeing it for a second before the water washed it away.

He got eyes on the worst iteration of a mudslide.

Walkers were being swept up by the same current that had carried their truck off the road. The water was throwing them around, rolling them, sweeping them toward the truck. Daryl reached for his crossbow, cursing when he realized it was still in the truck. He had no time to turn around. He pulled the knife off his hip and stabbed a walker in the head, backing up as a second and a third arrived, sliding around like kids on innertubes.

A few stayed down low, crawling toward him, and another was upright, arms out. Daryl killed them both, nearly falling when the crawling one got a hand on his ankle. His blade almost slipped out of his hand.

He looked around, squinting through driving rain. "Merle!" He turned, shoving another walker away from him. "Merle!"

Nothing.

The other side of the truck was thick with walkers, milling around like they had caught something.

While he was trying to find his brother, Daryl got hit, dragged to the ground.

A fat walker fell on top of him. He stabbed it in the head, and then groaned as it collapsed, its full weight pinning him. He called out again, hoping Merle would appear and drag this thing off him, but no rescue came.

He got it off himself, scrambled upright again.

Daryl climbed on top of the truck, his only advantage the force of the water. He could resist it, but the walkers were helpless. It pressed them against the vehicle, swept them on into the woods. It was incredibly strong, starting to tip the truck again, putting it up on its side. Daryl grabbed the hood and then walked as it rolled, standing on the passenger's side door.

He squinted through the rain, looking for Merle inside.

And then he heard a voice.

Carla was trying to reach him from the back seat, wedged down in the water, half her body submerged. She had been sitting behind him before they crashed. Daryl forced the door open and grabbed her hand, hauling her out.

Walkers were piling up around the front of the truck, so Daryl went for the back. He hopped down, helping Carla come after him, and then dragged the motorcycle out of the ditch. It started, against all odds. Slowly, the walkers that were still on their feet turned toward the sound of the bike starting up. Daryl whipped it around and took to the woods, following the current for a few moments until he found the edge of it and escaped. Walkers were waiting out there, getting up after their ride through the torrent. Daryl turned back toward the road, coming up beyond the brand-new river.

He lingered, the scene taking his breath away.

Water poured over the road, now over a foot high and rising rapidly. He mapped out the nearby waterways in his head, picked out what must have happened. A dam broke somewhere upstream, with no one there to relieve the pressure.

He saw no sign of his brother, no sign of Emily, and the truck was slowly being dragged toward the trees, slowly surrounded, overwhelmed by walkers.

His heart twisted.

He had to go.

Daryl drove toward the quarry.

Carla held onto him, her face pressed into his back. The rain was still intense, stabbing his face, like razor blades on his knuckles, but the alternative was much worse. He went as fast as he dared, as long as he dared.

When the storm finally relented, Daryl was spent. He pulled the bike over and nearly fell while he was getting off of it. It was drizzling and thunder rolled in the distance. Somewhere in the distance, the sun was trying to come out.

His shoulder was killing him.

Daryl paced.

Merle was dead. He had to be. But what if he wasn't? What if he was out there, holed up, waiting for a rescue? What if he had run off into the woods?

"I have to go back," Daryl said to Carla, motioning back down the road. "I have to go find Merle. You stay here."

Carla started babbling in Spanish. She looked worse than him, long black hair plastered to her face, shirt covered in mud.

Daryl shook his head, "Stop, stop. I don't speak that. I don't speak Spanish!"

She quieted, tears in her eyes.

"Just stay here," he said.

He went for the bike and she grabbed his arm. Daryl pulled away. She spoke Spanish again, urgently, and even though he didn't know a word of it, he got the idea. Stay. Please.

"I gotta get my brother," Daryl said, though only halfheartedly now.

She started sobbing, holding onto him.

Daryl relented. "Fine. I'll take you to the quarry first."

She stared at him, not understanding, cautiously optimistic.

He groaned. "Why'd I get stuck with the Mexican?"

"Puerto Rico," she said, touching her chest.

"Whatever."

