The sun is low in the sky. The woods grow darker and shadows go deeper.
He takes the flower and tucks it back in his pocket. The doll sags in his belt loop beside it, a stark contrast to the silvered petals. For a long moment afterwards he regards her, almost as if he's still mulling over her proposal to help. His eyes move to her hands, and brush across the pebbled sweat on her brow; he takes in the long tear in her shirt, and the bloody mess of her knees.
"C'mon. Can't do shit in the dark," he doesn't wait. He turns and walks away into the dying light, and she follows him silently. The only sound between them is the rustling of the plastic bag. The forest is quiet overhead and underfoot; they pass through as hardly more than a breath of wind.
At one point, she leans against a tree to catch her breath. He continues on, muttering over his shoulder that he ain't got all day. She pushes after him.
Despite her injuries and occasional missteps, he notices how careful she is; how she doesn't let her guard down. She walks behind him, slowly and quietly, listening to the world that surrounds them. It's the stillness of a wild animal; something feral and unsure and looking to survive. He knows everything has gone to shit, and there was no room for noise in the new world, but he wouldn't lie and say it didn't unnerve him, because it did.
She was too quiet to trust.
When they come to a barb wire fence, he steps on the bottom strand and pulls on the top wire. She ducks through and holds it in turn, and they stalk off across a stretch of empty grasslands. Daryl slings his crossbow across his shoulder, the calm and ease putting her more on edge. She doesn't know the last time she saw more than a handful of people together – he wasn't forthcoming with numbers, but the fact that he was welcoming her at all made her wary that it was more than a few. Her hand itches for her knife.
They crest a small hill, and then descend towards a brightly lit farmhouse. The sight of it is enough to make her hesitate; the sight of it is enough to make her breath leave her chest. It was both a fierce sight of a world long gone, and a quiet doom in the night. The light would attract walkers and other dangers, she thinks, it would have to.
They weren't blind.
When she moves up to his side he casts her a cursory glance before looking away. "You have trouble with walkers seeing the light?" She asks.
He doesn't look at her, "ain't been here long."
She doesn't say anything else.
He has relatively good eyesight, it's one of the reasons he volunteers for watch so often. He enjoys the solitude and quiet as he stares out across the land. He isn't as young as he used to be, so his eyes make up for the fact his body isn't quite as spry or able.
He sees a lot on watch – not necessarily things he wants to or should, but things that matter. Sometimes it's little things that catch his eye, and sometimes it's the big.
Dale watches Glenn and Maggie, and the tension between them; he watches Rick and Hershel, as they sort out the differences in their worlds; he listens as Carol bustles about in the RV, and as T-Dog pushes something around in a frying pan over the fire. He glances out towards the stables, and out towards the woods. It's as he's glancing towards the treeline that he starts.
Daryl is moving through the grass, and someone is with him.
Dale stands up from the chair, and he stares out across the field. He doesn't need to call out, the others are noticing. T-Dog is moving, the pan set aside from the fire and bat already in hand. Rick and Hershel are walking down from the house.
Carol is quiet in the RV.
It's when he sees Shane rumbling out from somewhere, and moving swiftly off after Rick that Dale crawls down from the RV. He trusts Rick. He knows the man will do as right as he can, but Shane isn't Rick. Shane is different.
Shane is the new world; chaos incarnate.
There are horses. She can see them grazing out behind the house. There are cattle whipping their long tails at their fly speckled hides, and an assortment of hens clucking away at one another in a coop.
"You have animals?"
"Wouldn't be much of a farm without 'em," Daryl grumbles.
The house is large, untouched. It isn't dusty or boarded up or in any way suffering. It sits apart from the handful of service buildings and sheds, but within a short distance of a makeshift camp tucked amongst a cluster of tired trees. There is a man sitting atop an old RV, and as they clamber through one last fence, he rises from his chair and eases himself down from the roof of the vehicle. The rifle slung across his back nearly makes her hesitate.
"Stay beside me," Daryl grouses.
Someone is calling out. Another voice responds. People are moving out from the shadowed camp, and the grand house – more people than she has seen in ages. A smaller group begins to move towards them. They're nothing more than brief shadows in the dusk, swaying to and fro as her vision blurs and sputters.
As they draw nearer, she recognizes the uniform and badge of a policeman. She would relax if not for the man behind him. The policeman marches, but the other man storms. He reminds her of Merle; tempestuous and angry.
