Merle hadn't been around much when he'd been growing up. He was always off on some binge, or crumpled in a gutter somewhere chucking up his own guts. The man wasn't having fun if he was sober. It was a cold and hard truth, Daryl realized at an early age, that Merle adopted from their father.

He almost smirks at Cal's words, at her silent admission. It is painfully familiar – he recalls having said nearly the exact same thing only just a few weeks prior. It was shit when he was there, but it was better than being alone.

The scars on his back were a testament to Merle's long absences, to a time when even his mother couldn't hide him in her arms – God rest her soul. Only Merle had been able to stop their father's relentless rages, and that had been entirely due to a violence all his own. While he had never laid a hand on Daryl, there had still been a pain, and there had still been a hurt left all the same.

Daryl had thought he had hated Merle. For a long while he had thought so – until Merle would leave. Merle always left. He would find an excuse - whether it was on account of their father or Daryl's being a pussy – and hightail it out of dodge. He always fled away to the city, to crawl back into the gutter or the crook of a whore's arm. He would leave Daryl behind, and in that he left him alone.

Entirely and utterly alone.

Daryl almost says something about Merle, but he stops himself. Cal is looking away down the road, her fingers plucking at the hem of her shirt. The silvered duct tape peaking out from beneath makes him look away sharply; she glances at him, her eyes dancing across the red peaking out from beneath his collar.

"Did you ever think about leaving?" She asks.

Daryl chews on the inside of his cheek. He had thought about leaving the moment he and Merle had joined up with the group back in Atlanta - that was until he had seen the Napalm raining down in the streets. It was only when the world truly turned to shit that he realized being alone just wasn't plausible – if he left, he may have very well never seen a living person again.

That desperation as a child, the loneliness due to Merle's absences, reared its head.

Anger had guided him once; a rash decision to find his brother and then leave. Only Rick had placated him enough to stay; only Rick's careful words had guided him down from up on high. He had distanced himself, but he had never really looked out across the dark fields of the dying world and thought he would be better off by himself.

Even after the CDC. Or the Barn. Sophia.

Or Cal and her careful words of being safe in her loneliness. It had been a temptation – but one smothered so readily by the memory of Merle's abandonment in his earlier years.

He never wanted to be truly alone again.

"Not really," he scowls.

She blinks at him, at his honesty. She can hear the subtle judgement in his voice.

"Some people are better off alone," she mumbles back.

Daryl shakes his head. "Yeah, like the dead," he snaps back.

For a long moment the two are silent as they consider one another.

Cal rubs at the scarf wrapped around her neck, tugging at the damp fabric with a noncommittal shrug. "Come on," she says. "We have more to do."

And like that, Merle is discarded.

There is a deep quiet about them. A silence that sees them on into the afternoon. Cal returns to rifling through what cars they can and shoving what she can scavenge into the back of Otis' truck. The afternoon sun is blistering, and soon after both are panting into the day and wiping sweat from their brows.

After a switching out with Daryl to take watch, Cal notices his aloof and somewhat distracted focus. He seems far away, as if he's no longer tethered to the earth. Rick's quiet concern for Daryl's well being ripens in her mind, taking form as she notices his lacking attention. In the short time she had known Daryl she had quickly known him to be observant in an almost Sherlockian manner.

Cal watches him from atop Otis' truck; the way he slinks between the vehicles and peers in the dusted windows is almost uncaring.

"What is it?" She asks, wincing when he blinks to life from his stupor.

"Nothin'."

"Doesn't look like nothing," she says.

He grunts and manoeuvres behind a truck, effectively blocking her from view.

She calls out after him, turning away from the truck so she can better look on down the highway.

Daryl's silence is enough of an answer.

"Rick's worried about you," she suddenly says.

"He ain't gotta be," Daryl grouses back.

"You just killed a man."

"It had to be done."

"Daryl."

Daryl ignores her and stares off into the distance, his jaw tight as he regards the winding river of rusted metal and deteriorating rubber. The world is quiet around them. He moves further behind the shadow of the transport truck, winding his way into the labyrinth of rotting cars. He doesn't hear her footsteps, but he knows from her silence that she has climbed down from Otis' truck to follow him.

They move through the graveyard like two ghosts, weaving across the concrete in silence. He's quiet, and she's silent; their footsteps roll across the dusted road like whispers. The wind breathes across his sweaty back, and he stops. He knows she's there behind him, waiting for him to turn and say something.

Anything.

