Chapter Five of Six for you, today—a bit later than I'd wanted because I've been feeling a bit under the weather again the last couple weeks. Hopefully I can get Chapter Six out more quickly.

And I have a couple ideas for stories, still... I might not have time to finish even one of them before the show starts up again in October. We shall see.

I hope you enjoy this—it's taken a lot of thought and care to write. Hopefully I'll be back soon!

The Body

At the quarry, mornings started early. After all—it's hard to sleep in, when you're camping. And with so many people, there were noises all over the place—starting just before dawn.

So from the moment she heard the first tent flap unzipping, Carol was awake for the morning.

It was a good time of the day, for her. Carol liked sitting out in their campsite, watching the quarry come to life. Ed wouldn't get up just then, most of the time—he was always a pretty heavy sleeper. Didn't get bothered by the noise as much as she did.

He'd always been like that. Back home, when she or Sophia would bring him a beer, he'd never turn from the tv. Just drank it. Didn't seem to notice them coming. Lived in his own little world.

This morning, when Carol went out into camp, the first thing she saw was Sophia. She was crouched over on the ground—holding a stick in her hand. Playing tic-tac-toe by herself in the dirt.

She saw Carol, and her face lit up:

"Hi, Mom!"

Carol smiled to her. Settled into a lawn chair. Watched her play. In the distance, Dale stepped out of the RV. Waved towards someone—Amy, sitting out on a nearby log.

Ed woke up, while Carol was watching the others. He had this persistent morning cough—had for years, since Sophia was a toddler. Post Nasal drip. She could hear it from inside the tent. It was the same sound she'd heard every morning for years. And not long after, she heard him moving around on the canvas floor. Getting dressed. Fumbling with his belt buckle.

As Ed stepped outside, Carol started thinking it'd be a good idea to head off somewhere else. She could go find Lori, so they could make breakfast.

She got up to go do it, and immediately, Ed grabbed her wrist.

She tried to step away, and he hung onto it. Not hard, really. It'd been a long time since he'd had to grab her very hard to make a point.

And she knew what it meant. They'd been together so long, they didn't really need to talk. He could tell what she had in mind, and didn't want her to leave the campsite. Didn't want her to go to Lori.

"Ed, I need to make breakfast."

Nothing. He just looked at her. Ed was never one to talk. So she filled the silence:

"We've gotta eat."

He reached into his knapsack—he kept everything jumbled up in there in a mess. Wouldn't let her sort it all out.

And he pulled out one of the few MREs he'd managed to hang onto this far. A bit crushed from the other things in that bag. Held it out for her. Said two words.

"Then eat."

She could sense Sophia's eyes on her. She'd paused in her game. Just watched them. And in the distance, Carol could hear the Dixon brothers, off at their campsite—talking together, quietly.

Carol looked down at the MRE in Ed's hands, a moment. Hesitated.

But she took it. Went back to her lawn chair. Started opening it up, to share with Sophia. And Sophia scratched out her game board, in the dirt, and started on another one.

"Thank you," Carol said.

Carol set out at the first hint of dawn. Climbed out from the little hollow where she'd hidden all night. Stretched her back, and went off to look for Daryl.

She followed the pale, morning glow through the trees—east, towards the edge of the forest. Towards valley where she'd seen the stag. And the woods were empty, now. Quiet. Almost all the walkers had moved on. She tried to avoid the few that remained. Distant, lonely shapes, wandering through the trees.

And Carol had all that time to think. Her mind wandered—aimless, like those walkers. She tried to guess at what it was like at the prison, this morning. If the others had given up on her, yet. Put up another pair of crosses in that graveyard.

When Carol left the prison to search for Daryl, she'd looked back in the rearview mirror, as she drove away. She could remember the morning light winking on the concrete. Maggie's shape—small by the front fence, watching her drive off into the world.

That was a lifetime ago. She felt like she'd been alone in the woods for years.

And there was nothing to do but keep searching—moving through the blue light. Over time, it slowly turned to gold.

The air was getting colder—crisp and wintery. As she reached the edge of the woods, she could smell a thin frost out on the farmland—on the fields of tall grass, winking at her through the trees.

Daryl drifted in and out, lying there by the fallen tree.

