Chapter two is finally ready—I feel badly it took so long to get out. The last few months have really taken it out of me—I'm still getting back into the swing of things. I *will* get to responding to your reviews—I appreciate them more than I can say, and I don't want to ignore what you have to say about my writing, because I find it incredibly useful.

And I hope you like this. I do want to warn you that it's a bit gory-not really violent, but kind of gross at times.

This story should have six chapters when it's done. So we've got a ways to go, yet. Enjoy!

The Stag

Dawn came after a long, long night.

Sometime during those dark hours, the blood stopped flowing from Daryl's wound. But he didn't sleep. Not really. Just drifted in and out of a pain-laced haze. Huddled into his jacket against the damp air. The remains of his shirt clung against his skin—soaked full through with sweat and dirt and blood.

All night long, he'd had no choice but to lie there—he couldn't move. Not an inch. Not with the walkers so close.

And when the sun rose, and the grey light spilled out over his valley, the dead were still all over the place—surrounding him. The nearest were just a few feet away, now—right on the other side of the fallen tree. And Daryl burrowed close against it—as low as he could in the narrow pocket between the trunk and the rise of the hillside behind it.

He tried to keep it together. Counted his breaths. Stretched his muscles in place, by turns. Felt the early morning air moving lightly over his skin—cool and wet. He closed his eyes against it. Breathed it in.

It was lovely.

But that fresh air meant he was exposed. If any of the dead turned in his direction—caught him moving—heard him breathing… they'd see him.

So he tried to lie still—low to the ground. Watched the rows of arms swinging, loosely, in the air beyond the branches of his fallen tree.

Those branches had a few dead leaves clinging to them, even now. Every so often, the wind pulled one away, and it flew off into the air, and disappeared.

Carol shoved the closest walker back on its heels. It staggered, and Maggie grabbed the thing by the torso. Threw it into the side of a tree, and pinned it there with a grunt.

And then it was Carol's turn. She lunged in, machete ready. Swung hard, and buried it deep in its skull.

She wrenched the blade out again. Stepped back. Maggie let go, and the body slumped to the forest floor.

The two of them had gone out with a few of the others. Had been searching for Daryl all morning—since just before the sun rose. And now it was past noon.

It was slow going. There were clusters of walkers scattered all over the woods. Smaller groups—splintered off from the larger herds. So moving through the woods had been utterly exhausting. Around every tree—down every slope—something was waiting, that wanted to kill them.

Carol turned from the body on the ground. Scanned the trees for the rest of the group. Rick and Glenn were there, standing over a pair of bloody corpses. And there was Michonne, shaking the rancid blood from her sword, off on the other side of the clearing.

Everyone was ok. And she sensed Maggie, coming up to stand beside her.

"That's the last of them," she said, brushing her hands off on her jeans.

Glenn looked at her. He was breathing hard, and had a bit of blood on his face.

"For now…"

Daryl spent most of the first day watching the walkers devour the stag.

They struggled over the thing—each trying to push in on the body, and tear off as much as it could. And up close and personal like he was, Daryl got a real good look at some of them.

The nearest one was a small, young woman. Just a little slip of a thing. About two yards away—looming up above him, through the tree branches. She had a tattered sundress hanging on her shoulders. One of those gauzy, cotton things girls liked to wear in the summer.

And as he watched, she wormed her way in through the crowd of the others. Wriggled close, and got the stag by the antlers. Tugged on the rack with her little hands—pulling at the soft velvet. Peeled away a few strips of the stuff, and slowly—methodically—ate them.

Daryl watched her for hours, through the mass of bodies past the tree. Her hands, grabbing at those antlers. The little gold wedding ring, catching the light.

And there was another right next to her. Doing the same thing. A balding, older guy with a sagging potbelly. To Daryl, he seemed a lot like one of the science teachers at the elementary school, back home.

Every morning—before school hours—that teacher would always be out, reading his newspaper on a park bench, near the center of town. He'd have a gas station coffee in one hand as he read—lost in his own little world.

