Slow going, folks, but here's the next chapter! I'm sorry it comes so late!
Now: I have a PSA I'd like to get out there before we move on to our regularly scheduled mayhem: a little over a week ago, it came to my attention that one of my works had been plagiarized. I want to make a few things clear so this never has to happen again. If any of you are inspired by the premise, setting, original characters, or language used in my work, I welcome you to borrow from it. I think that's part of writing in a community. However, I ask that you inform me before you do it, and that you credit my work when it's posted. That's all. I feel this is a more than reasonable thing to ask. Simply cite your source.
Ok, PSA time over!
This chapter opens with a scene involving Daryl's mother. It actually kind of hurt to write a version of her that was so obviously not the character I created in Down in the Willow Garden.
Now back to the rather disturbing little mess our heroes have gotten themselves into!
The Cross
When Daryl was a little kid, he woke up really early, most mornings. Hours before anyone else in the house.
And that was ok. He was pretty good at occupying himself.
Usually, he poured himself a bowl of cereal, then ate it on the kitchen floor. He'd read the cartoons in the newspaper, or play with his toys. Or he'd just enjoy sitting on the cool linoleum. Listening to the quiet of the house—while it lasted.
This morning, he had his matchbox cars out. Put them in a row, and rolled them around on the kitchen floor. Made a little traffic snarl, there. Total gridlock.
The toys were hand-me-downs from Merle—pretty chipped and beat up. But they were still good.
Daryl was wheeling a little toy pickup along the seam in the linoleum when he heard his mama's footsteps, padding along down the hallway.
As she came in, she leaned down to pick up his empty cereal bowl.
"Mornin', kiddo."
And she washed the thing out in the sink. Puttered around. He remembered her bare feet, stepping over him and his cars on the floor. The hem of her terrycloth bathrobe.
Eventually, she wandered over to the kitchen table. Sat a good while, thinking. Doing whatever adults did with their time. Then she took him by surprise, by calling his name:
"Daryl."
He looked up. She was just sitting there. Had her coffee mug, and was drinking something from it.
Maybe coffee.
"Daryl, honey. C'mere a minute."
He hesitated, and she gestured to him. All her big rings clacking together on her hand:
"C'mon, c'mere. Come sit by your mama."
So he did. She pulled him close, and he flinched a little. She got her arm around him good, and he found himself pretty much engulfed in her terrycloth bathrobe.
"Lemme tell you why God made our troubles."
And he twitched, a little. This chat wasn't going to be any fun. He really had no idea why she gotten on the subject. What she was thinking.
But whatever it was that'd gotten into her, it made her keep on talking:
"Now without our troubles, we don't know what got. We gotta be a little sad sometimes, so we can know the difference between what's good and what's—well… not so good."
She drifted off for a bit. Looked around the kitchen—at the cupboards, the walls. The tired old floor. The tiny traffic jam he'd made down there. All those little cars, with no one to drive them. Then she took a real long sip from her mug. Drank it down to the bottom.
"So you see, without our troubles… we'd never really be happy."
His mama let him go, then, and he ran back to play. Tried to forget about the whole thing.
Even though he was just a little kid at the time, he'd been pretty sure what she'd said was bullshit. And he'd been pretty sure she didn't believe it, either.
As the light grew brighter on the second day, a dense winter fog lingered over the dead grass.
It was getting colder. Daryl could feel it in the air. And over time, a heavy breeze started blowing in from the north. And it pulled at the fog, and cleared it.
So that morning, Daryl could see the walkers even more clearly than before. They were all out there. Sundress girl. The science teacher. The other, familiar faces. And there was nothing between him and those faces but that fallen tree.
Clusters of leaves still clung to the branches, there. Dead ones, that were curled and withered with age. They moved in the wind. Did a little dance, rustling quietly against each other in the quiet, morning air.
And as the wind got heavier, a few tore away, all at once. Blew out into the crowd beyond his hiding place.
One hit the sundress girl on the cheek. She turned her head in the direction it came from.
In an instant, her eyes locked with his.
She let out a low growl. Started moving towards him.
Carol stepped out of the car, and onto the abandoned logging road. She'd gone as far into the forest as she could drive.