They stop a few feet away. Another large man stands back another ten feet, beside him is an older man in a bucket hat. The rifle is still slung across his shoulder, and his hands up as if it is the only reassurance he can offer – and it is. It was the only reassuring thing in this situation.
"Who the hell is this, Daryl?" The angry man's voice cracks across the sky. "You can't jus' be leadin' wilds things back to us-"
"Daryl?" The policeman's voice is careful and controlled. Daryl doesn't reply, instead he pulls the doll from his belt loop. There is a moment of hesitation; there is a moment in which no one speaks. The two other men move closer, and it's the oldest man with the bucket hat that speaks their collective surprise.
"Sophia's doll?"
"Where'd you find this?" The policeman jaw is tense. His temples throb as he grinds his teeth. His eyes never settle, they flash between Cal and Daryl and the doll.
Daryl jerks his chin towards her, "she found it."
When they all turn to look at her, she lifts her chin.
"And you are?" The policeman asks.
"Cal."
"Rick," he supplies, pressing his hand against his chest. "This is Dale, T-Dog, and Shane."
She eyes each of the men he indicates. The last one, the tempestuous one that looks like a storm cloud – Shane -, she doesn't look him in the eye, but rather side eyes the hand he has at his hip, sitting wistfully at his empty holster.
That's when she notices that Rick's holster is also empty. Dale is the only one with a gun.
"You know where the little girl is?" Rick's voice grounds her back in the present, and she looks at him.
She doesn't answer right away. She stares him in the eye. There is a part of her that wants to believe that she'll be safe around these people, but there is another part that is whispering in the dark, telling her to turn and run and get out. Cal studies Rick, her jaw as tense as his. Her eyes cool with consideration. "That badge hold any meaning anymore?" She asks.
Rick's jaw works. "It can."
There are words left unsaid, but the meaning translates well enough.
It depends on you. He doesn't need to say it. He doesn't need to say it because it is clearly writ upon his face. There is warning there, but also a faint hope; he's offering her something, something that can only be decided by her actions or lack thereof.
"I don't know where she is," she says. "But I can help you."
Rick is staring at her hard. "You bit?" He asks, indicating her hands.
"No," she replies.
Shane is suddenly tugging at Rick's shoulder, and he's pulling him away and towards Dale and T-Dog. Daryl glances at Cal before he follows them. They stand hardly more than twenty feet away. She watches and waits.
The world tilts and sways.
She doesn't want to be here. She wants to run and get away and live alone, but she can't. She has no where to go.
"You jus' let her follow you back, man? You think that's the right idea?" Shane's tone is chastising, like he's talking to a child. Daryl bristles, but Rick is holding a hand out between the two men. "We can't just pick up any stray we find on the side of the road and-"
"Shane. She's here. Now." Rick stares at Shane as the other man's jaw tenses. A silence stretches between them until Dale speaks up.
"She found Sophia's doll? Where?"
"Jus' out past a ridge – middle of the creek. Jus' sitting there."
"You trust her?" T-Dog asks.
"Nah," Daryl shakes his head. "But she took me there. Saw the spot with my own eyes."
Silence sits between the four of them. Occasionally one of them glances towards Cal swaying out in the tall grasses. She's looking out across the land towards the house, and then behind her towards the trees. Occasionally she sweeps her eyes over them, but it is a brief and fleeting thing.
"You think she lied? You think she might be bit?" T-Dog asks. They all turn to regard her, the way she sways and how she lifts a shaky hand to wipe at her brow. The duct tape wrapped around her arms and hands and the bloody stained hole of her shirt leaves them all second guessing, wondering and thinking the worst.
"Even if she's not-"
"I don't know," Rick speaks over Shane and shoots the other man a glance. "But that's a risk we can't afford."
"We can't just turn her away," Dale says.
Shane lets out a low laugh, "yeah we can, man."
"I don't know about you, but I couldn't live with myself knowing we sent someone off down the road – especially someone who could be seriously injured-"
"She could be seriously bit for all we know-"
"Said she got it in rough with some people," Daryl glances back and forth between Rick and the rest. "And she said somethin' 'bout a group in town."
Everyone stops. They regard Daryl, and mull over his newest revelation. A chill races through them all. The memory of the Vatos is there; that harsh reality that people had turned to a cruelty in their time of need. The Vatos had, in the end, been of a kinder sort, but the potential had been there.
"Another group?" T-Dog swallows.
