His regret is what keeps him going – a defiance born of his own idiocy. They had warned him that the pleasures of their world were not past the high walls, but he had been so far from caring. As long as he was away – far, far away.

Of course, he had never anticipated that it would be like this. He had never thought that the world was so far gone. It surprised him, amazed him, that the Governor and his people had so carefully shucked them of their ability to survive. He had taken from them the very thing they needed most in this new world.

This new, terrible world.

And Brandon was now learning why he should have stayed in the castle walls. The bite on his arm pulsed. Though it ached unbearably, it was not what drove him on into the night.

It was the horde of walkers pulsing behind him – a vast and endless ocean of undead.


It is by some bizarre luck that she has a clear shot to the SUV. It is by some twist of fate that she manages to scramble from the school bus, gallop across the parking lot and dive into the car unseen. She sinks low in the driver's seat, eyes wild as she stares out across the concrete towards the building, to the wave of walkers spilling out from the dark mouth of a shattered window. They pour across the lot in a mad search for something – or someone.

She watches in horror as Shane scrambles across the lot, haggard and limping as he throws himself into the very same school bus she had been in only moments before. The rushing herd of walkers that lope behind him cackle and moan, hands clawing desperately at the door of the bus.

It's only then that she realizes he can't keep it closed.

"Shit," Cal hisses, her fingers tight around her knife. She peers over the dashboard, watching as Shane's strength begins to wane with every passing moment. The horde is relentless, throwing both their hands and themselves against the small door.

She looks away from the bus, eyes wild as she searches for Rick. What would it mean for the group, she wonders, if Rick was lost to a sea of walkers and Shane was swallowed whole? She can't even blink as she scans the parking lot – and then she hears it, the sharp crack of gunfire.

One.

Two.

Three.

And then he's there, creeping out from behind a cop cruiser tucked near the window, his eyes wide as he takes in the horde pressing in on the bus, and the desperate screams of Shane – angry and scared.

Cal hisses, reaching down to the ignition – blanching when she realizes the keys are gone and Rick most likely has them. She goes still as he begins running to the car.

"Come on!" She hisses, nearly shrieking in despair when a few walkers break off from the bus and begin loping behind Rick. She opens the door hurriedly, pointing at the passenger seat to save time. "Other side!" She yells, and Rick rears around the nose of the SUV and dives for the door. It slams shut behind him and he fishes out the keys from his pocket.

"Shit," he repeats over and over, voicing her own sentiment.

Cal jams the keys into the ignition, the SUV purring to life. The walkers in pursuit continue forward, and at the sight of the running lights blinking on, a few others break away from the bus.

"We're going around," she hisses, driving away from the bus around to the back of the building. Just as they turn the corner they see Shane in the window, looking out after them with wide, fearful eyes.

"He thinks we're leaving him," Rick says so plainly that Cal feels a lump form in her throat.

Cal glances at him – and then does a double take. "What the fuck happened to your face?" She snarls, eyeing the bruises and battered skin of his cheeks and jaw.

Rick blanches, surprised by her sudden vehemence. He doesn't have time to respond, as she's suddenly pushing at him to open the window.

"Nevermind, just shoot," she hisses, twisting the car around the final corner of the building. Just as they come around the corner the front door of the bus caves in, walkers spilling into the bus' belly. A flash of shadow is the only sign of Shane's desperate dash to freedom.

The sharp crack, crack, crack of Rick's gun echoes wildly around them.

Cal feels her heart explode in her chest.

Don't be afraid.

A breath. A single breath.

Shane is leaping in through an open window – they don't even stop.

The walkers round the bus' side, engulfing the rear of the SUV. She can feel the pull of them, as they drag their hands across the exterior, as they throw their bodies down and under the tires. One or two of them stumble in front of the SUV, but she swerves around them or clips their legs. They sprawl behind her, struggling to stand – until the rearing herd gallops atop them, crushing them beneath their heels.