Daryl knew the way to the quarry, but getting there was damn near impossible. He tried every back road he knew, finding them either flooded out, mudded out, or jammed up by walkers, or cars, or both. It looked like every hick in the area was trying to use the secret ways to get around, only to get their dumb asses stuck.

It was easier on the bike than it would have been in the truck, but progress was slow. Carla was a pain to ride with. If she turned too far to one side, her weight would pitch the whole bike, and her stomach pressed uncomfortably to his back.

He couldn't explain that to her because she didn't speak English.

A few hours into the ride, the bike got a flat tire and nearly threw them off. Daryl held it up while Carla climbed off, and then he let it drop, frustrated. He kicked the seat. "Piece of shit."

It was a congested area, too annoying to bother hotwiring a vehicle. He couldn't move the crashed cars on his own, especially with his shoulder messed up, and Carla was useless.

Daryl paced, pissed off with no outlet. He stopped every pass to kick the bike again. Carla shrunk away from him, flinching every time he cursed at the bike.

He stopped himself, swallowed his rage. Merle was gone. All their supplies were buried under walkers. Bike had a flat. Cars and corpses blocked the easy routes to the quarry. He considered not going at all, heading down south to the Panhandle, but now that he was alone it seemed like a stupid idea. Merle wanted that. Daryl never did.

What did he want, though? He never thought about it. Merle planned that kind of stuff.

Daryl didn't know what came next.

All he had was a couple days supply in his backpack, a crossbow, and a very pregnant lady who didn't speak a word of English.

And she was scared.

He lowered his voice. "Look, we gotta go through the woods." He gestured to the trees, and then noticed that her jeans were soaked with dark blood. Her leg was bleeding. "I can wrap that up."

Carla pointed at his shoulder.

Daryl cupped his hand over the wound, habitually checking it. His bandages were soaked through with water and muddy, but for once he wasn't bleeding.

"Guess we both need it," he said. "Come on. Let's cover some ground. Should be a neighborhood out this way," he gestured broadly to the trees again. "Not that you can understand me."

She got nothing but the gesture, nodding hesitantly.

He sighed and walked off into the woods.

XxXxX

Daryl ran his arrows through a dishrag, meticulously picking off the mud and blood. His shoulder ached, the pain pills from the bathroom cabinets barely touching it. All that climbing and fighting had done a number on him, probably stunted his recovery.

He was deep in a recliner, in a haze after a shitty week. Cliff was dead. Roy was dead. Merle was probably dead. And here he was with a bum arm.

Carla was bustling around the house, carefully picking through it. Her bag was full already. Daryl wondered where all this energy had been when they were walking through the woods. Walking with her was like dragging a dead horse. Despite hours of travel, they were still a day out from the quarry – and that was only if she could keep the same pace in the morning.

She stopped and offered him a pack of crackers.

He shook his head, nauseous. "Gunshot's kicking my ass."

Carla put the crackers in her bag and pulled out a handful of pecans instead.

"You pick those up in the woods?" Daryl reached out, but when he showed interest, she pulled them back, holding up a finger. She produced a nutcracker. "That what you were looking for?" He watched as she cracked a handful for him, placing the pecans in his palm one at a time.

She sat on the couch with the rest, pulling an impressive amount from her bag, cracking them, and placing them in a little bowl. Daryl nibbled on his, watching her work. Pecans were plain as anything and full of good stuff – something to sustain him that he wouldn't throw up.

"Puerto Rico, huh?" he said, after she had dusted the pecan shells into the trash.

Carla said a few things in Spanish in response, with a nod.

"I don't understand you," Daryl said again. "I guess that meant yes."

She pulled out a notepad and pen, drawing something. It was a stickman with an arm brace on. She held up a scarf as she showed him the picture.

"You wanna make one with that?" he said.

She scooted closer, waiting.

Daryl gave a hesitant nod. Not like he could do it himself.

