The rain washes away the grime. It settles the smoke from the burning bodies. It kisses the graves of the dead, and lays them to rest. In the distance the thunderstorm rolls– galloping on into a new county.
Cal watches it from the fields. She watches the dark clouds billow and bulge. She can see the lightning strikes; she can feel the wind rush under and over; and in the distance she can see the rain fall. She imagines it is falling on others – good people just trying to survive.
She pushes her bare toes down and into the earth; her head tilting back as the cool dew sweeps across her skin. She can imagine their looks. Shane probably thinks she's bizarre. Dale probably worries. Rick will accept it. Daryl watches in quiet.
She can see him lounging beside his tent. She can see the blur of his knife and the pile of bolts he's made at his feet. She meets his quiet stare. There is no judgement from him, only a soft contemplation as he works.
"What are you doing out here?" T-Dog's voice is low. It rolls across the grass.
"I'm watching the storm," she says, turning her gaze from Daryl to the roiling clouds in the distance.
"You're a strange one, girly," he chuckles from her side. For a long moment they stand in quiet, watching as the sky bubbles with menace. T-Dog coughs into his hand. She glances at him."Rick told us."
The illusion falters. The harsh grass beneath her toes begins to poke into her skin. The wet grass under her toes forces a chill. The thunder clapping in the far distance is too loud.
"And what do you think?" She asks, bending over to shove her feet back into her boots. She grimaces at the worn laces and breaking seams; at the water seeping in to wet her socks.
T-Dog shakes his head. "I think we should be done with it."
"You think Rick should kill him?"
He shrugs, "I don't know what to think. But I know one thing – I don't want him or his buddies showing up here."
Cal nods and stands. "You should tell Rick that. He needs support in this."
They head back to the camp. Upon arriving they find Glenn perched atop the RV, his eyes wide as he looks out across the fields. Occasionally he glances at the road, his shoulders tense – as if he is expecting to see a group of men rumbling down the drive in their trucks.
Cal says goodbye to T-Dog and moves up beside Glenn. He tries to smile at her as she hauls herself into the empty chair at his side. It comes out more as a grimace, his discomfort apparent.
"You don't think we should kill him," Cal says plainly.
Glenn sputters, "no. It's not that."
"You're just having second thoughts?" She asks.
"I just – I mean, how did we get here?"
She stares out across the fields, towards a tent tucked away in the grass. "I don't know," she mutters. "Hell of a thing: the end of the world."
"Yeah," he agrees. "Just a lot different than delivering pizzas, you know?"
They sit quietly, Glenn ringing the barrel of the watch rifle. Cal ignores him, her eyes casting across the camp; the long and empty road; the fields. She watches as Dale retreats from Daryl's makeshift encampment. She hadn't even realized he'd been there, tucked carefully behind the tent.
"He's going around to everyone," Glenn explains at her confusion. "Rick gave him the day."
"To do what?"
"To see if anyone would agree with him – to save Randall's life."
She watches Dale. She takes in the slouch of his shoulders, the wide brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes. He carries another rifle, a testament to his long endeavour to protect the camp – and even in a time of disagreement, he only looks to protect the camp from a different enemy than they were often accustomed to.
She subconsciously runs her hands along her pants as if to wipe away the red that stains her palms.
"Don't be afraid," she says. "Forget what you have to lose, and fight like hell."
Glenn glances at her. "I uh -"
"My father always said that," she explains, still following Dale with her eyes. "Dale doesn't get that. He still thinks the world is black and white.
"He'll fight for what he believes in. He'll fight for goodness. He'll fight until he can't," she shakes her head. "I just hope he realizes his fight isn't for survival. It's for something that doesn't really exist anymore."
Glenn swallows heavily. "What's that?"
Cal shifts in the chair, her eyes moving towards the trees, and the faint curl of smoke in the distance. "Humanity – as it was. As Dale remembers it. The only hope we have is to survive with some semblance of goodness, but not all of it."
"And if we kill Randall?"
"Rick was right, Glenn. If we let him go, what's to say he won't hurt others? It's twisted and it's fucked up, but we can't do nothing."
They sit in silence, both of them mulling over the daunting truth that lay before them.
"Is it cowardice?" Glenn whispers. "If we let him go, are we cowards for not killing him? But if we kill him, are we cowards for doing it?"
Cal shrugs. "Or is it bravery?"
Glenn's eyes are red, his face pale. She can imagine tears running down his cheeks. "Maybe it's a bit of both," he suggests softly.