If it was cold out, that man would wear a sweater. If it was raining, he'd have an umbrella. But he was always there.

Daryl didn't know that teacher—never spoke to him, even to say hello. But even now, at the end of the world, he thought about him, from time to time.

He shook it off. Who knows what happened to that guy when the shit went down—but he wasn't here. The walker didn't even look that much like him. Not really.

And that was the thing about walkers. If you looked at them too long, you started thinking about their faces. Started seeing things. Started trying to figure out their stories. And that was a mistake. They were just dead. Didn't have pasts.

So he tried to ignore them. But it was hard to do. Because they were fucking everywhere. Crowded around the deer. Crowded around the body of that crazy asshole who'd shot him—off somewhere else in the grass. Ripping off the meat from his bones, and wrenching the guts out from his abdomen.

Daryl could hear them chewing on that stuff, at his back, even if he couldn't see.

And that… it reminded him of Merle.

Merle, crouched down. Chewing on that kid's body in the dirt.

A hungry, wet, sloppy sound.

That sound was the background to Daryl's whole life, now. And he tried to ignore it… but he couldn't.

So he ended up watching the walkers, after all. The girl in the sundress, and the guy who looked kind of like that science teacher. They were pulling at the stag's rack, still. Ripping off scraps of the velvet bit by bit.

And it struck him funny, then. Around this same time, the day before, he'd been watching that very stag pulling at the saplings trees. Eating strips of the bark away.

Carol felt the sweat clinging to her skin—despite the cool air all around them. And she could tell from the sky that it was getting close to sundown.

They needed to find him soon, or they'd end up wandering around in the dark.

And none of them knew how to track, so they only had the vaguest sense of where he'd been headed—where he'd said he might try to hunt, with the danger all around.

At last, the trees started to thin, and they were almost out of the woods. Found themselves at the crest of a hillside that dropped down into a shallow valley.

They'd been planning to head down there. To check out the farmland, and the rural route beyond it. But there was no way to they could do it. The whole place was overrun.

And so they all gathered together, sheltered by the trees—quietly discussing their next move.

"Can't make it to the road from here," Rick said, gesturing with one hand, "We'll have to head south along the treeline and loop back towards the other side of the river."

Michonne looked Rick over.

"So we turn back?" she asked.

"Maybe we should," Maggie said, stepping towards the two of them, "We could retrace our steps."

Then she shrugged.

"Might've missed something."

The conversation rolled on and on—faded to a murmur in Carol's ears. Rick's voice. Michonne and Maggie's. Glenn's. All blurred together.

Because Carol could tell all the discussion was pointless. Nobody knew what to do—where to look. So they were just talking around it all in circles.

And so she didn't really say much, while the others talked. Found herself stepping back a bit from the rest of them. Felt herself drawn out—out past the trees to the edge of the hillside.

Carol stepped through the brush, and looked down into the valley below.

The sun was getting low in the sky. Hovered there, just over the western edge of the hills.

Daryl watched it spill out over the valley, filtered by the clouds in a glowing haze. And it was hard to look into the light. It stabbed at his eyes. Over the last few hours, his head had started aching with a low, dull throb. Like someone was pushing against his skull. Trying to crush him.

He was about to turn away when he noticed something.

Out there. Across the valley. Up at the crest of the landrise—there was some movement in the trees.

He brushed it off, at first. More walkers, probably. There were always more of them. But a moment later, he heard something.

Voices.

Just a faint murmur of conversation—so quiet he could barely hear it at all.

And in that moment, he knew it was Rick, up there. Knew it with an absolute, iron certainty. It had to be. And he'd brought a few of the others—to look for him.

Of course they'd come.

But they couldn't fucking see him. Not from this distance. And he couldn't let them know he was there. Couldn't yell to them. Couldn't stand. Couldn't move. The dead things all around would tear him to pieces before the others could do a thing to stop it.

His stomach tightened in his gut. His fists clenched at his sides—and he wanted to punch the side of the tree. But he had to lie still. Didn't move.