Daryl shrugs and sticks a piece of grass stalk in his mouth. "She didn't say much else."
Rick is staring out across the field towards the woman. The indecision is clear on his face.
"Rick," Shane jerks his head towards Hershel. The older man makes his way down from the house, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. As he joins them, Shane directs his attention to the older man, "you ever hear 'bout another group around town?"
Hershel glances between Shane and Rick, "Maggie would be the one to speak to about that-"
"I'm asking you, man."
"Shane," Rick growls out.
"Maybe we can talk to her about it?" Dale's pleading voice breaks the group's focus. "She might be more inclined to tell us more about this group if we help her."
Rick looks to Hershel, "it's your farm. I'm not going to invite someone onto it without your say."
Hershel is quiet for a moment as he watches her. He notices the way she sways, and how she rubs at her eyes and head. "She's sick?"
"Looks like she could use a doctor," Daryl rasps.
Hershel nods, "Patricia and I'll take a look at her."
Daryl tucks the doll back into his belt. "We sure 'bout this?"
Rick nods, "we'll keep an eye on her. If she's bit, she ain't got long. If she ain't, and she's with the others, we'll deal with it-"
Dale blinks at him incredulously, "deal with it?"
Rick's jaw tenses and he nods. "Remember the Vatos?" The others go quiet. "We can't let that happen here."
The house is like something from an age long past. It shines with life. The older man, Hershel Greene as he introduces himself, explains that the property is his. The small makeshift campsite outside the front door is where the majority sleep, save for the few who are in some way associated with him and his family.
"It's beautiful," she whispers. And she means it.
The rest of the men depart; Dale climbs back atop the old RV with his rifle; Shane stalks off into the trees; T-Dog resumes the slow and methodical preparation of dinner; and Daryl moves towards the RV with that white flower in one hand and a beer bottle in the other.
Hershel ushers her into the house. Rick is the only one that comes with them. There is a small room tucked off near the kitchen – an office turned guest room. The small bed in the corner is the first she's seen in what feels like years. She sits down on it with a sigh as Hershel begins to unwrap her hands.
"How'd it happen?" Rick asks from where he stands just inside the door.
"Someone looking for more time."
"You're going to have to give me more than that."
She glances at him sharply. There is an intensity in the way he's looking at her – something she imagines he picked up as a cop. A few weeks ago she would have told him to fuck off, but she needed these people. She needed to know what kind of people they were, and she needed the help they offered.
"A man wanted my pack. He took it."
"He from the group in town?"
"No," she says. "We'd been together for a few days."
It feels weird, she thinks, to talk about it. She had never had anyone else, she had dealt with everything up until this point by herself. Even when she'd been pistol whipped she'd managed to crawl into a closet alone, by herself. She'd never had someone to talk to, she'd never had someone to clean her wounds or share her fears.
"Tell me 'bout the group you ran into."
She grits her teeth as the duct tape catches on the edge of her wound. "Couple of guys, mentioned something about some others."
"Friendlies?"
She shakes her head, "no."
Hershel pulls the gauze free from her hands, and interrupts Rick's next question. "No bites, but antibiotics wouldn't hurt. You've got a bit of an infection."
He cleans and wraps her hands. She sits through it with gritted teeth and watchful eyes. She doesn't protest; she doesn't flinch or pull away. Rick watches.
"Not a lot we can do for a concussion," Hershel says. "Except to keep you hydrated and keep you off your feet."
She meets Rick's eye. It's a brief thing; his eyes are blazing with indecision, judgement. She just needs more time; her best bet is with these people. Her only value was in what she could give. "I can't do that," she turns to Hershel, "I'd like to help look for the little girl -"
"One day off your feet will do you good-"
"No, it's fine-"
"No," Rick interrupts. "One day will do you right. Daryl told us you were havin' trouble in the woods."
A silence descends between them, there is a tension that leaves the room as if both release their breath. She considers his words with care: he had said the right thing. And he, in turn, considers the same of her.
Cal nods, and then she's wincing as Hershel pushes back the fold of her shirt and stares incredulously at her patch work. She knows it isn't anything spectacular. She'd used too little gauze and too much duct tape.
Rick's eyes round when he catches sight of the wound, and he's suddenly there at her side staring her in the eye. His face is tight with disbelief and suspicion.
"That a bite?"