Now it was time to walk.
So just like that, she was out in the woods, alone. Exposed to whatever was out there. She found herself keenly aware of the cool, empty air. The wind. It moved over her face, and arms.
She let the car door fall shut behind her, and it made a jarring noise in the morning silence. And then she took a hesitant step forward—towards the treeline.
And all at once, the breeze stopped. As if the woods was holding its breath. Sizing her up before she stepped inside.
It only lasted a moment. Then the wind blew over her face, once more. Pulled in the branches. She wrapped her arms around herself—sheltering against the chill.
She breathed in, once—and out again.
And she turned to look back at the car. The blue paint. Wondered how long it'd be until she saw it again. Whether she'd have Daryl with her. Then she stepped into the treeline, and let the car disappear from view. The only sounds were the wind, and her boots crushing dead leaves on the dirt.
Carol didn't know it then, but she'd never come back for that car. Wouldn't see it again.
The sundress girl threw herself onto the tree branches. Lurched hard against them, and started pulling her way over—into Daryl's hiding place. She had her shoes on the tree trunk. Mud-stained keds sneakers, that used to be blue.
And Daryl strained to look past her, through the branches. The others were starting to notice where she was going. Already, the science teacher had turned in their direction. Was heading for the tree.
He let out a grunt. Threw himself down, and groped around in the ditch—ignored the pain in his leg, and searched for his crossbow, lying somewhere at his side in the dirt.
If he dropped her now, there might be a chance. The others might lose interest before they saw him.
Moments later, he clutched the bow in his hands. Tried to steady his arms—to aim straight. The effort weighed on him—the crossbow felt like it was made out of lead. His vision was blurring.
But he had to get her in one shot, no matter how dizzy he felt.
A thrill ran through his gut as her dead eyes bored into him. And all at once, Daryl realized he was frightened. Really frightened. Much, much more frightened this time than he'd ever been before, when the shit went down.
As the girl scrabbled through the branches—as he took careful aim—he thought about his mama. What she'd said about God and our troubles, way back when he was just a little kid.
And it seemed to Daryl that she got the whole thing fucked up. She'd gone about it backwards. When you don't got nothing, you don't know what you can lose.
You need a little bit of happiness before you can truly be afraid.
Carol moved through the trees, as silently as she could. Over the soft carpet of pine needles covering the roots. There were shapes in the distance, here and there—had been for the hour or so she'd been hiking. The dead, aimlessly wandering through the winter cold.
So far, she'd been able to evade them. Moved from tree to tree to tree, carefully keeping her distance from the clusters of walkers here and there. And she'd been right—with what she'd said to Maggie.
With just one person, it was easier to escape their notice.
And now, she pulled herself behind a tree. Hid from a few—off on the other side of a stand of briars. Checked them out, carefully, from that hiding place. A couple dozen, maybe, from what she could see.
Carol reached into her bag. Pulled out the skein of yarn she'd stashed there. A bright, fire-engine red.
Behind her—back where she came from—there were rows and rows of trees, with the same red yarn tied around the trunks. Stretching off and away, out of sight.
She pulled her knife, and cut off a length of yarn. Looked at the blade, a moment, before sheathing it, again.
That was the same knife Daryl gave her, over a year ago. The one she'd brought into the tombs, and lost there—buried in a walker's jaw. It was Daryl who found it again—way out deep, in the prison halls.
And after he found the knife, Daryl found her.
She wrapped the bit of yarn around the tree trunk. Tied it in a careful bow—the same kind she'd tie on Sophia's birthday presents, each year.
And she thought about it all. The knife, the tombs, and Daryl.
And somehow, it made her remember something else. Sitting with him, over coffee, one winter morning last year. At some kitchen table in some random safehouse where they'd all stayed a few nights. Slept on bedrolls and old blankets, side-by-side on the living room floor.
He'd taken to visiting with her, when she was alone. Giving her little bits of advice. How to survive. What to do when trouble came. Just here and there. He'd bring them up out of nowhere, and answer whatever questions she had, and let it drop.
And that morning, at that kitchen table, Daryl told her what to do if she ever got lost:
"You ever get separated—it's water and shelter you're gonna need most. And if you have to wander off somewhere to get those things, you leave some kinda trail."