He couldn't do anything. Anything.

And it was then that Daryl fully realized he was alone out there. Really alone.

Helpless.

From the top of the hillside, Carol stared down into the mass of moving bodies, below. Something about them caught her interest—like the walkers sometimes did. Their aimless movements—their shapes. So much like people. But at the same time, so different.

There were dozens and dozens of them—she didn't try to count how many. So many it was hard to really see much of what was going on down there. A lot of them were crowded around something—near one of the fallen trees. For a moment, they shifted, and she saw it.

A stag, down below. Killed.

It must have been huge, before the walkers got to it. And Carol figured they must have followed it down into that valley, then overpowered it with sheer force of numbers. Taken it for their own.

And that was a shame—something that strong, and swift, and wild. Something like that, laid low.

The creature must have been beautiful.

Daryl's heart was pounding in his chest—he could feel it. Just because he'd heard some voices in some goddamned trees. For just a moment, he forgot himself, and let the feeling wash over him. Ached just to see the others, even for a minute.

When Daryl started feeling the tears in his eyes, he snapped out of it. Breathed out—hard—disgusted with himself.

It wasn't them, up there. The whole idea was stupid as hell. He was being a goddamned pussy.

And he was about to force himself to look away when the brush on the hillside stirred. A silhouette stepped out, lit from behind by the setting sun.

A slender shape—a woman's shape. She had some kind of blade in one hand—probably a machete, from the size of it. And she stabbed it into the grass, and looked out over the walkers below.

When she moved forward, the light caught in her curls of her short hair.

Carol. Looking down into his valley. At the shapes of the walkers, and the dead grass.

Carol could see one of the walkers tugging hard on the rack—dragging the stag through the grass, away from the others. Some others were pulling on the legs—trying to yank it the other way.

A gruesome, pointless tug of war.

Still, she couldn't stop watching them. And so when Rick called to her, she started:

"Carol… Carol!"

His voice was a harsh whisper. She spun towards it. Saw his face through the trees. He learned forward:

"Got more company close. We've got to move—now."

She looked out, again, one last time. At the walkers tugging on the stag. Its rack. Its legs. Its shining coat.

And the body split open, then, and the animal fell in half. The guts spilled out over the grass.

Daryl instantly forgot how angry he'd been with himself, as he looked up at her—high on the hill. She was unmistakable, now—even though the sun was so bright it hurt to look directly at her. But she was there. Still and peaceful and so very far away.

And the walkers were in a real frenzy around the stag, now—he could hear the sound of the body splitting open. But he didn't look.

He just watched Carol.

And it was then that she turned away. Pulled her machete up from the sod. His throat tightened as she stepped back towards the trees.

She never saw him.

Moments later, she was gone.

In the end, Carol and the others gave up the search. Turned back. It was dark, and it was dangerous, and there was nothing more they could do until morning.

And Carol spent the whole trip back to the prison staring out the windows. Looking out over dark, abandoned houses. Still, winter trees.

The air was getting cold, out there. And some pretty heavy rain was coming. She could smell it in the air. Heard the low rolls of thunder, echoing off the empty roadways. Mingling with the whisper of the tires running over the asphalt.

In the car, no one was really talking. It gave her a chance to think. And of course her mind wandered to Daryl.

It was a year or so back, when they were on the run from the farm—before they made it even close to the prison. They'd wandered from place to place—scavenging what they could, and moving on.

That week, they'd settled into a ramshackle old homestead, on the side of a highway. Isolated from everything else. Quiet.

And one morning, while they were there, Carol woke even earlier than usual. There was something she wanted to do, and she didn't want anyone to interrupt it.

She walked out into the driveway—there was a garage. An old one—the sort that didn't attach to the house. She pulled up the door by its rusty handle. It creaked and complained as it folded away into the ceiling, above.