"Just leave me the hell alone," he snarls suddenly, turning to her.

She blinks up at him, her eyes wide as she takes in the violence he shrouds himself in. It's a blanket – a shield against the unknown. He doesn't know what to feel and so he turns to aggression.

"No," she says.

It's all she says.

For a long moment they stand staring at one another. Daryl glowers darkly; Cal stares up blandly. He bristles at her apparent nonchalance, as if he's not standing there like a rolling thunderstorm – as if he's nothing but a boy having a tantrum.

"I can wait," the words slip from her lips as if she knows her patience bothers him.

Daryl grunts and turns from her, refusing to look her in the eye and say that he doesn't care – that it doesn't touch him. He isn't weak, he wants to say. He isn't going to crumble and break and shatter under the fact that he took a man's life. He did it for a friend – for someone who he could see was beginning to crumble, who was beginning to tremble under the weight of his burden. He did it for the people Randall had hurt, and for Cal who had sat so stoically under Randall's scrutiny.

If he had to live with that burden, if he had to take it upon himself for others, he would.

"I did what I had to do," he says, his tone defensive.

"You did," she agrees quietly.

"And I'd do it again," he grouses.

"Why?"

The question catches him off guard. It's more a challenge than a query, posed more for himself than her own clarification.

"Why?" He repeats with narrowed eyes.

She nods, expression expectant. "You're not a murderer, Daryl."

"You don't know me."

"No, but I can tell the difference between you and Shane. You're not a murderer," she repeats.

Daryl glowers at her darkly.

"You care about the group. You care what happens to these people. You try to distance yourself because you're afraid of caring. Because caring means you have something to lose."

He snarls at her, moving closer, bullying her space with a sudden aggression. She steps back and stares up at him wildly.

"You. Don't. Know. Me," he repeats, rasping his words like sandpaper across her ears.

"No," she says quietly. "But I know someone like that."

She pushes past him and retreats back to the truck, leaving him standing there amongst a row of ghosts.


They arrive back at the farm with little fanfare. Everyone helps unload the truck, sorting the items for later division and distribution amongst the group. Rick holds and pats Cal and Daryl's shoulders, his eyes light with relief at their return and their support.

"Thank you," he mutters quietly, passing Daryl and Cal to run his hands across a pile of blankets, or tug appreciatively at a basket of clothes. He marvels at the small things; a full tube of toothpaste, or a bag of medicine. Always his eyes return to them, appreciative. "Thank you," he repeats.


There had been a time when sleep came softly in the night, but that had been a time of pink dresses and loose teeth – when dreams were of fairies and unicorns, and not hellish things crawling in the dark. A good sleep was a long forgotten ally; something she hadn't known in years.

And with the world the way it was, it wasn't surprising that she lay awake into the nights, sweating and gasping as nightmares became a reality.

She had dreamt of lightning and thunder; of rolling hills that glowed with grey light; of brown blood crusting on her hands; of a cop wandering into the dusk, whistling something disjointed and haunting. She had dreamt of a man dying, and his best friend clutching fervently at her hands. Of a flag folded neatly, and a ring slipping from her finger.

She had awoken, and crawled from her tent with a sigh. On watch, T-Dog had welcomed her offer of reprieve, his eyes gracious as he relinquished both rifle and chair as he moved from the RV to his tent in the distance. In the quiet of the dim night, she had sat in silence.

It isn't until the grey hours of the early morning that he finds her there atop the RV. Rick moves up beside her, slouching into the empty seat beside her with a sigh. For a long moment the two sit in silence, Rick marvelling at the familiarity of their meeting, until he clutches at his face and sighs loudly into his hands.

"You can take what you'd like," he says of the salvage from yesterday. Cal blinks in surprise. "It's the least we can do."

"Rick-"

"No," he says, holding up a hand.

She goes quiet. After a moment she nods.

"Thank you."

He nods in reply. "When were you thinking of leaving?"

"As soon as possible."

"I was thinking about heading out soon, there's a police station about thirty minutes away. Might get some guns and ammo. You're welcome to come. We could drop you off along the way if you'd like."

She's quiet for a moment, lips thin and eyes wide. Rick catches the expression, the hint of doubt that flashes across her face – as if she's not quite certain she wants to leave. He almost hopes she'll refuse, but she nods slowly. "Thank you," she says.