Carla struggled to her feet, turning the scarf into a tight splint that held his left arm against his body. It gave his shoulder muscles some relief, dimmed the throbbing. She redid his bandages, using a few things from the house. It was a small place, probably a single guy, so she cut up washcloths in lieu of gauze. When she was done with him, she wrapped up her leg.

She drew on the notepad again. Daryl watched her, eyes hooded. When she finally held it up for him, it was an impressive sketch of a brick house with a few crude human figures outside of it.

Daryl said, "Is that your family, or somethin'?"

She pointed at one of the figures with her pen, and then herself.

"They gone?"

Carla looked over the picture, frowning down at it like it was a photograph. She probably didn't know what he was asking, but the answer was 'yes.' He just knew.

She turned the page and wrote on it, showing it to him. CDC.

Daryl stared at it, waiting dumbly for an explanation, and then asking, "That disease place? Or are you spelling something in Spanish?"

She said the letters aloud, pronouncing them strangely, "C-D-C."

"I don't know what you want," Daryl said, sliding downward and shutting his eyes. "Go to sleep. We'll get there tomorrow if we walk all day."

She poked him in the arm.

Daryl cracked an eye, watching her tap the pad with her pen. "I don't know what you want, lady. I never been to that place. We're going to the quarry and I'm droppin' you off."

She said something in Spanish.

Daryl was already falling asleep.

XxXxX

He woke to a touch on the shoulder. Daryl jumped to attention, grabbing for his crossbow, realizing after a second that it was Carla who had touched him. She was standing back, a hint of panic in her wide eyes.

"Sorry," he said, pinching the muscles on his neck to work out the soreness of sleeping while sitting upright. His whole left side felt strange, like it was still sleeping.

Carla gave a small smile, maybe understanding that, and handed him a plate and a glass. She had put a cereal bar, some pecans, and some elderberry on the plate, and the cup had a thick white liquid in it. When he looked at it doubtfully, she took a sip and then held it out again.

"I didn't think it was poison," he clarified, taking the glass and tasting it. It was shelf-stable milk. She set the plate on the table for him and Daryl picked up an elderberry. "Did you go outside?"

She nodded toward the door.

Daryl chugged the drink, cleared the plate, holding the last elderberry between two fingers. "They teach you 'bout these in Puerto Rico?"

Carla shook her head solemnly, resting one hand on her stomach.

"Cliff?" He felt a wave of pity, of anger. Carla seemed nice. He didn't know the whole story between her and Cliff, but the look on her face told enough. He dropped the topic, setting his plate on the coffee table. "Thank you. We should get goin'."

It was sunny outside, the ground already dry, the temperature already shooting up. Daryl regretted losing daylight, but he really needed the rest to make the walk. He was feeling way better, almost like himself again. Carla had hit the nail on the head with her version of a splint.

She was moving more quickly now, sticking close to him. Or maybe he was moving slower.

It was nearly sunset when they reached the quarry.

Daryl wanted to leave her nearby, to give her directions, just like he had done with Sophia, but that was difficult when she couldn't understand him. Daryl drew on the notepad, doing his best to illustrate her walking away from him and finding the quarry group.

Carla grabbed his arm immediately, shaking her head, eyes watering.

Daryl tried to pull away, but her hand was like a vice. "You went out on your own back there," Daryl said. "You can handle a little walk."

She held firm, babbling in Spanish.

"I don't speak Spanish!" Daryl snapped, silencing her. A tear slipped down her face. He backtracked, lowered his voice. "I can't go back there. You gotta go by yourself. Just go."

Still, she stood there, holding onto him.

A sound in the woods caught his attention.

Daryl whirled, drawing up his crossbow. It was loaded, ready to fire.

He stood face to face with Shane Walsh.

Well, more like face-to-face with a rifle.

"Put it on the ground. Hands up," Shane said in a low voice, trembling. His eyes were on fire. "Why're you back here? There's nothing left for you to take."

Daryl set the crossbow down. "Get that gun out my face! You gonna shoot me? Thought you was a cop."