"A trail?"
He paused a moment, like the question made him uncomfortable. Like he didn't really know if he should explain. Like he'd painted himself into a corner, and couldn't get out again.
But after a moment, he pushed through, and said it:
"… so I can come after you. Find you again."
So now—in the forest, she'd leave a trail. Yarn bows on the trees, all in a row like a trail of breadcrumbs. But he wasn't coming after her. She'd do it to find her own way back.
Because nobody was going to look for her. Not this time.
Carol had to look out for herself.
Sundress girl reached for Daryl—almost close enough to touch. Leaned in over the tree, at point blank range.
He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
The crossbow didn't shoot. Made a stunted clicking noise, and did nothing.
And as she pulled her way into the ditch—almost on top of him, now—Daryl remembered that crazy guy coming at him… how he fell right on top of his crossbow when he got shot.
Seconds reeled by. Her hands were reaching in at him. And somehow he felt detached from it. Found himself thinking about the crossbow. Must've broke the damned thing—fucked up the works, somehow.
Left it useless.
"Shit," he whispered, under his breath. His voice was hoarse in his throat—raw. He hadn't spoken for well over a day.
She climbed into the hollow, and moved to take hold of him. The others weren't far behind.
For Carol, the morning passed slowly. She wandered the woods. Evaded the walkers—quiet on her feet, alone.
Eventually, she saw something through the trees. Something that caught the light, in the distance. As she got closer, she saw there was open water, there. A wide creek.
Carol remembered it from the map. Drifted to the water's edge—grassy and open. The hazy, morning light filtered through the trees in beams, there. The rush of the current flowed along in front of her—loud against the river rocks.
She crouched down at the bank. Spread the map on the winter grass, and leaned over it.
And in that moment, there was a movement on the other side of the water. Carol started, and whipped her head up.
A lone deer was standing there. A fallow doe, if she recognized the patterns on its coat. The thing stared at her, a moment—cautious. Carol didn't move.
Eventually, it stepped over the river stones. Gracefully. Silently.
"Hey there," Carol said, softly. And the thing didn't startle. Just looked at her with those dark eyes. And then it craned its long neck, and starting drinking from the water.
"I don't suppose you've seen a hunter around here?" she asked, smiling to herself, a little.
"About five-foot-ten… kind of grouchy?"
The deer stared. Carol tilted her head to the side.
"No? Well… that's ok. I'll keep looking."
And she chuckled to herself, quietly. Couldn't hear the sound over the rush of the water in front of her. Looked down at the map, again—heartened, somehow, not to be alone, for a moment.
And she shook her head to herself:
"Really… it's lucky for you that you didn't. He'd think you looked pretty delicious."
And she tried to figure out where, exactly, she was. Her finger trailed over the map. Followed the course of the creek. Her other hand held the map down—her palm flat on the paper, covering the valley where she'd seen the stag, the day before.
If Daryl had found that stag, instead of those walkers, he could have brought it back to the prison. Would have fed everybody with the thing.
And Carol smiled to herself, at that. Thought of how thrilled he'd be to bring that much food home. How hard he'd try to hide it.
But she'd know.
In that instant—while she was thinking about Daryl—the doe moved. She caught the movement from the corner of her eye. When she looked up, she saw the thing was frozen in place—head up, ears stock straight, and muscles tensed.
A moment later, Carol saw the reflections of the walkers behind her.
She spun around, and there they were. About a dozen that she could see, pushing through the trees—towards her.
This is how I die.
Ages and ages ago, when the farm was overrun, that's what floated through Carol's mind as she backed up against the shed. Surrounded by walkers on all sides, with seconds left before they got her. And even with them closing in like that, she didn't really do much to stop it. Just clung to a bit of wood she'd found on the ground—knowing full well there was no way she'd be able to kill any of them with it.
So that was it. That was the way she was going to die. Later on, she'd remember how it felt, in the moment. As if she wasn't really there. As if she was just watching a story play out in front of her face.
But as it turned out, she'd been wrong. That wasn't how she died. Andrea saved her, and Carol got another chance. Extra time, to do… something.