The SUV tilts and sways as it twists out of the parking lot, squealing lightly as she rams down on the gas and accelerates away. She glances back once or twice, her heart plummeting at the rearing wave of walkers that amble and lope unsteadily behind.

They are quiet. Only the unsteady rasps of the two men in the car break the silence. Cal finds her own breath coming in ragged pants, her adrenaline pulsing like fire through her veins. She can feel the sweat trickling down her back, stinging her wounded side. She can feel the telltale wet of blood on her skin - she must have opened her cut during her mad dash to the car.

"Shit," she finally says, voicing concern over her wound. "Shit," she repeats, finally realizing just how closely they had come to being a meal. The last time she had come so close to being walker-food was in the town, after her unfortunate run in with Merle. "Shit. Fuck. Shit."

Rick winces at her words.

Shane just scoffs, "you can say that again."

"What was that?" Cal hisses, glancing at Rick and then in the rear view mirror at Shane.

Shane shrugs, and Rick looks out the window, his thumb tracing his jaw. "Just ran into some trouble," Rick supplies, and Cal shakes her head in frustration.

She doesn't know what to say, she doesn't even know if there really is anything to say. Rick had been so adamant with Shane about being quiet, and then the next moment the quiet afternoon had lit up with gunshots and shattering glass.

"I thought you guys left me behind for sure," Shane admits, the defeat in his voice enough to reel Cal back from her anger.

And despite her wariness of Shane, she understands. She understands what it's like to be beaten and bloodied, and abandoned. She can still distinctly remember the world tilting, and how difficult it had been to simply sit up. She can still recall how she had been content to lay there and die – until she heard them moaning and crackling as they spilled out of their broken homes.

"Sorry," Cal murmurs, keeping her eyes firmly ahead so as not to show Shane her own fear, her own distress at having once experienced something so familiar.

He had felt it for a moment back in the bus, but in truth that was all someone truly needed to feel. A moment of abandonment was still too much.

"I'm just glad you came back," he says.

"Still, I'm sorry," she repeats.

It doesn't escape her notice that Rick says nothing at all.


T-Dog stares up at the new platform on the windmill – their new watch tower.

"Come winter, that RV is going to have to be in the barn," Dale had said, and so it had become T-Dog and Glenn's job to lay down a few boards and make sure they were stable. The platform itself wasn't anything special, but it sat higher than the top of the RV, and if worked the correct way, would provide better shelter from the elements than the motorhome ever could.

"I like it," Glenn proclaims, grinning from ear to ear. He crawls up the side of the tower, still grinning like a fool as he slings himself down on the platform. "It's like paradise."

T-Dog scoffs from below. "You have a hard-on for a bunch of wood, huh?"

Glenn waves his hand in the air dramatically, "leave me to my joy."

T-Dog chuckles and crawls up beside him. "No more cooking on that metal roof."

"No more awkward listening in on awkward conversations in the RV."

"Or around camp."

"Or around camp," Glenn agrees.

"It's like the tree house I never had," T-Dog laughs.

Glenn blinks at him, "man, you never had a tree house?"

T-Dog shrugs, "nah, man."

"Huh," Glenn pauses. "Come to think of it, I don't think I did either."

"Time and place for everythin'."

"Who would have thought that time and place would be the apocalypse?"

They sit in quiet for a bit longer, marvelling over the view the new watch tower lends. It isn't long before Dale moves towards them, staring up with appreciation at the platform they've thrown together in just the morning.

"Looks good," he comments, climbing up the tower's side to closer inspect the workmanship.

T-Dog grins and flips the hammer lazily in his hand.

And then Dale comments idly on the redundancy of some of T-Dog's nails, and the two begin to bicker uselessly.

"I did not hear you just say that," T-Dog exclaims, rolling onto his belly to examine a particular board that Dale is pointing at.

"Look at this," Dale chides under his breath. "It looks like a five year old -"

And off they go.

Glenn sighs into his hands and sits up, looking out across the field. In the distance he can make out Hershel ambling slowly about the chicken coop with Patricia; Lori and Carl are sitting forehead to forehead under a group of trees working on homework; Carol sits in the shade, elbow deep in sudsy water and wet clothes; Daryl stalks off into the trees with his crossbow; and finally Maggie working her horse in a sandy ring.

