Chapter VIII - All The Days of Thy Life

He's calm. Charismatic. Curious, but he lacks the manic energy in her memory. He's not the monster who beheaded her father in front of her. Not yet. "Governor?" he chuckles, approaches at a non-threatening pace, his eyes smoothly crossing her gaze, from one eye to the other. "Has it finally happened?" He glances back at his silent men.

The group is as tense as Beth. They don't know what is happening either.

"Have we taken in so many lost souls that I don't know every face?" He smiles, "you know me, but who are you? What are you doing out here?"

The doll is clutched in her hand. Sophia's doll. She holds it up, buying a few seconds, while inviting the Governor and his men to make assumptions.
"Martinez's group?"

Beth doesn't know what he means, but she nods.

That must be the right thing to do, because agreeing with his assumption inspires the muscles in his back to loosen. His shoulders relax, he closes the distance between them, taking the doll from her outstretched hand. "Is it Marion's? Is she in there?" He adds the second part in a whisper, his eyes shimmer with genuine concern and something about the tremble of his lip and this suggestion that he's a real person capable of compassion snaps Beth out of her shock. In her mind, she pictures slinging her bow from her shoulder, nocking an arrow and firing it straight through his heart.

Could she do it in less than a second?

She could.

He asked her a question. He's waiting. She's let him spin a story in his head, to explain who she is. He thinks she's part of their (apparently large) community, and that she's out here with someone called Martinez and his people. Are they looking for Marion? Is Marion a child who got lost?

Is everyone out looking for little girls?

"I don't remember Marion having the doll," Beth gambles, this response must be acceptable, she adds, "there's nobody in there, but I think there was, real recently."

The Governor looks at the doll with a frown. "Where are the others?"

"Got separated." Beth is pretty sure this lie will fall apart fast if investigated, and there's still something bothering her about the possessive way that they're all looking at Nelly. One of the Governor's thugs has got a hold of her reigns now, and no one is making to return the animal to her. If she's supposed to be one of their people, they might be asking where the horse came from, if she stole it from them.

"Found her, thought I'd cover more ground and get back easier if I was mounted. She's tame, but skittish. Doesn't seem to like men much," she warns. It's partly true. It's not really men that Nelly has a problem with; it's more like she has a problem with anyone besides Beth, Maggie or her brother Shawn when he was alive. Maybe it's anyone who's too much of an adult that bothers her.

"You ran into some men out here?" the Governor fills her vision again, stepping between her and the landscape, or any escape.

"No one dangerous," maybe, she could get their help finding Daryl. Or maybe, they'll know something, seen some sign of him. She's got nothing left to go on, but maybe the Governor and his men turning up can be a blessing. "Just one lone bowman. I think he was as afraid of me as I was of him." She smiles her most disarming smile, the one that convinces people she's got nothing but bright, warm things on her mind.

She waits for someone to betray recognition, or mention some sign of such a hunter that they crossed on the trail, but they all just look at her, blank. Just moments ago, Beth felt like there were only two options left to her, 1) return to the farm in defeat, or 2) dive deep into the wild, with no trail to follow, and hope she came across a miracle that would lead her to Daryl. Maybe this encounter presents a third option. Or more. Maybe it presents an entirely new gnarly set of branches to choose from. She scans the Governor from the ground up, quick, thinking, assessing, and then remembers.

Daryl's brother Merle. He'd spent most of his post-apocalyptic life with the Governor, and his community. He's not with them now. Maybe they haven't met him yet, or maybe, he's still recovering from cutting his own hand off. He could easily be holed up in a medical room in Woodbury, buried in pain-killer fog.

Her newly forming plan is unclear and burns red-hot with danger, as her heartbeat picks up. It's not a proper plan. More like a series of goals that all encourage her to do the same thing, right now. She needs to get them to take her to Woodbury.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" the Governor asks her.

She buries whatever revulsion she feels and manages to slide into the more innocuous expression of a hot blush as she bats her eyes at him and says, "Beth."

"How old are you, Beth?"

"Sixteen." What's he getting at?

A few of the men grin at each other, and the Governor suppresses a small smile himself. "Let's take a walk, Beth."

Beth spares Nelly an anxious glance as the Governor takes her by the elbow and leads her around to the other side of the house. She's still got her bow, and her knife. She can hear the horse complain, maybe sensing the tension and disapproving.