Something important, she'd hoped.
And later, when T-Dog was bit, she was certain that extra time had run out. She remembered bolting through the door, behind him, and into the bright light of the yard.
She didn't have even a moment to get her bearings. She nearly plowed into the chest of the first walker, the instant she was outside. It grabbed her arm, and she struggled.
And the same thought came back to her:
This is how I die.
But she killed the thing. Barely got it with her knife. Didn't die.
There were too many to kill them all, and so she had to double back—darted inside again. In the hall, the others had T-Dog on the ground, then. Were in too much of a frenzy to even notice her.
The blood was everywhere.
Her scarf fell off as she darted past them—she didn't even notice it until later. She just ran.
And Carol knew there were more dead in the halls. She darted to the left—totally blind. Didn't know where the hell she was going. And she could hear something moving behind her. Couldn't see it—but she knew full well what it was. So she gripped the hilt of her hunting knife. Hard. Waited for it to come.
She didn't have a weapon the first time, at the farm. Not really. So she'd had no chance to fight.
In the tombs, she did.
Daryl dropped the crossbow. Pushed himself up on his hands. Grabbed sundress girl by the collar bone, and buried his knife in her eye. His vision swam with the effort. He bit at his lip—hard. Desperately struggling not to black out.
Without stopping to pull out the knife, he dropped the body, and she slumped over against his side.
And the others were coming. He could hear the sound of them heading closer.
He had to divert them, or they'd rip him to shreds.
And he had nothing. Nothing. A single knife, and a dead girl. A shot leg, and a useless crossbow.
But it came to him. The crossbow.
He grabbed it. Hurled it out over the tree—as hard and fast as he could manage.
He sheltered behind the tree branches, a moment. Watched them. Most of the crowd turned towards the motion. Followed the thing off towards where it landed—somewhere out near the mangled body of the guy who shot him, two days before. They were too damn stupid to know any better.
But that wouldn't distract all of them.
So Daryl dropped back to the ground. Grabbed the dead girl's shoulders, and tugged her over his body, face down. He almost chuckled to himself then—thinking about that—giddy with exhaustion.
Daryl, you sly dog. You got yourself a date with death. And just look—she's all fucking over you.
Moments later, he heard the shuffling feet. The science teacher was close. Some of the others. Hovering above the pair of them—straining to look for whatever'd been moving over here. And Daryl hid his face beneath the girl. Didn't look. But could sense them, lingering there—felt the shadows moving over his hiding place. Heard the sounds of the hollow groans, mingling with the wind in the trees.
But they didn't attack—at least not at first. Couldn't tell the difference between Daryl and the corpse he was holding against his body.
To the walkers, Daryl was just as dead as the rest of them.
He held his breath. Tried not to move. Listened to the leaden feet pacing the grass, all around him. Time narrowed down to moments. They'd notice him—any second now. It was just a matter of time.
And he couldn't move. Couldn't fight. Could hardly breathe. So he just waited. Sundress girl's matted hair spilled out over his face—one cold cheek pressed close against his forehead.
Above that, the hilt of his knife hung out from her eye.
At the edge of the creek, Carol realized she'd gotten swarmed. So she set off running along the bank—cursing herself for losing focus long enough to let it happen.
With the rush of the water in her ears, she'd never heard them coming.
There was nothing for it but to outrun them—to loop around the far edge of the crowd, and slip back into the woods. She made her move. Spun around a tree, and nearly hit one of them head-on.
She jumped back. It snarled, and stretched out its arms for her.
Carol's mind reeled. They'd mob her in moments. And she was penned in against the edge of the creek.
No way out.
So she whipped around, and ran into the water. It was the only way to go.
The current was frigidly cold, and stabbed into her skin as she pushed forward. Seconds later, there was the sound of the walkers splashing in after her. She didn't turn to look. Just kept going.
Soon, she found herself waist-deep. Then up to her chest. The current pulled at her, and she pressed on against it. Her boots grew heavy—soaked full through and pulling her downwards with every step. Painfully slow—like one of those dreams she used to get so much. Where something's chasing you, and you can barely move.
The moans got louder—loud enough to hear over the water. Just behind her.