He wets his lips and watches her, remembering their brief escapade in the pharmacy in town-

"Are they back already?" Dale's voice shocks him from his revery, and he starts into awareness.

Sure enough, the green SUV that Shane, Rick and Cal had taken out that morning is flying down the drive, a cloud of dust kicking up behind it.

"They shouldn't be," T-Dog says, and the three of them hesitate with wide eyes before they shoot down the side of the tower and dart across the grassy field to camp. They hardly make it to the drive by the time the SUV comes skidding to a halt. Everyone rushes out, wide eyed and panicked.

Rick and Shane step out of the car, and finally, Cal.

"What happened?" Lori asks, eyes wide.

"Walkers," Rick says, holding up his hand to stop everyone's questions and desperate looks. "We were overwhelmed."

Cal scowls beside them, her jaw tense.

Shane is quiet.

"A walker did that?" Lori asks, her eyes on both Shane and Rick's respective bruises. Both men rub at their necks, and Shane looks away.

"Yeah," Rick confirms. "Place was overrun – we were lucky we got out."

One by one more people turn to greet them, wincing as they hear the news of the overrun police depot. Slowly the group dissolves, moving back to the camp or the house. Cal follows behind, watching the obvious tension between Shane and Rick.

"You're back," Dale breathes from beside her. Cal startles.

"For a while anyways," she says, tugging at her scarf. She slings the pack off her back and settles into a chair, immediately fishing out a bottle of water from her bag and gulping down the contents. Her legs still feel shaky from their prompt departure; her heart still thrums dramatically in her chest.

Dale nods and casts a glance over his shoulder, watching as Lori and Hershel usher Shane and Rick back to the house.

"What happened?" He asks suddenly, causing Cal to glower into her bottle.

"I don't know," she says. The look Dale gives her makes her sigh in exasperation. "One moment I was rifling through a bus, and the next I hear them arguing-"

"Arguing?"

"-about Lori and Carl."

Dale inhales sharply, his eyes narrowing.

"What is it?"

"Lori's pregnant," Dale explains.

Cal's breath catches in her throat, though she isn't sure if that's due to the idea of Lori being pregnant, or the idea of a baby making its way into the world. What had she said to Dale only days before? That the world wasn't black or white or grey, but the rusted brown of dried blood. What sort of world would that be for an infant?

"Shane doesn't think Rick can protect them."

Dale nods, watching as Shane paces anxiously on the porch of the house.

"He's dangerous," he says. "And he needs to be dealt with."


Daryl is angry. Or he was. He couldn't help but think that their soft discussions would have meant something, that she would have stayed. At first he had supposed it wouldn't matter, that she would drift through and he wouldn't care, but when she had finally left with Shane and Rick he had watched after the retreating dust cloud and realized it did matter.

He did care.

It had taken only a few short moments for him to stalk off, grumbling and rabid. Carol had retreated quickly upon seeing his expression, and Lori had ducked away with Carl. Only Dale had met his eye; only Dale had spoken a word to him from up on his RV.

"Thunder storm is rolling in," he'd said, and Daryl had glared up at the blue sky – not a cloud in sight.

"Whatever, old man," he'd groused, rumbling away with a sharp bark as Glenn poked his head out from his tent.

"What's up with him?" Glenn had asked.

"He's just missing a puzzle piece," Dale had supplied.

Their idle chatter had made him angrier. What did they know?

He'd spent the entire morning and half of the afternoon in the woods, tracking paths both familiar and foreign. At one point he found himself back at the place he had first drawn on Cal, the dead leaves and underbrush already dusting over their foot prints.

He settled there against a tree, pulling out the bolt she had found and given him. Despite his initial misgivings the arrow fit perfectly and flew true; something he wouldn't have thought out of something scrounged from the dirt of the dead world.