He wasn't feeling quite as much pain, now. Everything seemed hazy and far away. Every time he opened his eyes, the gentle, morning light glared at him. It glowed on the grass.

He felt like he wasn't really there. Like he'd never been there—never been real.

Everything that'd ever happened to him. Everyone and everything he knew. His home. His family. His name. It was all a dream—and he was starting to wake up.

But the granola bar—he could still feel it, in his hand. He squeezed it. Felt the wrapper shift under his fingers. He'd held the thing all through the night.

It felt real. Solid. The only thing that did.

He pressed it close against his chest. Closed his eyes, and drifted off, again.

Even before what happened at the barn, Carol had known that Sophia was dead.

She could feel it. After a while, her blind hope faded—and she stopped ignoring what her gut was really telling her.

But even then, she didn't let anyone know. They were trying so hard, after all—and it didn't seem right to smother that.

She tried to keep up appearances for the others. For Daryl.

It was all she could really think to do.

But after what happened at the barn, everything changed. Knowing Sophia was dead in her heart and seeing it in front of her face… those were two very different things.

Carol couldn't stay at the barn, when they found Sophia, there. When Rick put her down. So she ran off—away from the others. Didn't need to worry about them. Or anything.

She ended up in the RV, somehow. And she sat there.

Everything was quiet. She felt like she was outside her own body. Like her head wasn't working right. Her insides were all hollowed out, and there was nothing beneath her ribs but an echo.

She watched the sun move over the Formica dinette. It hit some stray grains of sugar, there. Made them cast long shadows. There was a ring from a coffee mug someone hadn't wiped up. A stained napkin, crumpled and forgotten, lying there beside it.

And then a sound. The door. It opened, and a rush of hot, summer air blew in.

Carol didn't look up, but she heard the sound of his low, grumbling breath.

Daryl.

He'd followed her, here.

And she didn't care. Whether or not he was there made no difference. It was just a thing that was happening in this new place she'd found herself.

She heard his boots on the floor. And he found himself a perch, somewhere nearby. Sat, and said nothing.

She still didn't look at him. But the sound of his breathing jabbed at her—pierced through the numbness. Because it was a real sound. He was a real person.

This is real.

This is the way things are now.

This is the way they'll always be.

In that moment, something changed. Shifted inside her, and fell away.

And really—Carol died, then. Cast off everything of herself she'd known. Shed the old skin, and left the dried-up husk on the RV floor. Just another bit of litter—like the spilled sugar, or the soiled napkin.

Her insides were an empty hollow, and her outer shell had fallen away.

So she wasn't really sure what was left of her, after.

Carol slipped up to a thick stand of trees. There was a solitary walker moving on the other side. A lonely shape—groaning to itself, and pacing around on the dirt.

From a distance, it'd seemed like about the right height—about five foot ten. Broad shouldered. It had a familiar look.

So Carol had snuck up close—behind the tree. Sheltered beneath the tangled briars at the trunk. Waited for the thing to turn in her direction. It seemed to take forever.

Minutes drew on and on, and it finally moved towards her. Carol saw the face, and let out a breath.

It wasn't Daryl.

So she crept away, then. Got past it, and kept on going.

Soon, she came to a clearing. And there were a few corpses lying there, on the forest floor.

As she got close, her breath caught in her throat. She recognized them. They were some of the walkers she and the others killed when they were looking for Daryl. She could see the wound in one skull, where she'd hacked at it with a machete.

So for the first time in over a day, Carol knew exactly where she was.

Just beyond the next ridge, the woods would open up to that valley. The one overlooking the farmland, where she'd seen the fallen stag.

So she quickened her pace.

And before she could fully process it, she was there. Standing just where she'd been when the others clustered together, discussing their next move. The valley was here—just on the other side of the trees.

Carol pushed through the underbrush. Stepped out on the hill, to look down into the fields below.

After they fled from the farm, the group found themselves stranded at the side of the road. Rick's car was out of gas, and they were stuck in place, right where they'd pulled over.

So they made camp. Sat in silence. Night fell fast, and they huddled into themselves for warmth in the cold, winter darkness.

Staring into their campfire, that night, Carol was exhausted—her nerves were raw. She had no idea where they were going. What would happen next.