She only had a moment to register that before the thing got her by the arm. She shrieked. Jerked herself backwards. Lost her balance, and fell.
The water surrounded her in an instant. Everything went quiet. There was a dim light from above, and dead hands reaching for her throat.
She couldn't breathe.
And in that moment, the same thought started up in her mind:
This is how I—
No.
She threw out one arm—pushed the walker back. Reached for her knife with the other.
In the end, it was the crows who saved Daryl. He was that helpless. A flock of fucking birds was the only thing that distracted the dead. Drew them away before they could attack.
They'd come for the bodies—of course. There were always birds trailing along after the walkers—picking at scraps they left behind. Picking at the walkers themselves, if the damn things were bold enough.
Even so, the birds always seemed uneasy about the whole thing. If they were too slow, one of the dead would grab at them.
So it was eat or be eaten, for those birds.
The crows fluttered around on the grass, beyond his hiding place. Moved in to pick at the guts spread out there. He could sense the fluttering wings, out of the corner of his eye.
It was a familiar dance. The walkers moved in for the birds. And the birds darted away, nervously. Bit by bit—across the field. Each trying to get at the other.
A few minutes later, the whole crowd was on the far side of the valley. A while after that, the birds took off in the air, all at once.
And the dead started filtering out into the farmland, after them. Moving away.
And just like that, Daryl was on his own. Behind the tree in an empty field nestled low against the hillside.
An hour later, he couldn't see a single walker out there—even in the far distance. They'd wandered out along the edge of the trees and disappeared.
So he figured it was his chance. He'd drag himself to the truck, if he had to.
So he tried to stand up, and couldn't. The pain shot through him, and he collapsed back onto the dirt. Nauseous.
He tried pushing forward on his arms, and got about six inches before he had to lay down again. The effort left him seeing stars.
"Damn it…"
He was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. And he lay there, limply, staring up at the cloudy sky.
It was getting bad. Really bad.
He was starting to get the feeling this was how he was going to die.
And so he let his mind wander. There was nothing else to do. Thought of lots of stuff from the past. Home. His parents. Merle.
And Merle. Daryl had sort of thought he might come to visit him, again—like he did when Daryl was out hunting for Sophia. When he got hurt out there. Almost died.
But Merle didn't come. And Daryl figured it was because it was different now. So different from how it had been when he fell down that ravine.
Because before, he knew Merle was off in the world, somewhere.
Now, Merle was dead.
Carol struggled with the thing in the water. Neither of them had any purchase. Just floated in the current—out of control.
She strained with the walker. Pushed at it, trying to keep its teeth away from her skin. Its hands were all over her. Pawing at her clothes—her coat. Soon, the coat was halfway off her body. And she shrugged it away, then. Felt it dragging in the current, until the water pulled it away from her.
And she fumbled with her belt for the knife—the snap there, on the sheath. Finally, she felt it pop open. Pulled the thing by the hilt, and clung at it desperately.
She couldn't lose it, again.
The light was green in the water. Murky. The arms above her flailed and strained. Beyond that, she saw some other shapes. Maybe legs, wading in for her.
And something hit her shoulder—hard. And again. Again. A moment later, she realized it was some of the river stones. And one got her square in the back, and for a moment, she was pinned in place.
She took the chance. Found her purchase and grabbed for the walker's neck. Threw all her weight forward, and rammed the blade home.
Carol pushed on the body—forcing it down into the river mud. Burst up from the water, gasping for air. Knife still in hand. Looked around.
She'd ended up a good ways down the creek. But the others were still coming for her.
She pulled her way over to the bank. Climbed up the rocks. Heard the dead splashing through the current, behind her.
The moment she was upright, she ran.
And as she ran, Carol realized she'd lost her pack. Her rifle. She only had the knife in hand, and Maggie's gun on her belt.
She could hear a few of them behind her, still. The dead. They were unstoppable. Just kept coming and coming until they got what they wanted.
As she pushed through the trees, the story she'd read Judith floated up in her mind:
How could I bring myself to abandon my own children alone in the woods? Wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces.
The silence around Daryl was deafening. It pushed in around him from all sides. Without the walkers—their endless groans—he was all alone with his thoughts.