For a long while he had sat there, thinking of Merle and the uncertainty of his survival, and of Cal and the certainty of her's. A part of him mused what the two of them would have thought of one another, though it was a brief idea that quickly fell away – they were too different, too opposite. They juxtaposed one another so completely that could already taste the fallout.

Merle would have tried to eat Cal up, there was no doubt about that.

Where she was silence, he was the cacophony of abuse. Where she was the stillness before a storm, Merle was the roaring thunder in the night.

Eventually Daryl returns to the farm, a string of dead squirrels hanging from his shoulder. He moves through the grassy field, mindful of each step. The green SUV is tucked up beside the house – the dark hand prints that are scattered across the back make him hesitate.

It's then he sees Shane storming from the house to his tent. In the distance Rick walks with Lori and Carl.

"Dinner?" Dale speaks plainly as Daryl moves up to the fire.

"Yeah," Daryl admits, holding out the string of rodents with a nod. Dale and Carol move forward eagerly.

"They'll make a good stew," Dale says, his tone cheerful despite Daryl's sour expression.

Daryl says nothing.

"Can you get a pot from the RV?" Dale asks, eyes light with mischief. "I'm sure Carol and I can work up something really nice."

"Yeah whatever," he grouses, moving into the RV.

It's then that he sees her.

She's crouched in the middle of the floor, tugging at the straps of her sleeping bag with one hand. When the door swings against the side of the RV, she lets out a soft sigh and glances up in exasperation – and then she meets his eye and they both hesitate.

For a long moment they are still, their breath tight in their chest.

"You're back," he says quite plainly.

"We ran into some trouble," she breathes. "Walkers."

He blinks. He searches for something to say – anything.

"You hurt?"

She shakes her head.

And he feels the anger begin to melt away.


Sleep doesn't come to her, and it is long in the night that she lays awake, staring blankly at the faux-wood walls of the RV. Around her she can hear the RV settle; Carol's soft breaths from the back, and Dale's loud snores from the couch. He had insisted on taking the floor, but Cal had excused herself early, settling quickly in the tight aisle between the kitchen and bathroom before he'd had a chance.

"Well that isn't fair at all," he had said, but Cal had simply smiled in defiance.

She blinks, rubbing at her eyes and willing a yawn from her mouth. She wants to sleep, to rest easy, but she knows the moment she closes her eyes she'll be plagued with senseless dreamscapes and nightmares. The anticipation alone makes her toss and turn until finally she rolls from her sleeping bag and crawls from the belly of the RV.

Outside the night is quiet. The pregnant moon casts an eery light, one that is punctuated by the backdrop of the cloudless sky stretching on into immutable darkness. For a long moment she stands in the silence of camp, looking at the silhouettes of tents squatting in the night, and the house watching on from afar.

She holds in a breath, listening.

"Cal?"

She glances up, startled. Daryl looks down at her from atop the RV, brow drawn furtively over his eyes; it is a dark expression embellished by the deep shadows of the night.

"Hey," she murmurs, tugging at her long sleeved shirt self consciously.

Daryl gives her a funny look.

"I uh, couldn't sleep," she says.

"Hm," he looks away.

She isn't cowed by his apparent coldness and instead crawls up beside him, settling into an abandoned lawn chair off to the side. At length, they sit on into a silence as the night stretches before them, dark and deep and endless. Neither looks at one another, but instead sweep their eyes in different directions, taking in the night that rolls on and on.

It isn't long until he speaks, and she isn't surprised by his question.

"When do you leave?"

A part of her winces at his wording, but another part – a part, she thinks, similar to him – recognizes it as only a truth. There isn't hope in his voice, but a grim understanding. She has no doubt that he doesn't want her to leave, but she knows he won't ask her to stay.

He doesn't want to care.

"I don't know," she says, regretting the words as soon as they pass her lips.

Daryl's turns away, looking back to the hills rolling on into darkness.

She inwardly curses herself; despite his pretence of apathy, Daryl did care.