She feels like a caged animal that they're poking with a stick. Like something that shouldn't be amongst civilized men. "No – it isn't," she hisses. "It's a knife wound."
"Can you fetch Patricia please?" Hershel asks.
Rick nods stiffly and moves from the room. He catches Cal's eye as he rounds the corner, his expression blank.
Moments later a long haired woman enters the room and is introduced as Patricia. She's quiet as she helps Hershel, and Cal finds herself relaxing as the older man and woman help her from her shirt. She bites her lip when they pull the tape from her side, revealing the wound sliding along her ribs.
"You're lucky," Hershel says. Cal snorts. "If the angle had been much different, the knife would have gone a lot deeper." A silence descends as they work. Patricia doesn't say anything. Hershel murmurs and dabs at the wound with a solution - it stings. "You're going to need stitches," he says.
"Do it," she murmurs to them.
Afterwards, she lay gasping into the sheets of the bed. Her skin is slick with sweat, and her side throbs from beneath her new bandages. Hershel uses duct tape to tape down the gauze, and he explains that it'll hold up better than the regular hospital tape.
Hershel leaves, but Patricia stays and checks her over. By the end, Cal is nothing more than a naked, shivering child in a bed with the sheets tucked up around her chin. A sip of water and a few antibiotics slip past her lips.
She's left alone in the bright room; she can hear Rick or someone else standing outside of her door. She can hear the others' whispering in the dark talking amongst themselves.
She doesn't sleep; not until the house settles into quiet, and the moon shines in through the window, and the whispering and murmuring from other rooms falls to silence.
Not until the light falls away, and she stares up into the dark.
And then she sleeps.
They move forward when he exits the house. They descend into silence like a solemn court. One by one they raise their eyes to him standing at the top of stoop with a look on his face. He wordlessly passes Sophia's doll to Carol, and catches her when she nearly crumples to the ground.
"Who is she?" Glenn is the first to raise his voice, and the others start as if from a dream. Carol clutches the doll to her face, her breathy sobs a solemn anthem.
"Can we trust her?" Lori's voice is close behind.
No one else speaks.
"Her name is Cal," Rick says. "She's offered to help find Sophia."
"Can we trust her?" Lori repeats.
For a long moment the group is quiet. Daryl glances to each of them as they stand around, even T-Dog has climbed down from the RV and his scheduled watch. He can see from where he stands that they're worried about the little girl, and the gruesome and cold idea of what her losing her doll might mean. Carol is weeping, though she muffles each cry into the doll itself.
His gut is twisting. He looks away.
Rick answers after a long while, "we have to. For now."
Shane is shaking his head from where he stands near Lori.
"Why?" Andrea is the first to speak her mind. "We know nothing about her. For all we know she could -"
"She knows about another group 'round here."
They go quiet. The memory of the Vatos' fallen nursing home is still fresh and real and there. They hadn't had a lot of dealings with others, but they had seen what they could leave behind. The bodies, the looted rooms, a broken kingdom. Their enemies-turned-friends so thoughtlessly murdered in their own home.
Fear lines their faces.
"I didn't get a lot from her, but from what I can tell they're not friendlies."
"You think she might be with them?" Shane asks.
"Like leading 'em back here with them?" T-Dog clarifies, and Shane nods.
"I don't know," Rick says. "We need to be careful 'round her until we're certain she's okay. We'll keep a watch on her. Hershel wants her off her feet tomorrow, someone staying behind can keep an eye on her while the rest of us head out."
"Carol and I can do that," Lori says, glancing at the other woman. Carol nods back from where she sits, her hands white around the doll.
"I don't trust her," Daryl's voice is a gravelly shock. They all glance at him from where he leans against the door. "But for what it's worth she refused to talk 'bout Sophia when she thought was I with 'em."
"That counts for something," Dale chimes. He glances around at the group, noting their incredulous faces. "That's got to count for something," he breathes.
Rick nods, "it just might."
The meeting adjourns. As they begin to drift away to their respective tents and sleeping arrangements, Dale approaches Rick. The older man regards him carefully in the dark, and when he speaks it is in a quiet voice that echoes of a time long gone. "A feral dog lived around my neighbourhood," he says quietly. "Thing lived behind a dumpster. Never came near a soul. Irma fed it one day. Followed her home after that. I think it was the first kindness it had seen. That damn thing," he laughs quietly, "followed her until the day it died."
He walks away after that.
Rick watches him go.
As does Daryl, from where he stands in the dark.