"How 'bout this, how 'bout you can file a complaint soon as the government's back up and running, okay?" Shane looked at Carla. "Are you okay? What's your name?"

She was behind Daryl, peeking out.

Daryl said, "She only speaks Spanish."

"Who is she to you?"

Daryl was bristling. Shane was boiling.

And then the other sheriff came out of the woods behind Shane.

Rick Grimes.

Rick put a hand up to Shane, and the other man lowered his rifle, just like that. He was the more levelheaded of the two. When his boy went running off into the woods, Daryl was the one who brought him back, and Rick said he would always have a place around his fire – it might not mean anything anymore, after what happened.

"What is this?" Rick asked, angry and confused. "Who is that?"

Daryl only had a few words for the past few days. "Shit happened. We crashed the truck. Roy's dead. Merle's… gone. And this lady's about to pop out a kid."

Rick approached, looking Daryl over. "Is that a bite on your shoulder?"

"Bullet." Daryl put his hand habitually over the spot, straightening the sling. "I don't wanna stay and I ain't here to steal shit. I was bringin' her by, then leavin'."

"Leavin' to where?" Rick asked.

"What's it matter?"

"I guess it doesn't." Rick gave a long, thoughtful pause. "Sophia told us what you did, how you brought her back."

Daryl said, "I didn't know they was plannin' that."

"Sure," Shane snorted.

Rick ignored his partner. "You need medical attention and it's almost dark out. You can come to our camp if you like, have a place to sleep tonight, and then be on your way in the morning."

Some stupid part of him said, "Okay."

"Ain't nothin' to steal, anyway," Shane repeated pointedly. "But we're keepin' an eye on you." He spoke to Rick then, "The lady doesn't speak English."

"Her name is Carla," Daryl said, strangely pissed that he had called her 'lady,' even though he called her that a lot. "She's from Puerto Rico."

"And how did you two end up here together?" Shane asked.

"We can talk about that later." Rick beckoned them, smiling gently at Carla. "I'm Rick Grimes."

Carla put one hand on Daryl's backpack, nodding hesitantly to Rick.

It felt strange to walk back into that camp. All eyes were on them, curious, afraid, and angry. Daryl stared at the ground. Carla stuck to him like glue. Rick was leading, Shane following with a gun in his hands.

A hunched old lady cleaned his shoulder, telling him the wound was already closing, that it didn't look infected. She complimented the splint that Carla had made, and then rambled about how she was a nurse decades ago.

He sat with his head against the RV, listening to her talk, letting it become a humming in his ears. She fixed up Carla as well, stitching her leg, telling her about the time she had visited Puerto Rico as a child. Carla spoke, but the nurse didn't understand her, either. She said she thought the baby would arrive in a few weeks, maybe sooner.

Morales came to talk to Carla.

He spoke Spanish and her face lit up. She went off with him, babbling, her voice fading as they went past some tents.

Daryl was left alone, sitting in a lawn chair in the shade of the RV, watching the horizon darken. Shane had not made good on his threat to keep an eye on him.

Rick came by half an hour later, standing against the RV and crossing his arms.

"Morales got the rest of the story out of Carla," he said.

Daryl glanced at him, tried to read his face. "And?"

"And she said you saved her life. She said a lot of stuff." Rick ran his hand over his face. "Some stuff she wouldn't talk about. Only that your brother killed the man who hurt her."

"We made a deal to take them here," Daryl said.

Rick was quiet. "I'm sorry about your brother."

"He ain't dead," Daryl snapped. "Soon as I leave here, I'm gonna go find him."

That was it. That was his plan. He was gonna circle back and find his brother. He was caught in a cycle, switching back and forth between thinking Merle was dead, to thinking he might be alive. Part of him was ready to face the world on his own – but most of him wasn't.

"She have a place here?" Daryl asked.

Rick nodded. "She does. You could, if you wanted."

"No. Rather take my chances out there." He almost said something biting, something funny, something mean, but it didn't seem right. Rick was a genuine guy. Besides, he was tired.

"Get some rest, then," Rick said.