"We've got a nice, big community in Woodbury, don't we?" the Governor sighs, finally letting go of her arm, now that they're out of the sight of the men.

"Sure do," she isn't sure what else to do besides agree with the megalomaniac.

"Now, I'm going to guess you missed the part where I said no one under eighteen should be heading out with the search party, but I know Martinez didn't, so I know he didn't take you out."

Oh. She'd made a mistake. A stupid one. Avoidable, too. She wasn't really sixteen years old, after all. This body was sixteen, but she had a few more years packed in her memory than that. Why hadn't she just told the truth and said she was nineteen? Then she could have maintained the lie. Her hand closes around her own thigh, listing to get to the dagger strapped around the side of her leg.

"I get it, okay," the Governor doesn't seem angry, but Beth doesn't really think that means anything. He seemed calm when he executed her father. And though Beth had only gotten a brief second-hand account of the incident from Maggie, she could imagine he'd probably kept an even temper when he was sexually assaulting her sister too. "I know you don't feel like a high schooler any more. The world is different. And you don't have to tell me how arbitrary age is when you're at your stage in life."

What's he going on about? Beth tries to follow, but struggles to keep up with his train-of-thought hike. "Adolescence is an invention of the twentieth century. So, I get that you feel like a full grown woman, and you want to help with the search for Marion. But you've missed the whole point of Woodbury in coming out here when you were told to stay."

Beth can't do anything but stand there looking mildly baffled, but that must be what he's expecting from her, because he smiles before he goes on.

"Beth. We're all still figuring this out. Those first days, weeks on the run, trying to fight the apocalypse, I know they changed things, but Woodbury, even in its infancy, is proof that we can preserve some things that are worth preserving. I think that includes peace of mind, and peace of body, for those who can still afford it. That's you, sweetheart. We're doing it for you."

She wanted to argue with him, but didn't. It would only delay things, and if she was right about where he was going with this, then it would be better to just let it happen. She thought she was starting to catch on to what was going on in his head. He probably thought she was one of dozens of people who had joined Woodbury's community, either alone, or with dregs of family, or acquaintances they met out there in the world, and that she was having trouble adjusting to life in a "safe" place. That was his first mistake. He thought his Kingdom was any safer than anywhere else. Woodbury burns like everything else. You'll all be dead in two years.

"Stay behind those walls and be a teenager while you've got the chance. While we can afford to allow it. I'm sending you back with Shumpert." He's looking at her face, searching for anger and disappointment, she thinks.

"I can help," she plays her part.

"Nobody is saying you can't," he turns his back to her, and heads around the little house.

Her heart is racing. She barely had to sell that story and he bought it. They must have recently taken in quite a few strangers. Lucky. Or godsent. Or maybe he knows that she's lying but wants to keep her close and figure out what her play is.

And what is her play?

If she can find Merle, maybe Merle can help her track down Daryl. He's probably the only person in the world who really knows Daryl at this point in time.

Daryl Dixon, more than anyone else she knows, is equipped to deal with this world. He'll be alright. He'll survive. Merle's life is on a clock, as is her's and her fathers, and even the Governor's.

Up until now, she's done everything she can to try and help the people around her live longer. Now though, there's at least one person who she knows needs to die.

Phillip Blake. The Governor. The asshole who didn't hesitate to orphan her and her sister.

She won't let him out of her sight until he's good and dead, and the world is safer for it.


Daryl doesn't bother to re-enter Atlanta, because he knows Merle wouldn't have stuck around. He'd ditch the city whether in a drug haze, or a fog of pain, or with a clear head. Where he would go from there is Daryl's first mystery to solve. Would he head back the way he came? Probably not. They'd left for a reason.

South West seems likely. They had pushed a little in that direction early on, but didn't settle. Merle might have a clinic or two in the back of his mind, 'round about Fayetteville, where he could get what he needed.

Daryl travels light and fast. He doesn't sleep more than a few hours at a time. He eats only when he comes across food and doesn't notice hunger aside from the occasional opportunity to satisfy it. He knows that sleep deprivation and being inside his head all the time might make everything worse for him, if he draws it out too long. He already has a problem with seeing things and hearing things, and at least some of those things probably aren't there. It's only when he's really run down that figures wander close enough that he can imagine he feels their touch.

And usually, that touch is harsh and painful, or maybe just pestering him, pulling him out of sleep when he needs it most.