For a long moment the two are quiet, Rick wanting to ask her if she's certain of her decision to leave, and Cal wanting him to try and convince her otherwise. She recalls Carol and Daryl's quiet words, and Dale's blunt opinion. They were words that would have convinced her had she met them in another life, or another time; if doubt didn't gnaw so ferociously at her conscience; if Merle's betrayal wasn't so fresh.

"Daryl moved back," Rick shatters the quiet.

She blinks, "pardon?"

He nods down to the camp, to the circle of tents. It is only then that she realizes the wispy smoke from the treeline is gone, and Daryl's tent now squats only a short distance from the rest.

She doesn't say anything, instead she turns and looks out across the grassy fields towards the dark treeline, to the place he had once camped – alone.


When the sun finally crests the horizon, Glenn is the first to wake. He relieves Cal from watch, allowing her to go about her morning routine. Slowly, the rest of the group wakes, and day begins in a flourish of activity.

It becomes apparent early on that spirits have lifted. Despite the impromptu funeral only a few days previous, people exchange smiles and tentative words of happiness. Lori offers a soft smile over the camp fire, exclaiming over Beth's revival under the careful scrutiny of her father; T-Dog and Dale chuckle softly over a shared joke; Glenn and Maggie share a wistful morning of soft words atop the RV; and even Carol smiles, though it is hard pressed to touch her eyes. Only Daryl seems sour, though she supposes it has more to do with her words the day before – he catches her eye for only a moment before he turns away.

After scooping the last of her eggs into her mouth, Cal discards her dirty plate into the dishwater. She hesitates when she meets Carol's eyes, wincing as the woman's smile falls away to a quiet stare. She beelines for the house.

She feels like a coward.

It isn't until she's slipped in through the kitchen door that she breathes, and even then she freezes when she realizes she's stumbled in on an argument between Andrea and Lori. The two women crowd the kitchen, their eyes livid. They don't exchange words, but the intensity of their glares is enough to make Cal hesitate.

It is only when Lori catches sight of her over Andrea's shoulder that the two women stop. Smiles are quickly plastered across their faces, though the tension lining their shoulders tells a different story.

"Rick said I could take some things from yesterday's haul-"

"Oh!" Lori says, ushering her into the sitting room and to a pile of arranged clothing and piles of other goods. "He said you'd stop by."

"You're leaving?" Andrea asks, and Cal blinks at the woman's tone – wonder, appraisal, curiousity.

"Yeah," Cal nods, turning to pull a shirt and a pair of pants into her arms. She holds each against her body before shoving them under her arm. "

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No more sure than it's a good idea to stay."

This makes Andrea pause, her eyes light with understanding. "I get that," she says, sincerity in her words. She doesn't embellish on her own desire to leave, but watches Cal wistfully as the other woman picks through a pile of jackets for the coming fall.

Lori excuses herself, and after a few moments Andrea joins Cal, rifling through several small piles and relieving them of a few items. "Here," Andrea passes her a handful of toiletries. "Things I know I wouldn't want to go without."

Cal hesitates. Andrea's warmth is a complete one-eighty from days previous. "Thanks," Cal offers her a tentative smile before shoving them under her arm. She pushes her hand through a plastic bag, plucking out several wet wipes.

"Any tips?" Andrea asks, expression open and curious. Cal blinks at her as the woman settles down on one of the empty chairs, leaning forward with earnest.

"For what?"

"Surviving – out there."

Cal's expression quiets, going stoic and chilled. Her lips pale as they press against one another. She shrugs lightly, looking away from Andrea – open and curious, nothing like how she imagined their first real conversation would be. Andrea had always come across as an angry, tumultuous woman.

"Are you thinking of leaving?" Cal probes.

Andrea shrugs, "I want to be prepared – just in case."

Cal nods, "it's always good to be prepared."

"But in all seriousness."

She considers the woman sitting before her, "don't be afraid."

Andrea looks away and scoffs lightly.

Cal shrugs and shoves her procured wet wipes into her back pocket. "I'm not kidding," she says.

"Sounds like something off a fortune cookie," Andrea says quite plainly.

Cal looks away from Andrea, her lips thin as she pushes away the memory of golden light, and of an officer ambling slowly towards the city. He had owned his death in that; he hadn't been afraid as he turned to meet his fate.

"Yeah, it kind of does," she breathes.

The two women stand and turn to leave the living room, pausing only long enough to excuse themselves to Lori as she heads up the stairs with a tray in hand. "Lunch for Beth," she explains with a smile, though her attention is directed to Cal and not the scowling Andrea at her side.