He cared about the group – he had always cared about the group -, and for some reason he cared about her too. She would never suppose to ask him why or how, but she had seen the concern in his eyes when she left with Rick and Shane. His warning about Shane had been simple enough, but the look he had given her spoke of a friendship – though a tentative one, she knew. From Daryl, that was all she could really ask for.

She sets back into the lawn chair and wraps her arms around herself.

"I thought we were going to leave Shane behind," Cal speaks up. "He was stuck in a bus."

Daryl glances at her, his eyes dark.

"He try to take Rick?"

She blinks; she knows he's observant enough to have recognized Shane and Rick's bruises for what they were. Only a blind fool wouldn't have been able to discern the truth; the scrapes, the hard words, and looks. Even after they'd returned, Shane had retreated from Rick, but his eyes had held his turmoil well.

"Yeah," Cal nods. "He did."

Daryl's lips are tight as he looks away. "Shoulda left him behind."

She hesitates, and then bites at her lip."We all make mistakes," she murmurs quietly.

He glances at her, unsure if her admission encompasses only Shane, but he finds her frozen, looking out across the vast field of darkness before them.

"Cal?" He asks, but her gaze is unwavering. He follows her eyes, his own cresting the dark silhouettes of the treeline. Despite the moon spilling her light across the horizon, even he can't deny the telltale flash of headlights up on the next farm over. He stills, fingers coiling around his crossbow.

"We need to get Rick," Cal whispers and then disappears, melting into the dark.

Daryl blinks, squinting. The farm was far enough away through both the trees and hills that they had never had cause for concern, but in the dark the bright light travelled far. From where they sat atop the RV, he could hardly make out the bright flare of their headlights flickering between trees. Only a wisp of light would spear through – a blinding glimpse accentuated by the dark surrounding them.

But it was enough.


The sound of a frog croaking into the paleness of predawn light is enough to shatter glass.

Rick looks out across the field from the front seat of the RV, brow drawn and jaw tight. The dark shadows around his eyes tell of his sleepless night.

"Are they even still there?" T-Dog asks. "How we know they ain't gone yet?"

"We don't," Daryl grouses. "We saw 'em – that's enough."

Rick runs a hand across his jaw.

"They might have moved on," Glenn suggests from somewhere in the belly of the RV. "Right?"

"We can't expect them to have," Dale says from the passenger seat.

"What if they're Randall's people?" "T-Dog asks.

"We'll deal with it," Daryl meets his gaze evenly. "Just like before."

"Yeah, deal with it," Glenn groans.

They go quiet as they look out across the field, unable to see the farm next to them, but knowing that only hours before there had been other people there.

Cal, leaning back into the couch, watches them. They've changed – each and every one of them so different from even a week before. There is a hardness to their eyes, a stiffness as they look out across the field.

"We'll move into the house for a few days," Rick suddenly says. "Station a few extra people on watch. Limit outdoor activity just in case they're watching."

"Should we send a scout-?"

"You volunteering?" T-Dog cuts Glenn off, causing the younger man to blush.

"No," Rick shakes his head. "If they're still there, we'll know soon enough."

"And if they are?"

Everyone freezes and looks at Shane leaning against a counter, cleaning his nails with the tip of his knife. His expression is expectant – almost condescending.

"And if they are?" He repeats, meeting Rick's eye so evenly that the RV sparks with a sudden electricity.

"We'll deal with it," Rick's jaw works. He meets and holds Shane's gaze.

Neither looks away.


The sun hardly breaches the horizon by the time they are finished; by the time the camp is collapsed and packed away once more into the belly of the RV. They move into the house, pushing themselves into rooms with their few belongings.

Hershel accepts them readily, his eyes drifting forlornly to the farm neighbouring his own property.

"It'll be better this way," he says. "Especially with winter fast approaching."

The group divides, slinking to rooms or curling up on the floor. Cal finds herself depositing her bag in a room with Carol and Andrea, and then retreating back to the living room.

Rick greets her with a grimace.

"You should get some sleep," he tells her, eyeing the hard lines under her eyes. She hadn't slept all night, that much was obvious.