Glenn eventually leaves, politely excusing himself at Maggie's beckoning from the house. Cal takes up the discarded rifle, her eyes filtering across the field – the house, the long and empty road, the fields and Daryl's tent.
She isn't surprised when Dale finds her. She isn't surprised when he clambers up beside her and settles down on the other free chair. For a long moment they sit in silence.
She knows what he wants to say.
He tugs his hat low over his face, and rubs at the pink skin on the back of his neck. His eyes are dark; expression tight as he takes in the camp and the people slugging miserably through the summer heat.
Dale's voice quakes. "Are we worth a young man's life?"
It's more than basic math. It's more than the ruthless calculus of war. His question isn't simple – it's the hardest question she's ever been asked.
Cal wipes the sweat from her brow, and looks out across the fields. The top of the RV is warm – warmer even than beside the fire down below. She tugs at her damp scarf, grimacing as it peels away from her neck.
"If we do this," he says. "If we take his life – if we allow Rick to take his life -, we're giving something up of ourselves. We're letting a piece of who we are fall away. We're letting this new world, this harsh and cold and awful place claim us for itself."
He shakes his head, his eyes wide and his bewilderment clearly writ across his face. Cal doesn't meet his eyes; she looks out across the field and watches Daryl's tent squat idly in the tall grasses. "If we let go, we're admitting that there is no going back from here."
Cal bites at her thumb. "Maybe we can't go back," she offers.
Dale shakes his head, "I can't believe that. I can't believe that we would just give up so easily."
"Maybe they don't see it as giving up," she says. Dale looks at her in disbelief. "Maybe they're giving up that part of themselves so they can survive."
"But is it worth it?" He asks. "Is our survival important if our humanity dies?"
Cal blinks, "some people think so."
"I don't," Dale's resolve is tight in his voice. "I can't. What is mankind if we haven't our humanity? Are we animals? I wouldn't see my friends, my family, become nothing more than beasts looking only for their own we go down this path... "
Cal doesn't know what to say. She can't find words that will appease him. She is hardly a moral compass; she is hardly more than the very thing Dale murmurs about in abjection.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly.
Dale laughs softly; it is a bitter and twisted sound. "No," he says. "I am."
He leaves her there atop the RV, staring off into the distance past the camp and fields, to the dead labyrinth of Atlanta. She imagines a woman and child sitting beside her, and what might have been if she had let them in.
Later, Andrea offers to take over watch, but Cal declines without a glance. She can't look away from the dark clouds retreating beyond the horizon. The other woman sighs and moves away towards the house, "well, if you change your mind!"
Rick eventually clambers up beside her, and Cal offers him a small nod as he settles into a chair.
"We're gathering in a few hours. We're going to discuss Randall."
She nods, and when he doesn't leave she casts him an inquisitive glance.
Rick leans forward in his chair. "Dale told me you were thinking about leaving," he says.
Cal nearly scoffs. There was a part of her that was unsurprised that Dale had sought to warn Rick of her impending departure; there was a part of her that was surprised he'd do it after their previous discussion. A part of her couldn't blame him; he was disappointed and had sought clarification – that of which she had resolutely refused him.
"I am," she nods.
Rick nods. "When?"
"After Randall."
"You know you're welcome here," Rick is quiet as he studies her, and she sits still under his scrutiny. "If you change your mind..-"
"I'll keep that in mind." Cal bites at her fingernail. She looks down at the camp, and the people milling about. She doesn't want to tell him that his group is floundering; she doesn't want to tell him that people are going to die if it continues to shatter. It'd be useless anyways, she thinks to herself as she watches him scan the quiet of camp, he already knows. "I might try for Macon," she says instead, wincing at how hopeless she sounds.
"Your parents are there," Rick looks at her.
She nods.
"I hope you find them."
"Thanks," she says quietly, unsurprised at the sincerity in his voice.
"Your dad was ex-military?"
"Retired," she murmurs, remembering the ceremony and the honour and the tears of relief her mother had shed.
"Any siblings?" The question is hard. He wants to know, but he doesn't want to delve. She understands; it's something that they would ask one another in the old world – something they would share over coffee and laughter.
"No," she shrugs. It was hard for him to ask, but it isn't a hard one for her to answer. She watches as Rick swallows in relief.
"But you've lost people." It isn't a question.
Her breath catches in her throat at his boldness. She glances up and meets his calm, soft eye. Empathy pours off of him – that and understanding. She had heard of Rick's reunion with his wife and son, of his struggle in the new world to find understanding. He had told her himself on their first excursion together – one of the many topics of discussion that had arisen when it became apparent Cal was less than forthcoming about her background.