But Daryl—Daryl fell asleep. Right there beside her, slumped over on his knees. As if none of this bothered him. As if he could turn off the inner doubts like a switch, when he had to.

Carol didn't know how to do that. So the worries ate at her from the inside.

There were fewer of them left than there'd been the day before. Jimmy and Patricia were gone. Andrea was gone. And that—what happened to Andrea—it was because Carol couldn't look out for herself. Because she'd needed rescuing.

I'm a burden.

That's what she'd said to Daryl, before he fell asleep. And saying it cut to the bone, for her. Because it was pathetic. Because it was true.

And Daryl—he didn't really understand. Asked her what she wanted, after that. And Carol—she wanted so much more than she'd been able to explain to him. She wanted things to be different. So different from what they were.

She'd been an empty shell, through the last days on the farm. Time stretched on and on, and the world started feeling like it was painted in grey. All sawdust and ashes.

Sophia was dead—but Carol was alive. She'd been given some kind of chance—a chance paid for in blood.

So she had to take it.

Time passed. Daryl looked up at the light swelling in the morning sky. It all seemed hazy—he had trouble focusing his eyes. Everything was strange, like he was under water.

And all at once, he sensed a movement. Turned his head. Saw a shape up above, standing over his valley.

It was Carol, again. Up on the hill—right where she'd been standing, before. When she'd been searching for him with the others.

He stared at her until his vision stabilized, and could see her clearly. The light was coming from the east, this time—it fell on her face. She scanned the grass, below—calm and silent.

You're not here.

And he turned away. Looked at the sundress girl, instead. His knife, buried in her eye. Tried to forget what he'd seen.

But he couldn't. After a few seconds, he turned back. And she was still up there. Carol.

Something about it—seeing her. It made him feel pretty bad. Twisted at him, under the rib cage. Tightened his throat.

And in that moment, Daryl decided to eat the granola bar after all.

Because he knew, then, that he was going to die. And somehow, he didn't like the idea of leaving the thing untouched forever. Leaving it lying there at his side after he'd turned. As he sputtered and snarled and searched for something—anything—he could rip into with his teeth.

So he opened the package with shaking hands. It took a while for him to do it. But when he did, the sound was much louder in the air than it should have been.

There was a sort of finality to it, to him.

He remembered what that crazy guy said—the one who shot him. The one he'd killed:

It's too late.

Daryl got the package open, and bits of granola spilled out onto his hands. Even crushed up like that, they looked good to him. Honest food, grown out of the ground.

If he got his hands on something to eat after he changed over… it wouldn't be like that.

So he ate those crumbs. And right after, he started shaking the rest of them into his mouth, straight from the wrapper. Tried his best to chew on them, and swallow.

Carol made her way down into the grass—carefully. Held onto the saplings on the side of the hill, so she wouldn't fall.

She saw right away that the field was empty. The walkers had gone, and left the whole area slick with blood. There were guts spread out in the trampled grass. The smell of death hung in the crisp, winter air.

She immediately went for the stag. Torn into two, hulking pieces, spread out on the ground, with the entrails spread out between them.

It'd been a long time since gore had bothered her. So she knelt down in the blood. Started searching the corpse. Pushed at what was left of the matted fur.

And under it, beneath the neck… there was something lodged there. It was bright—a flash of neon green peeked through the gummy, half-dried blood.

She tugged at it—hard. Pulled the thing out from the muscle.

It came loose in her hands with a slimy, splattering sound. And Carol found herself holding a broken crossbow bolt in her hands. A black shaft, with the writing in green:

Victory

She held it in her fingers. Bit her lip. Listened to the wind pull in the trees.

They'd been on the road for a month, running from the farm. Somehow, nobody had died yet.

That morning, the men brought Carol, Beth, and Lori out to the fenced-in backyard of their current safehouse. They stood there, side-by-side, out by an old washing line. It had a single pillowcase hanging from it. Someone left it pinned up there, long ago.

Everyone was tense and quiet. There was a nervous energy in the air.

The men were bringing live walkers in for them to fight—for practice. They all needed to learn to protect themselves.