"I need to do something," Cal tells him quietly. "Anything."

Rick hesitates – and then nods.

"They need help with breakfast."

"Traditional gender roles, huh?" Andrea murmurs as she passes by from their room – her voice is filled with frustration.

Rick rubs at the bridge of his nose.

"Don't worry, Rick," Cal pats him on the shoulder as she passes by.

Despite the amount of people in the house, the seriousness of their current predicament sees them silent. The morning is spent in hushed stillness, watching and waiting.

Daryl, Rick and Dale are the first on watch; laying themselves down upon the roof of the RV, and the new watch tower, and the loft of the barn. From the house they can hardly see them where they lay for hours on end, hardly breathing they are so still.

It is just after lunch when Shane, T-Dog and Glenn move out to relieve the others.

"Tell me if you see anything," Rick stresses as he hands Glenn a pair of binoculars lifted from Dale's bird watching kit. "Anything."

Glenn nods as he settles himself atop the RV, nodding to T-Dog at the watch tower, and Shane in the barn.


His glock is heavy – heavier than it ought to be. He doesn't understand it.

Maybe it's guilt, he thinks. Maybe it's the fact he keeps seeing flashes of things that could be, should be, and would never be. He keeps seeing himself – happy and laughing, but it isn't real. It isn't real because there is blood on his hands – but not red blood, he notices, but brown, dried and crusted.

It flakes away into a storm.

A storm building inside and around him.

Sometimes he remembers a flash of a life before, when his jealousy was something subtle and born of wanting. He had been found wanting – always. The only thing he excelled in was being hard and cold and mean.

The only thing he had excelled in then was the only thing keeping him alive now.

And it wasn't enough.

It still wasn't enough.

Shane had wanted to be a hero. Growing up, that was all anyone really wanted to be. And for a while he had been a hero. He'd saved cats from trees, and occasionally helped a little old woman across a road. Hell, he'd even been in a shootout or two – including the one that had led to Rick's hospitalization.

But then the new world hit and he realized that he just wasn't cut out to be a hero. Hell, sometimes he felt like he wasn't even cut out to be a cop.

He would never be good enough, he would never be right. Not while Rick was still there – not while Rick was still holding on to what he believed in. Rick had excelled at a lot of things – and it wasn't always being a husband or father -, but it was in being a good man.

Rick was a good man.

Rick was a better man than him.

He blinks, his hand coming up again and again to hit against his forehead.

Again and again and again.

He takes a breath.

It would have been easy to leave him behind, but Rick hadn't done that.

He would have – he would have left Rick behind if his butt had hit leather first. But Rick had come back for him. He had come back despite everything. Shane blinks, remembering a time when he could rely on Rick for anything – and Rick had relied on him too. It's a bittersweet thought, one that grounds him.

One that makes him realize just how fucking heavy the gun really is.

He doesn't understand why the gun is heavy. It's heavy enough that he strains into the afternoon heat, sweating under its weight. He cradles it until he can't, and then a resolve sets in.

And then he unloads the magazine, letting the shells rain across the floor.

The gun returns to his hand – light. Lighter than before all this; lighter than before everything. It feels right, like it should have always been empty.

And maybe that was what finally made Shane a hero.


"They're there. I saw 'em. They're right fucking there, Rick."

Everyone around the living room starts, eyes wide as Shane bursts in with Glenn on his heels.

Rick stands up, hand falling to his hip as he takes in Shane's stormy expression and Glenn's wild eyes. "Did you see anything?" He asks the younger man.

"No," Glenn chirps, holding up his hands.

Rick looks to Shane, "you sure?"

Shane holds his gaze before he nods.

"How many?"

"A couple."

The room goes quiet.

Patricia and Beth – only having just found her legs – murmur quietly in their discontent. Andrea hardens. Carol looks away sharply. Lori clutches at Carl.

The rest stand in silence, waiting.

Rick rubs at his eyes.

"They might be with Randall," Cal says, her words eliciting a ripple of disquiet. "We need to know if we have to do something."