But sometimes, it's alright.

Sometimes, it's like Beth, back before he knew what she needed him for-what value he had for her. Back in those few seconds when she was just a rattled girl who threw her arms around him in some kind of fit. She was warm and weighty. It feels good when it's that memory of Beth drawing close to him.

But most of the time it's nothing but cruel fingers flicking at his ears, letting him know that a walker is ambling closer, snapping its jaws in his direction. He's getting really good at killing these things. He's getting good at thinking of them as things.

Days pass and Daryl misses out on stacks of sleep that he'll never be able to make up. There's no sign of anyone, not his brother or any other survivor, nor any hallucination. He starts to wonder if he's the only one left. Just Daryl Dixon in a world of walkers.

He knows that doesn't make a heap of sense. The world is packed with people, and the vast majority of them have never bothered with Georgia. Just because he hasn't seen a soul in days that wasn't clawing for his flesh doesn't mean he's the last man on earth. There's whole countries they don't know anything about. Who's to say that the plague covered the whole face of the earth? Maybe it's just Georgia. Maybe they quarantined the whole thing, leaving them to die off.

Late at night, he wrestles with a dread; what if he finds Merle, but it's too late. His brother is turned. He's just as empty and hungry as the rest of the world. Whether or not Daryl could actually be the last man alive, he's pretty sure that seeing his brother like that would make him feel like he was.

He isn't sleeping again tonight. Daryl gets up. Doesn't bother keeping the noise down as he climbs out of the abandoned car he was trying to get a few hours' rest in. He knows the dead are close. He can hear them aching and crackling as they uselessly draw breath through decaying lungs. THey shuffle in the dark. He's getting complacent. He can feel himself caring less and less about avoiding them. He fires up his bike, taking note of the shadows moving and perking up, discovering him. He turns the headlight on and illuminates a staggering procession of the dead on the road ahead, nearly swipes a few as he speeds off.

He passed Fayetteville days ago. The clinics were all abandoned and cleaned out. Post-apocalyptic addicts act fast. Not for the first time, Daryl's inner thoughts give voice to a fear he doesn't want to face. Merle is hurting. Merle likes his recreation. What if, he takes too much, and just can't scare up the will to handle himself? Even if the dead don't get him, he could easily overdose.

"Nah, too tough for that," Daryl mutters to himself, speeding up on the bike. He's a big guy. It would take a lot of anything to put him down for good, and besides that, he's careful. He's always been careful with his drugs.

Walkers can't kill Merle. Drugs can't kill Merle. War couldn't manage it either. This world keeps going out of it's way to try and off Daryl's big brother and nothing's managed yet.

The next night, Daryl can't sleep again. He stays up, looking out through the chain link fence with his crossbow leaning against his thigh, guarding the little vet's office where he made camp an hour earlier. What's he guarding exactly?

He looks over his shoulder to remind himself, but doesn't bother really digging his gaze into the darkness of the clinic. He remembers, just fine, all the junk that was in there.

A mangled phonebook led him around the map to each and every clinic. To the surprise of nobody, especially not Daryl, they were all cleaned out. Probably, people raided all the drugs they could within a day or two of things getting real bad. But, the average mind didn't think about veterinary clinics. A few addled minds clearly had, because the place had been broken into a raided, but there was still some dregs.

Merle may not be the keenest of intellects, but Daryl knows his brother would think of it. He'd try veterinary clinics, after all the pharmacies proved to be stripped.

Looking at the doorway into the clinic, Daryl can't help but notice how it's hanging off its hinges at exactly the angle he remembers from when his big brother knocked his door in, years ago, during some argument.

He can't remember what it was about.

But the image of it, mirroring the broken bedroom door, makes him think irrationally. Maybe Merle was here. Maybe it's a sign.

Or maybe, he's sleep deprived and paranoid and seeing patterns where there just aren't any.

Daryl rubs his face and looks back out at the road. It's just been night after night of looking for signs, everywhere, and failing to sleep, and seeing things and hearing things, and how can he know what's real and what isn't? A few months ago, he might have assured himself that there was no way the walking dead was real.

There aren't many walkers around tonight, at least. And he's got the fence, chainlink and padlock embracing the clinic. The key was left inside the lock, maybe someone thought they'd come back. Maybe they had to run and didn't get the chance to grab it. For a few weeks there, when he and Merle were together, and things were kinda okay, Daryl would amuse himself by looking at details like this and telling himself stories about how a place got the way it was.