Daryl, Glenn, and Rick had gone to round them up. Came back with three walkers, and chained them in the garage—one for each of them to kill. And as she stood there in the yard, Carol heard a familiar noise, coming from the direction of that garage—the gurgling sounds that came out of the dead things' throats.

Glenn came around the corner, with the first of them on a catch-pole. The face was half-gone. The eyes rolled around in the sockets, surrounded by bare tendons—wet with blood. As soon as it saw the crowd in the yard, it locked eyes with Carol. Started reaching out with its hands—pulling on the restraints to get at her. She breathed in, and out. Looked right back at those bloodshot, yellow eyes.

"Ok," Glenn said, straining to hold the thing back, "Who's first?"

There was a taught silence for a moment. Beth immediately looked to Lori. But before Lori could say anything, Carol stepped forward. A few feet away from those dead hands, reaching out for her.

"Me."

She drew her knife. Held it in her hand. Squeezed at the hilt, to make sure it was solid and real beneath her fingers.

Everyone stepped back towards the fence—Beth and Lori. Rick. They gave her some room. But Daryl—he came up beside her, in the seconds before Glenn let that catch-pole go. He nudged her, and she turned her head.

He leaned in, whispered.

"Don't hold back."

Then he patted her arm, and moved away, again.

Carol held the arrow in her hands.

The wind was starting to stir—the weather was changing. Getting colder. The air had that electric feeling it sometimes gets in the winter.

And it pulled in her hair. In the grass. And Carol saw something out there. Something in the grass. She rushed over, and reached for it.

It was the crossbow.

It was Daryl's. She'd know it anywhere. She picked it up off the ground. It was the first time she'd ever held it in her hands.

The thing was a lot heavier than she'd expected.

Some strands of brown hair were caught in the grass, beside it. They caught in the wind. Blew away. She turned to watch them go—and saw something else. Off at the corner of her eye. Just a few yards from where she was standing, half-hidden in the trampled, broken grass.

She turned to it, and froze in place.

A body. A dead body. Flat on its back, and mangled completely beyond recognition. The bones were exposed. The ribcage.

The clothes that remained were coated with gore. Some bits of tattered fabric stirred in the air, a little, against the grass. Strips of something that might have been flannel, once.

Her hands went slack, and the crossbow fell to the ground. She sank slowly onto her knees.

One day, the previous December, Carol came back from her first supply run. She rushed up the walk, to the front door of that day's safehouse. Wiped her boots on the front mat, carefully, and headed to look for Daryl.

Rick, T-Dog, and Maggie were still out by the car—bringing in boxes. But Carol couldn't wait. Because she'd brought Daryl a package. Picked something out for him. And she just had to give it to him right away.

When she found him, he was sitting in a chair, fiddling with his arrows. Had one in his hand. Black, with some neon green writing on the side.

He looked up when she came in, and put the thing down.

"Merry Christmas," she said, handing him the paper bag she'd been holding. She felt the smile on her own face. She couldn't contain it.

He threw her a look. Reached into the bag, and pulled out the shrink-wrapped bundle inside.

"They're fresh socks," she told him. As if he wouldn't be able to see what they were on his own.

And he looked down at those socks, in his hand. Didn't smile.

But his foot started tapping in the air—where he had it propped up on one knee. And when he looked up at her again, his eyes lit up—the way they sometimes did.

"My favorite," he said.

Carol didn't know what to do.

She had a hand resting on the crossbow, lying out where it fell.

And sometime around then, it'd started snowing—just the slightest drifting flakes, here and there in the cold air. She watched them coming down—dry and thin. Some settled on the body. A few floated down onto her hands.

Daryl's head was swimming. His stomach lurched against what he'd swallowed. The grit from the granola bar was dry and rough in his mouth. The taste of it mingled with the smell of the sundress girl, and he felt his gorge rising.

It came up in his throat. A wet, acrid paste that tasted like bile.

He turned his head, and vomited it out on the dirt.

Carol looked up. Heard something. Something at the edge of the hill.

Her hand dropped to her knife. She scanned the ground, there, for any motion. For walkers.

But it didn't sound like a walker. It sounded like… gagging.

She stood in the bloodstained grass. Headed over there. Her foot hit something then, on the ground. A rifle. A hunting rifle. Daryl didn't have a rifle like that.