Rick looks at the group, their fearful faces as they clutch at one another. "I won't ask anyone to do this."

"I'll go," Cal says. "I saw a few of their faces. I can help you."

Rick nods.

"Me too," Daryl offers, the brief glance he gives Cal enough of a reason for Rick to nod his head in acceptance.

"Thank you-"

"I'm coming," Shane suddenly cuts Rick off.

A long moment passes. Everyone holds their breath.

"Okay," Rick says. "Okay."


They move out shortly thereafter, the gold light of the young evening falling around them. They head through the trees, around behind the barn. Daryl, having known the farmhouse in his search for Sophia, leads them through the wood. It isn't long until they come to the creek the property backs onto, and Shane murmurs quietly of their need to split up.

"I saw them moving up this treeline," Shane supplies, motioning ahead.

Daryl nods.

"You two go up that way. We'll aim for the house," Rick says.

Cal blinks in surprise, and when she looks at Rick it's to find his expression serious and imploring – there is an acceptance about him. She hesitates.

"It'll be okay," Rick nods.

"Be careful," she turns, briefly glancing again at Shane. The tension of the man has melted away, his shoulders loose as he stares long at Rick.

They don't wait to watch Rick and Shane bleed away into the wood, but turn and move along the fence line bordering Hershel's property. Daryl moves quickly, his eyes trained to the ground searching for any hint of the trail.

Cal follows behind him, her eyes wide as she clutches at her knife.

For a long while neither say a word. The only sound between them is the soft step of Daryl's feet over the dried grasses and fallen leaves – behind him, Cal is a ghost. He glances back several times to ensure she's there, to make sure she hasn't floated away into the slowly darkening wood.

"There ain't nothing here," Daryl rasps, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder as he rights himself. They'd been out long enough that the light was failing, casting an array of shadows in places they ought not to be.

"What do you mean?" Cal asks, her voice pinched.

"I mean, either we missed the trail, or there ain't one to begin with."

"But-"

It is then that they see the farmhouse squatting alone up a narrow and winding drive, tucked gently back in copse of trees and bushes. A car sits off to the side, door thrown open.

Daryl slinks past her, moving through the clearing with quick steps. He's beside the vehicle in moments, peering in with a frown.

"Whoever was in here left in a hurry," he says. "Left a lot of shit in here."

Cal joins him and peers in, blanching at piles of goods. The smell of fresh blood is grizzly, and Cal glances down in alarm when she notices the front seat is covered in it.

"What're you thinking?" She asks.

Daryl shrugs, moving around the car to get a better look at it. "Georgia plates."

Cal nods and leans over, turning the keys in the ignition. "Car's dead."

He nods, "probably ran into some trouble, drove out here and-"

Cal frowns at the blood on the front seat.

Their eyes move to the house standing in silence. Slowly they move to it, wincing as the steps creak underfoot and the door wheezes. For a long moment they stand in the doorway, blinking into the dark house that looms around them. Cal marvels at how her life had taken such a turn, remembering her brief adventure with Merle into Betty and Graham's home.

It doesn't take them long to find him, a fresh walker still shut away in an upstairs bedroom. He sits up from the bed he had died in, eyes pale and ravenous. Daryl puts him down, and the two shuffle closer to take a look at him.

"Something just doesn't add up," Daryl mutters, and he doesn't need to say anything for Cal to know he refers to Shane's apparent sighting. There was no one else here – the car had been too full, and someone else would have surely put the walker down before moving on.

Something was happening.

Daryl digs in the man's pockets, wincing when he pulls out a crumpled photograph of the man and a pretty woman in front of a house. Daryl shoves it in Cal's hand. She pales when she catches sight of the man's grinning face, her heart squeezing painfully at the sight of him so alive and free; it juxtaposes the reality of the body in front of her.

She flips it over, wincing at the buoyant scrawl.

Brandon and Jessica.

Woodbury.

"Woodbury," Cal glances up. "Isn't that on the far side of Senoia?"

"Yeah," Daryl rasps. "It is."

And then they hear a gunshot.