Now though, he looks at the veterinary clinic. The suggestive stains on the pavement. The broken door and the locked chain link fence around it, and at the dead patch of lawn where he inexplicably chose to settle down to rest and he doesn't care. He doesn't want to hear a story about this place. He's too tired and too beaten.

Figures twist in the distance. Fading in and out of streams of moonlight from above. One grows close enough that Daryl can make out the shape of it, and he stiffens, hair on the back of his neck bristling. It's not a walker. She's moving to evenly. Her back is straight and strong and she's holding something in her hands.

For one wild moment, he thinks it's the girl, Beth, come to track him down. But this woman is too tall, and she doesn't move with Beth's lithe grace, but rather a kind of swagger that suggests more age and experience than the little blonde master manipulator.

She's seen him too, and her walk alters, slows down to a saunter and then a halt as she too, must be noticing the little details that suggest the body crumpled on the ground is still alive. Maybe she's noticing the crossbow and handgun, or the bike at his back, or maybe his eyes are reflecting steadily back at her like a predator's eyes in the dark.

As she draws closer, there's an odd moment when Daryl can feel them both sizing each other up, finally close enough that their sight, as adjusted to night, can take in a complete image. The woman is brunette, with a somewhat fixed, but not wholly annoying smile on her face. It's the kind of expression Daryl wouldn't expect to see a ton, after the world ended. But it lacks the serenity that Beth exudes. There's some tension to the way she holds her brow and her gaze over that smile. She's afraid.

Well. She's got reason to be.

"Evening," she keeps her voice down. Everyone is getting really good at that, these days.

Daryl doesn't reply. The object she's holding is a machete, but that doesn't mean she hasn't got a gun on her somewhere.

"You alone?" she asks in that same hushed tone.

If he tells the truth, she'd be wise to assume he was lying. If he lies, maybe she'll see through it and know that he hasn't got any friends nearby who might try to jump her. "Are you?" Daryl finally asks.

But he didn't answer, so why should she? Her smile widens a bit. "I haven't slept so great, these past nights. I don't feel safe anywhere."

Nowhere is safe. There's nothing anyone can do about that.

"You got the key? Sure would be nice to get behind a fence for a few hours of shuteye." She curls her fingers through the chain link.

Daryl starts looking at her a bit closer. Her hands are shaking. She might be a junkie. Maybe she thinks that he's bogarting the only remaining drugs in the county and she wants to trick him into letting her into the clinic. If that's the case-he doesn't really care. She can take all the drugs. That's not why he came here.

But he doesn't think that's it. She doesn't have that drawn out jonesing look. She just looks a little bit desperate. Maybe she's lost. Or, maybe that's what she wants him to think. Turning to steel, Daryl decides to make the smart choice. Anyone who has survived this long and who can walk, more or less, calmly down a street with a machete after dark when walkers are around, alone, is probably fully capable of taking care of herself. He can't risk her killing him and taking his stuff. "Can't let you in," he finally mutters. "That's just the way it is now."

She lets out a breathy kind of scoff, but can't throw any enthusiasm into it. She knows he's just being practical. "Come on," she indicates the padlock on the fence. "There's dozens of them out here. I'm tired. I'm getting sloppy. It's like the perfect spot to recoup."

"I know, that's why I chose it," Daryl grumbles. That, and because he was looking for the vet clinic in the first place and this one had a broken door that made him think of his brother.

"I promise, not to pull anything shady towards you or your property. And I can make sure it's worth it to you," not being a woman for subtlety, it would seem, she starts to unbutton her blouse underneath the jacket.

All at once, something about that feeling of desperation rolling off of her takes on a new dimension. Maybe she's not lying. Maybe she really is just tired and feels like she's going to screw up and get herself killed if she doesn't get off her feet.

And he's not going to sleep anyway. "Fine, you can have the fence, I'll get lost-just keep your clothes on," he snaps at her.

Her eyes get wide and she drops the fabric between her fingers. "Wait-no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drive you away. Honest."

"Lady, I don't know what your deal is, and don't tell me." Daryl starts to pack up his bike, while she babbles from the other side of the fence.

"I can't have that on my conscious, what if you end up dying out there because you traded spots with me? Look, forget it, I'll just go," she starts to back away from the fence, eyes suddenly wet.