They exit the house and make their way towards camp. Andrea helps Cal carry a few items to her tent, whereupon arriving she stands in the door and examines the other woman's sparse belongings.

"Why the sock?" She asks outright, watching as Cal unceremoniously shoves a sock into an open Tylenol container.

"When the only thing between you and certain death is how quiet you can be, a few rattling pills can tip the scale," Cal explains, closing the capsules lid and tossing it down. The bottle hits the ground with hardly a pop, and then rolls quietly to Andrea's feet. "I learned that the hard way."

"What happened?"

Cal shrugs, "I was stupid, and someone else paid the price."

Andrea's face goes white, and she blinks in uncertainty. "I'm sorry."

Cal smiles ruefully. "Don't be. He was the one that told me that. Don't be afraid. I owe him everything."

Andrea doesn't say anything, but she looks out the door of the tent to the RV where Dale sits looking out across the fields.


The subtle joy of the day before is shattered. Cal's departure is met with a solemnity – everyone is quiet as she collapses her tent, with the exception of Dale who tells her to keep it.

"I'll have no use for it," she explains. "Not for how I travel."

He accepts it back with a wet eye and quiet nod.

The rest approach her individually, moving like ghosts from their breakfast or morning duties. Glenn offers her nothing more than a nod, a pinch of the lips and an awkward shuffle of his sneakers. Maggie presents her another shirt – long sleeved and duct taped. Lori and Carl murmur quiet goodbyes and good luck. Hershel thanks her for being there for his daughters when he could not.

Andrea approaches with a tentative smile, their brief discussion the previous day lending her courage. "I hope we meet again," she says. "Though hopefully through better circumstances."

Cal smiles,"hopefully."

T-Dog is there, wrapping her in his arms and hugging her tightly. She gasps loudly, not remembering the last time she had received a hug. After a moment she returns it, the feeling foreign and unusual. "If I see a storm, I know you'll be watching it, ya crazy."

She gives him a smug expression which he laughs at.

Carol walks up to her as T-Dog moves away, clutching her hand softly in her own. "Thank you," and that is all she says, though Cal can see the conflict in her eyes. She wants to say more; she wants to dissuade her from leaving.

But she doesn't.

The last person to approach is Daryl, though he moves over stiffly and with little preamble. He stands quietly in front of her, expression tight as she looks up at him. "Bye," he mutters quietly, and when it becomes apparent that he'll say no more, Cal turns to walk away.

"It might be shit," he says. "But it's better than being alone."

It's all he has to say to make her hurry away – the last plea for her to stay, and it coils around her more tightly than anything the others could have said.


Rick and Shane stand beside the green SUV, staring down at the map sprawled across it's nose. Cal, Hershel and Daryl stand beside them, their eyes trained on the small red 'X'.

"We need the guns," Rick says quite plainly, ignoring Shane's tense jaw.

"Better we get 'em than them assholes," Daryl grouses.

Rick nods. "I don't want to have them show up, and us not be prepared."

"I'll go," Daryl volunteers with a nod, but Rick shakes his head.

"Shane and I are going. I need you here."

"And I'm going to," Cal interjects. "I'll help you grab what you need, load up and then I'm gone."

Rick nods.

"We both shouldn't be going, man," Shane hisses, eyes dark and stormy.

"I need you on this," Rick replies. There is something about his tone that makes Cal pause – makes her narrow her eyes and wonder what Rick is up to. She knows his trust in Shane had been waning, but the clear suspicion in his eyes was enough to make her wonder just how much it had fallen away.

The two eye each other for a solid minute before Shane relents, bowing his head in concession.

"Sure, man."

As the group dissolves to prepare for their departure, Cal turns to toss her bag in the back of the SUV. She starts when she realizes Daryl is standing there, his eyes narrowed.

"Watch him," are the only two words he says before he slips away towards camp.

He doesn't need to clarify – she knows exactly who she needs to watch.


The drive is as somber as the day. Rick manoeuvres the SUV off the farm road and onto the highway, taking it a few miles south before they turn off on a service road. The rotted concrete makes the vehicle groan.

For a long time no one says a word. Rick looks ahead, while Cal sits in the back seat and watches Shane; the tension along his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw. He stares darkly out the window and she wonders if he's thinking of anything pleasant at all.

He has the same look on his face as Merle – something not quite right, something not quite there.