And she stepped into the dim shadows, there—around the hulking remains of an old lawnmower. Gardening tools, hanging on pegs. Sagging cardboard boxes—long forgotten years before the walkers ever came. She ran her hand over one, and her fingers left a trail in the heavy dust.

She found what she was looking for—an old workbench. She started picking through some drawers. And she laid out what she found in neat rows—screwdrivers. Heavy wrenches. A crowbar.

There had to be something better—something she could really use to make herself a weapon.

And there was. Finally, she found a large, heavy old knife. She picked it up, and held it in her hand. Tried to move with it. Attacked the empty air, imagining walkers surrounding her from the shadows.

She almost dropped the knife when she heard his voice.

"Nah—not that one."

She spun around. Daryl was there, in the garage door. Back from some early morning hunting, with a string of squirrels on his back.

He stepped inside, and his boots echoed on the concrete.

"That one ain't right for your hand."

He reached out, and took the knife. Felt its weight, then dropped it onto the table.

"Too bulky—you wanna be able to move with it. Like it's part of your arm."

He turned. Started rummaging in his bag. Pulled out a knife—a smaller one. Sharper, with a long blade.

"Here."

He pressed it into her hand. She looked at it, and back to him.

"But that's your knife…"

He walked towards the door, again. Shrugged.

"Now it's yours."

Daryl lay there, and watched the sky go dark. Listened to the thunder as the storm front rolled in. Soon, a few raindrops landed on his cheek. Moments later, it was pouring.

The girl in the sundress was picking at the remains of the deer. Searching for the guts strewn out over the grass. Eating. It was all the damn things ever did. By now, the sound of it was driving him nuts. Whenever she got close to the fallen tree, he could see her face. The raindrops drew clear trails through the blood on her skin.

The science teacher was with her. The grey shapes of the others.

But the water—it was cool and fresh on his face.

When it pooled around him, in his ditch, he drank from it.

By the time the search party made it back to the prison, it was pitch black and pouring rain. Carol hung back, a bit, as the others drifted into the cellblock. She wanted a moment alone, to catch her breath.

When she stepped into the main area, the rest were already talking over their next move. She heard Glenn's voice—echoing a little on the concrete:

"We don't even know if that's where he went, for sure."

"He might show up on his own," Beth said, "He did before, back at home, when he was lookin' for…"

She trailed off. Didn't say the name. And Rick stepped in—filled the silence:

"That whole area… it's dangerous. Swarmed with walkers now, even if it wasn't when he left. If he went out there…"

Something about it made Carol remember what he'd said about Andrea—all those months ago. That she was somewhere else, or dead.

So spoke up:

"No. That's what happened to me, in the tombs… and you all thought I was dead. I wasn't."

"Those herds'll keep moving," Hershel said, "In a few days, they'll be gone."

She shook her head.

"In a few days, it won't matter."

Everyone went quiet. No one really knew what to do next. Where to look… or even if they should.

And Rick—he had his eyes on the baby. Stepped towards Beth, who had her cradled in her arms. And Carol understood what that meant.

And it was enough to set Carl off. Like Carol, he knew what his father was thinking.

"Dad—how can you—"

"Look," Rick said. And he trailed off, a moment. Put a hand on temple, and shook his head.

"If it were me… I—"

"You can't do this!" Carl said, "It's Daryl. You save all those strangers who wanted to kill us, and you won't even try?"

Michonne touched his arm.

"Carl…"

He shook her off, spat out a few more words as he headed back into the cells:

"Sometimes I wonder if you even care about us at all."

No one sat up together, that night. Beth didn't sing. The heavy rain beat down on the tall windows.

And Carol saw Rick up there on the second level, pacing back and forth. Stopping every so often to look out at the nighttime through the panes.

Later on, she went to sit in her cell. Had her knife out, and turned it back and forth her hands.

Something moved at the door. Rick, looking in.

"Carol," he said.

And then he trailed off. Didn't have anything else to say. And she could see it in his face—that whatever decision he made—to keep searching for Daryl, not to… that whichever it was, he was sure it'd be the wrong one.