What is it with these people crying around him all the time? "Get in here, it's safe." He raises his voice just enough to imitate a shout without actually attracting the attention of nearby walkers, he hopes.

"I'm not going to do that to you," she says firmly, back still turned.

Daryl puts the key in the lock and opens the fence, intending to just hand her the key and take off, leaving her alone to choose whether or not she wants to take advantage of it.

Then the low rumble turns both their heads. From the end of the street, a wall of bodies has blocked out the distant stream of moonlight. Daryl groans. It's a lot of them, and they're slow and still a ways away, but all of that can change fast. He glares at the woman, some part of him angry and convinced that she planned this. She looks at the horde, then at him, face drained of color.

"C'mon," Daryl throws his pack back on the lawn, partly in frustration and partly so that he can have both hands free. He ushers her in through the fence. The woman rockets inside without further complaint. He locks them both inside and proceeds to pat her down.

To her credit, she doesn't try and fight it.

Also to her credit, she had two separate guns hidden on her. A little .22 in her boot and a .38 police special in a small holster under her arm. Unfortunately, she's only got ammo for the .22. The horde is still pretty far away. Did they attract them? It didn't seem like they were making a lot of noise to Daryl, and they both smell like death. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

With the fence secure, the two of them go inside the clinic itself, nestling into the dark, angled so that they can watch the horde pass by through the narrow frame of the broken door.

"What's your name?" she asks him, after several moments of watching the march of the horde in silence.

"Daryl."

"I'm Rowan." She sounds tired. He really hopes she wasn't lying. Now that he already took a chance and let her in through the fence, rather than listening to her get torn apart by the horde. "I didn't plan this," she adds, reading his expression in the shadows.

"Mmm hmm," Daryl rolls his eyes.

"I'm sorry about before. I just-it's a crazy world now, ain't it?"

She sure is chatty for a sleepy woman, but Daryl isn't going to bite her head off for talking. She's the first person he's seen in a while, resting on the assumption that she's real and not an hallucination.

"I'm kind of surprised. I thought the world would end and it would be all Mad Max, but I've actually met some of the most decent people in the last few weeks." Her speech is slowing and slurring. Apparently, Rowan finds the lullaby of the ravenous walker horde soothing. He can feel her settling into place beside him, leaning her head back against the wall. "Even people who I might not have trusted before. Stepping up." She sighs, "I came out this way because my group picked up a drug addict who told us there was still some stuff in this town. He said we should get it for the doctor. Help the sick people in our town. He's exactly the type of person I would've avoided before, but he's been real helpful, pointing us in this direction."

It's a long shot, but given that Daryl isn't making up for his part of the conversation as it is, he goes ahead and asks: "He wasn't missing a hand, was he?"

Rowan stiffens beside him. Her head pops up like someone just snapped their fingers at her ear. "You know Merle Dixon?!" she's almost too loud for caution's sake.

"I'm Daryl Dixon," he clarifies. "I've been trying to track my brother down."

Rowan actually laughs. "Decent indeed. I've gotta confess something, Daryl. I've been terrified of how I was going to make my way back, all alone, after getting seperated from my group. But now-let's make a deal. You give me a ride on that bike of yours and get me there in one piece, and I let you come to Woodbury with me, where we got your brother recovering with the help of good Doctor Stevens."

There's a lot that Daryl could say here, about how doubtful he is of his own sanity, or he could ask one of the million questions he's got, about what exactly Woodbury is, and how his brother is doing, or where they found him, and in what condition. But ultimately, there's only one thing to say: "Deal."


The Beatles - Come Together

Oh my gosh and I updated within a couple of weeks of last time, which is a lot better than three years, hahaha…. I know it's not funny, I'm sorry.

I also write original fiction! My novel, Shatterworld is available on Amazon now, under my actual name A. C. Lillywhite. If you like this story, you might like my other work:) Keep in mind, it's a three-parter. The other two parts are at different points in the editing process. Only the first part is published right now. I should be publishing part two at the end of this month. I don't have a mailing list or anything right now, because I'm a lousy excuse for an author, but I'll probably get around to it, maybe around the time I publish that second book.

Thanks for your kind feedback and messages, especially after that last chapter, it was really nice to hear from everyone again and to know that you missed the story. I missed writing it, and I still think bethyl fiction is a blast, and plan to continue with the outline that I originally had for this fic.

I love you all :)