It wasn't quite sundown, yet. Soon, the light would start to dim in the trees. The shadows would get long on the grass, and things would get dark.
He shifted in place. Felt his bones creaking with the effort, and let out a groan. Rolled backwards, and his side pressed against the tree trunk.
And he felt something—something he hadn't noticed before. In his coat.
There was something there—in his coat pocket.
He reached in. Pulled the thing out.
A granola bar. And he immediately knew how it got there.
"Carol," he whispered.
He held it in one hand. Just felt the weight of it, there—half-crushed, with a little smudge of his blood on the wrapper. He turned it over in his fingers. Listened to that wrapper crinkle in his hand. And even in the moment, he wasn't really sure why he was doing it.
But it made him feel a little better.
Finally, Carol used Maggie's gun. Let them come close, and took out as many as she could. Aimed, and fired. Aimed, and fired. Tried to think of it just like all the other times she'd shot at the dead—as if there was a fence between them. As if all her friends were right there, and they were all backing each other up.
The last one, she took with the knife. Rammed it against a tree with a grunt, and killed it.
She needed to save her ammo. She only had the clips from Maggie's belt, left.
And she was alone—for the moment. Those gunshots would call whatever else was there. And she'd been running for what felt like forever—but she had to keep moving.
Carol looked around at the trees. Tried to figure out what direction she'd come from—and couldn't. Didn't know where the creek was. Had left her map behind, and most everything else she'd brought along with her.
She was out in the thick woods—completely and utterly lost.
But she tried to shake it off. Keep her head. Breathed in, hard, and took off running, again. Went as far as she could while her legs ached and her side screamed against the effort.
Over time, the woods grew denser around her—a tangled mess of vines and bushes were choking the trees. She had to force her way through them to keep moving. And she knew she was somewhere out deep—far further in than the group had ever made it the day before.
The air seemed to hang on the branches. To drape off of them like the dead briars. The ground was marshy and wet.
She pressed on. Plunged her hand into one of the bushes.
And she dislodged something that had been stuck there. It fell at her feet. She jumped back with a gasp.
Then she crouched over to look at it.
The body of a crow. Half mummified, and plucked nearly naked. One wing torn away—missing.
She bit her lip. Looked away. Stepped over it, and moved further in—trying to get away from that thing. It gave her a bad feeling.
But as she moved forward, there were black feathers scattered all through the bushes—tangled in the leaves. As she shook the branches, some of them floated to the ground.
And Carol wasn't sure if a walker would do something that. Pluck the feathers from something's flesh, and leave the body.
She started to wonder if she was really alone in these woods.
For Daryl, the late afternoon dragged on slow.
He looked at the walker, lying beside him in the dirt. The girl with the sundress. Her pale face. The hilt of his buck knife, buried deep in one eye.
And he thought of the granola bar. Looked at it—still resting there in his hand.
Maybe he should eat it.
But it was small. Barely weighed anything. Wasn't close to enough food to feed a man.
And Carol put it there for him. And it was all he had. If he ate it, he wouldn't have anything left.
Eating it felt too much like giving up. So he just held it, and watched the clouds drift by.
Beyond those briars, the woods cleared up a bit. The light started getting low, and Carol started to think she needed to find a place to hide until morning.
She kept walking. Looking for a good spot. The trees were tall here. She hadn't noticed much wildlife. No squirrels. No birdsong.
Her wet clothes hung on her body. Over time, Carol realized she was shivering. Started wondering if she was risking hypothermia, when it got dark.
And she knew this was about more than saving Daryl, now. If she didn't find him—if they didn't help each other get out of here… they'd both die.
There was a clearing ahead. A brighter spot in the dim light. So she went that way.
The moment she pushed out through the trees, she saw the thing.
A makeshift cross. Made from a tree branch—hacked off the trunk with a hatchet, maybe. The branch was stabbed firmly into the ground.
And the other beam… one side was made from a severed arm. Pale and rotting. Fingers drooping down towards the dirt.
The other side was a crow's wing. When she stepped closer to look at it, she saw the thing was lashed together with twine.
And Carol knew for sure, then.
She wasn't alone.