So she looked up to him. Gave him a small, close-lipped smile.

"I'm ok, Rick."

She leaned forward on her bunk—towards him. Repeated herself:

"I'm ok."

He sighed.

"…I'm not."

And she wanted to say something. Something to ease the burden for him. The crushing weight of guilt he carried with him everywhere he went. But she knew Rick, and she knew he wouldn't let anyone take on a part of that load.

So she didn't say anything.

Besides, it was ok. She felt calm. Sure of herself.

She'd already decided what she was going to do.

In the early hours of the morning, when no one would see her, Carol sat in their makeshift kitchen, with the atlas lying out on the table. Tried to memorize as much as she could of the layout of that whole area—the forest. The highways. The hills and farms.

She tried to figure out where they'd searched, that day. Marked the perimeter with a pencil.

She had Judith on her lap. The baby was calm, and warm, and quiet—didn't need comforting. But Carol wanted to hold her, one more time, before she did what she was planning to do.

Finally, she'd studied every inch of the map, and felt there wasn't much else to be done. She paused. Looked out over the table—at her knife lying there on its side—just out of the baby's reach. Carol picked it up, and carefully scored the page. Tore the map out of the Atlas, and started folding it up to stash in her coat.

As she did it, Judith reached out, and pawed at the paper.

Dawn slowly rose on the second day. The first thing Daryl saw was the girl in the sundress, again. Up above him, past the tree, with the stag's blood clotted all over her rainsoaked hair.

He felt weak, now. His leg was throbbing, and his throat was dry.

He was starting to think he was in real trouble.

Carol stepped out into the prison yard—car keys in hand. The calm, morning air still smelled like rain. The dead grass glistened with it, in the early light.

She headed for the car she had in mind. Shifted her pack on her shoulder. The strap of her rifle.

"Carol!"

Maggie's voice—up above. Carol sighed. She'd known someone would be up there, keeping watch—and that she'd have to talk her way out of the prison because of it.

Maggie grabbed the wire fence of the walkway—the one they used as a sniper's perch. Leaned forward on the chain link, and looked down at Carol, where she stood there below.

"Carol! Hold up. Just—what do you think you're…?"

She cut herself off. Shook her head.

"No. No. You can't go out there."

Carol shifted the rifle on her shoulder, once more. Looked up at Maggie, standing there above.

"I have to."

Maggie bolted through the doorways—down the stairs. Moments later she was at Carol's side, panting for breath.

"You're gonna go out there? Alone?"

"Maggie… I have to."

"Carol. When you don't come—if you don't come back…"

"I know," Carol said, "I know what it's like out there. So you make sure no one comes looking for me, Maggie. You hear me? We can't lose anyone else."

"Did you tell anyone about this? Rick?"

Carol shook her head.

"No. Couldn't. If he knew, and something happened… he'd feel responsible."

"Carol. You've never been alone out there. Hell, I haven't."

"I'm ready for this, now. It's taken some time... but I am. And it'll be better with just one. Quiet. I won't draw their attention."

Maggie stopped. Stared at her. Shook her head again.

"No. No. It's suicide."

Carol took her arm. Leaned in close.

"Maggie. Listen. I'm going to die anyway. We all are. It's just a matter of time. So if I'm going to die, I'm going to make it count for something."

Maggie gave her a long look. Then nodded.

"Here," she said, unbuckling her holster, "Your rifle's for long range shooting. You'll be safer if you've got a handgun."

Carol took it, and the rounds Maggie had on the belt.

"Thanks."

Maggie bit her lip, then, and pulled Carol into a tight hug. One hand on her back, the other clinging in her hair. After a moment, Carol tried to pull away—but Maggie wouldn't let go.

So Carol pushed her arms back, gently. Held Maggie's wrists a moment, in her hands.

"I'll see you later," she said.

In the end, Maggie opened the gate for her. Watched her drive through it—the engine loud in the quiet, morning air. And she locked it shut before any of the dead could reach them.

Then she stood back, and watched Carol drive away.