The empathy hurts – it doesn't feel or look like pity, but she can't really think of what else it might be. It hurts her. Everyone had lost someone; everyone would lose someone still. Who was she to deserve this moment?
She blinks, glancing away from his intense gaze towards her hands. She regards them carefully; her right, and then her left. She's running her hands over her left hand like something is missing from it.
Rick notices, and he stills. He looks to his own hands. To his dirtied wedding band shining lowly in the light.
"I'm sorry for bringing it up."
"It happened long before all of this." He glances up to find her staring off towards the horizon. Her expression is impassive; her gaze, when it finally does turn to him, is blank.
Rick rises, running his palms along the front of his jeans. He offers her a nod; he offers her the silence of her watch. He climbs down from the RV. Cal watches him head off to the house, hand on his holster – ever the Sheriff.
The group had been told that the young man they recovered from town had been one of the few to chase Cal through the streets. They had been told what Daryl had learned. They had been told to steel themselves to the fact that Randall had to be dealt with.
Randall knew Hershel. He knew Maggie. He was party to unsavoury people, and had taken to their more illicit activities with vigour.
Cal hadn't told them that he had almost caught her. She hadn't told them that he had yelled in her ear, his excitement the only thing that had kept her moving and breathing and fighting.
When the group gathers again in the failing light of day, Rick recounts this information to them all. The quiet of the group is unnerving; they listen and wonder and mull over the boy tucked away in the back room.
Cal stands near the door, her eyes trained on Rick and Shane.
"If we do this, we need to be ready to live with the consequences."
Carol opts out. She lifts her hands and leaves – she doesn't want any part in it; she doesn't want to decide if he should live or die. Cal watches her go, remembering Glenn murmuring of bravery and cowardice.
"Some of us aren't ready to do that, Rick," Dale speaks up after Carol leaves.
Shane's eyes darken, "let me tell you somethin', Dale. If we let that asshole go, he might just lead his boys right back here. You think you can live with the consequences of that?"
The older man's face hardens. "If we kill this man – this boy – we are no better than they are."
"And if we do nothing?" Rick hisses. "What are we then?"
"Cowards," Shane replies.
Dale shakes his head, "is it cowardice to stand up for what you believe in? Is it cowardice to want a better life than what the world is demanding we accept?"
Rick's jaw tenses and he runs a hand over his face.
"Think of the example you're setting for Carl," Dale pleads one last time.
Rick turns away.
Andrea speaks up suddenly, voicing her decision to support Dale. The two of them turn to T-Dog and Glenn sitting uncomfortably on a loveseat.
"T-Dog," Dale's voice is imploring.
"It needs to happen, man," T-Dog mutters, unable to meet Dale's imploring gaze. "We aren't safe with him alive."
Dale turns to Glenn, his eyes wide.
"I'm sorry, Dale," he murmurs and looks away.
"This isn't justice," Dale mutters, moving away from the group. His disgust and disappointment clear across his face. "This is murder." He moves to leave, brushing past Cal with a misty eyes. He pauses behind her, his breath low as he murmurs to someone – Daryl.
"You're right. This group is broken."
The door breathes shut behind him. The room is silent.
"It'll happen right away," Rick murmurs.
One by one they trickle away. Cal turns to leave and nearly bumps into Daryl. They both take a step back – she notes the pink alighting his cheeks. "Sorry," he mumbles and steps out of her way.
"What did you say to Dale?" She asks, her voice a quiet hush as the room empties out.
Daryl blinks and then shrugs, "told him the truth. Group's broken."
She nods slowly, her eyes dropping to the breast pockets of his vest.
Daryl had said that finding Sophia had been important – he had said that he had tried to fix the group. She thinks of the barn; of the group that had stood as a firing line, and of the group that had stood apart. They were never together; never united. When Sophia had appeared they had splintered before her eyes; strangers breaking like glass.
"I don't care anymore," he says.
For a long moment they stand there in quiet – neither moves. It's only as her eyes drop lower that she notices the white bandages spread across his knuckles.
He notices the direction of her eyes and tucks his hand out of sight.
"I think you do," she murmurs. And then she's brushing past him, warm like the rolling breath of a thunderstorm, leaving him alone in the living room.
He stands in silence, wondering if she had been there at all.
Rick is staring at his hands. At the lines etched in the large oak table. At Hershel who waits patiently, and Shane who stands expectantly behind him. At Cal who stares out the kitchen window, and Daryl who stands near her.