So someone else had been here. And there was the noise again—clear and loud, coming from behind one of the fallen trees.

She went towards it—moving fast enough she was almost jogging. And she saw a pair of shapes, behind that tree. Bodies.

One of those bodies was moving.

And Daryl heard the sound of footsteps in the grass, then. Something was coming for him. Something from out in the field.

Another walker. It had to be. It heard him puking his guts up.

It was just one last mistake, eating that thing. One out of a good, long list throughout his life. And it was too late, this time. He was too damn weak to defend himself.

It was over.

Carol rushed forward. One hand on her knife hilt, ready to draw.

But then she saw him. Lying there behind the tree, next to a corpse on the ground.

Daryl.

It was Daryl.

The thing was close, now. And Daryl tried to steel himself up. Closed his eyes. Told himself it was ok to let it end like this. He'd been shot in the leg. He was weak, and tired, and starving.

I'm pretty much dead, anyway.

He opened his eyes, again, a moment. The light rushed in. He turned, and looked at the sundress girl. Her grey face. Thought of everything she'd said to him.

And all of his fight rushed back, again. He felt the anger at that sundress girl flooding back over him. He couldn't give up.

So he grabbed the knife—yanked it right out of her eye. Held it—slick and scummy with the old gore.

And Daryl didn't care how exhausted he was. How moving even that much felt like swimming against a heavy tide.

Whatever was coming—whatever it was, he'd kill it.

When it came for him, he'd stab it in the face.

When Daryl carried Carol out from the tombs, and took her back to the cellblock, they found it totally empty.

Everyone was out somewhere. It was quiet. The sunlight streamed in the grey windows, hazy with dust.

He headed for one of the cells. Paused. Looked down at her a moment—bruised and battered, with her head pressed against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed. He could feel her breath flowing over his neck—soft and warm.

And he carried her over the threshold, then, and went to lay her down on the lower bunk.

"Watch your head," he whispered, softly.

And he left her there a moment. Stepped out into their supply room—got a bottle of water, for her. And he crouched over her with it. Made to press it to her lips—but she pushed it away. Shook her head.

"Everyone," she asked—her voice thin and raspy, "... where's everyone?"

He didn't answer. And she pushed on:

"T-Dog…"

He looked down at the floor.

"Yeah. We know."

"But what about the others…?"

And Daryl—he didn't know what to say. So he just leaned over her—tried to give her that water, again:

"Here."

This time, she let him press the bottle to her lips. And he gently poured the water into her mouth.

"Ok—take it slow," he said, softly, "Don't push it."

She took the thing from him. Brushed his hand away, again. Held the bottle for herself.

"I can do it."

He looked at her. The dirt on her face. The blood on her clothes. She'd survived the tombs—all those dark hours, lost by herself in that maze.

So he nodded.

"'Course you can."

And he heard the doors opening, down the hall. That harsh, metal sound, echoing on the concrete.

It was the others—they were coming back.

She nodded to him.

"I'm ok—you go to them."

And he turned to do it. But he stopped, at the cell door. Went back. Without a word, he pulled out the knife. Her knife. The one he'd found, out there in the tombs.

She looked up at him with those large, blue eyes. Took it. Held it in her hands, a moment, and then sheathed it at her side.

A shadow fell over him. And Daryl waited for it to get close. Tensed his hand around the hilt of his buck knife. Ready to strike out when it leaned in for him.

But then the voice broke the quiet:

"Daryl…?"

It was Carol's voice. As if she was standing there. As if it were her shadow.

After everything—everything he'd done to stay alive—that sound finally broke him.

It was too much. He couldn't fight it, anymore. It was better to just pretend it was her for a while. To listen to that voice, and let it come.

It was better. This was better.

So he loosened his grip on the hilt. Let the knife go. It slid down onto the dirt at his side. The shadow fell over him.

"Daryl…"

Before he knew it, there were hands on his face. Warm hands.

Nothing was biting him.

So Daryl looked up. Tried hard to focus on the shape lingering just above him on the ground.

It was Carol. Carol—filthy and blood spattered, with tears in her eyes. She stroked his hair back. Tilted her head.

"Daryl…"

Pure relief flowed over him like a wave.

Daryl didn't realize it, but he'd started laughing.