"There," Shane says, nodding to a walker ambling across a wide field. It's awkward gait is unrelenting – it stumps in a single direction, uncaring of the vehicle drifting by behind it.

"Wonder why it isn't stopping," she murmurs.

Shane scoffs, "probably got its nose on a good meal."

She shrugs and watches the walker until it disappears behind the crest of a hill.

They drive on for a while longer, until the flat farmlands give way to trees, and the service road spits them out on paved road littered with cracks. In the distance lingers a fenced off building; a series of school buses parked in the parking lot are the only ghosts in sight.

"I take it that's our police depot?" Shane asks.

Rick nods and steers towards the gate. The car comes to a stop, and for a long moment they sit in silence. Rick clutches the steering wheel tightly in one hand, while the other creeps down to clutch at the knife tucked into his belt. Shane's own hand grasps at his pistol, his eyes wide.

They slip from the car, moving onto the concrete with careful steps. Shane draws his pistol, but Rick shakes his head. "We need to be quiet," he warns. The other man blinks, his jaw tightening as if he wants to refuse – but then Cal is slipping past him, her own knife in hand.

They move up to the fence, looking out across the parking lot. The school buses are few, but large enough that they block a direct line of sight to the building squatting behind them.

Cal blinks and shields her eyes against the sun, marvelling at how contrasting heaven and hell had become. The dusty grime that covers every surface is apocalyptic while the blue sky overhead spoke of any other summer's day.

Rick suddenly rattles the fence.

Cal and Shane jump back, hissing and spitting in surprise. A short moment after, a moan resounds from behind one of the hulking school buses, and a few walkers come stumbling out from behind them.

"We need to be quiet. Conserve ammo – save it for the real threats," Rick explains, digging the tip of his knife into the pad of his thumb and dragging the blossoming ribbon of blood across the chain link fence. Shane watches in quiet, brows drawn together in thought. "We can finish them off with a knife. Quick. Simple. Quiet -" he glances at Cal when he says this, his eyes taking in the hunting knife she clutches so reverently. "I saw what Cal could do, and we need to do that."

Shane glances at her. She refuses to look at him.

The walkers throw themselves against the fence, rotted lips finding the thin trail of blood. They suck and tongue at the teasing meal, pale eyes wild with hunger.

Shane watches as Rick steps forward, his knife slipping into the eye of one. When he steps back, the walker falls down – dead as dead can be.

Shane takes the other one quickly, his eyes alighting with excitement.

They slip in through the gate, pushing it aside enough for the SUV to squeak past.

"They don't have bites," Shane suddenly calls out from where he squats beside the bodies, causing both Rick and Cal to freeze and turn towards him. Cal leaves the gate ajar, and instead moves towards him. Rick steps from the vehicle and jogs over.

"Maybe somewhere you didn't check?"

Shane gives her a bland look.

"You never know," she shrugs.

"Scratches?" Rick suggests hurriedly, pointing at a long line along one of the men's forearms.

Shane shrugs it off, accepting the explanation. As he moves off towards one of the buses, Cal hangs back, eyeing Rick hard.

They drift through the parking lot, eyes wide and at the ready. Their hands ache with how tightly they clutch at their knives, fingers going cold from their white knuckle grip.

Cal breaks off from the other two, drifting into a school bus. She hesitates at the front, her fingers coiling around the lever to close the door. It whispers shut behind her, and she reaches up to tap the tip of her knife against the ceiling. The tap-tap-tapping is enough to make her wince and hold her breath.

There isn't a sound in reply.

She ignores the soft echo of Shane and Rick's voices as she moves down the row of seats. She finds nothing in the first bus, and so she exits and climbs into another bus. The soft echo of their voices has turned more heated by the time she exits the second bus, Lori and Carl the only words she can decipher.

She remembers Shane's and Lori's hushed argument, their words tangling together into some semblance of an affair. Cal hadn't known either of them well, but in that brief moment when she had overheard them after Randall's execution, it had become apparent that Shane considered Rick incompetent when it came to protecting his family.

In the third bus she finds several backpacks; she digs into them eagerly. When her search yields nothing more than a few changes of clothes and a book, she sighs. The people the packs belonged to hadn't been planning for an end of the world scenario.

"Shit," she says, leaning back.

And it is only then that she realizes she can no longer hear Rick and Shane.

Silence encompasses the parking lot.

Cal hesitates, her breath catching as she waits for something – anything.

The sharp sound of shattering glass is one of the few things she hears; and the sudden crackling moans of walkers.