A single shell sits beside his Magnum on the table; a gleaming sword or insipid dagger.
"Capital punishment used to be a hanging," Rick murmurs.
"Infection has set in," Hershel says. "He's weak."
"I'm thinking he'll manage to stand for a little while," Shane snaps.
Rick shakes his head and reaches out, grabbing both Magnum and shell from the table. He looks around the room as he loads the gun, his eyes tired as he observes the few who stand with him. His eyes finally land on Hershel. Rick pushes up from the chair and turns to regard the closed door down the hall.
He blinks. His jaw tightens. He sighs.
"Hershel?" The question need not be said aloud. The loose gun in his hand is enough.
Hershel shuts his eyes and nods.
Rick moves, Shane and Daryl close behind him. The others still; pausing as the three men drift away.
They enter the room to find Randall slouched in his pillows, grey skinned and sweating. Shane and Daryl help him drag the boy from the house, across the fields to the barn. Randall groans, slipping in and out of consciousness as his leg is jostled. They set him down against one of the cool barn walls.
"I don't want to die," Randall moans.
Rick stills, his jaw setting. The gun is heavy in his hand, and he looks down at it.
It should be heavy, he thinks. It should weigh more than the world.
He moves up beside the young man, the Magnum lifting to press into his forehead. "Any last words?" He murmurs.
Randall coughs, "I don't want to die," he repeats.
One moment – a breath. He remembers Cal's warning the other night: don't hesitate.
He blinks.
"You don't need to do all the heavy lifting," a voice says.
Fingers curl around the barrel of his gun, and he realizes there is a tremor racing up his arm. The gun is heavy – so heavy that he nearly drops it. Daryl is looking at him, something quiet in his eyes that speaks more loudly than the huffing and puffing of Shane a few feet away.
Daryl draws a pistol from his hip.
He doesn't hesitate.
Cal is sliding from the house when it happens – a sharp crack igniting the sky, and the sharp flash lighting up the dark belly of the barn. She pauses and waits, her breath tight in her chest.
Shane comes storming from the barn. Moments later, Rick and Daryl follow. Between themselves they heave Randall's body onto the twisted pile of dead bodies. They follow soon thereafter, murky silhouettes in the dusk.
She moves up alongside the camp, watching in quiet as Shane moves through the grasses. She stands in the shadow, listening to him mutter to himself. The tension in his shoulders is enough to make her take a step back.
"He almost didn't do it," he hisses, and Cal realizes with a jolt that Lori has bled from the shadows to his side. "He hesitated."
Cal blinks slowly at him, and then glances over his shoulder at Rick and Daryl moving towards the camp. She wasn't surprised; they had all but forced the idea of Randall's execution on him. "Who did it then?" Lori asks.
Shane runs a hand over his head, a short laugh on his tongue. "Daryl."
Cal glances sharply towards the barn, her breath catching in her throat.
"If he won't protect you and Carl-" Shane blinks suddenly, a hand drifting to cradle his cheek where Lori had struck him. She is hissing at him, telling him to be quiet. Their argument drifts to vehement whispers. Carol peers out from the window of the RV, her eyes wide and wet. Dale sits forlornly atop the RV, pretending to ignore Shane's acquiescing murmurs of desperation.
Cal turns suddenly when a hand cradles her bicep. She glances back to meet Daryl's eyes, his lips thin. She blinks in surprise; he had slipped so easily into the shadows and found her.
He jerks his chin towards the open field, the silhouette of his tent squatting in the dark. She follows him a short distance from the RV before she stops, before she refuses to move any further into the shadowy night.
"You did it," she says.
Daryl hesitates, his shoulders tightening as he turns to regard her. "Yeah," he nods.
She nods, not sure what to say. For a long moment they stand there in quiet. She tucks her hands around her body; he chews thoughtfully at a piece of grass stalk. Her eyes drift to his hands, to the white bandages wrapped around his knuckles.
"Do you want to be alone?"
The way she says it makes him pause. There is more to it than the here and the now. There is more to it than him or her. There is more to it than his tent set off from the rest, away from the group he thinks is broken. There is more to it than him simply wanting to be alone with what he's just done.
He mulls it over. He considers the way she watches him; her eyes large in the dark. She's quiet even as he moves towards her. The sound of his own footsteps makes him stop – he walks like a thunder storm roiling overhead.
He hesitates.
"I don't know," he says.
She blinks. "Me either."
