Something about being behind a fence keeps her awake. Despite the shadows ringing her eyes, the hollowness of her bones, the deep tired clinging to her very soul, Cal can't sleep. She bids to take first watch, slinking to the windowsill.

"You good?" Rick asks.

She looks at her arm, and then nods.

"You sure?" He doesn't clarify - he doesn't need to. He doesn't look at her arm, but looks instead at Daryl.

Daryl glances at Cal.

"Yeah," he says. "We good."


It is dark. A kind of dark that lends horror to the shifting shadows; hands become claws, faces distorted into ghoulish masks. The road below shivers with the shadows of a windy night.

From where she sits at the window Cal can see down the road, deeper into the heart of the gated community, Wiltshire Estates. The night only lends her so much vision, but it is enough. Enough that the others had tucked themselves together on the room floor with relieved sighs, huddling together for comfort more than warmth, confident in her vigilance.

Across the room, Daryl leans against the door. She can see the barest outline of him, his back to the closed door with his crossbow leaning against the wall at his side and his buck knife in hand. He's awake like she is, too cautious and protective to let his guard down. His body shifts in the dark, and he stiffens. She can't tell if he is looking at her; she can't tell if he's caught her looking at him. It's too dark to see anything but the barest suggestion of what is human and what is not.

Daryl suddenly relaxes. Cal turns back to the window, and the bare and empty road below.

The window is chilly against her skin.

This reminds her too much of Atlanta, of huddling in the closet in the apartment complex. The illusion of safety had been tentative; she had spent more time convincing herself that she would be fine than actually making steps to make it happen. This place, this idyllic community with it's tall walls and gates lent the same illusion.

It was dangerous.

She shrinks back in alarm when the darkness shifts in front of her eyes, and Daryl is suddenly there. The soft light of the moon outlines his features, lending a sharpness to his expression that makes her follow his gaze out the window. Nothing but blackness stretches before them.

They are silent for a long while. They sit close enough that their breath mingles together, lending its own warmth that neither seek from the group. It blankets them in familiarity, and for a moment they are complacent.

But only for a moment.

Daryl makes a sound in the back of his throat, and Cal blinks her way back into the present. Even in the dark she notes Daryl's pointed look at her arm, cradled against her stomach.

"It's fine."

"Think y'er in the clear."

"I hope so."

"Bet it hurts."

"It's fine."

"Mhm."

They stare down at the road below, at the shadows that twist and sway and bend in the wind. The warmth creeps back between them – but only for a moment. Daryl shifts back – and the warmth of his closeness goes with him.

For a moment she feels a regret.

"Just keepin' an eye on you," Daryl murmurs, and he slips back into the dark. Cal doesn't seem him until he's once again leaning against the door. She can feel his eyes on her.

She looks away.

The hours pass slowly. The others sleep, and Cal and Daryl watch.


The morning is grey with the onset of fall.

The sky is charcoal when Glenn touches her on the arm and nods to the coiled blankets he had only just risen from. "They're still warm," he offers with an awkwardness that makes Cal's lips twitch.

"Thanks," she whispers.

Glenn rubs the back of his head, "Rick is having us scout out some nearby buildings while you guys rest, and then we'll all sweep the community in the afternoon."

"Is Rick going with you?"

Glenn shakes his head, and backs away. He flicks his finger down at the blankets, and then throws her a quick thumbs up.

"G'night," he whispers, and he leaves with Maggie in tow.

Cal slides from her seat at the window to curl herself into the mound of blankets. She hardly recognizes the soft words of Maggie speaking to Daryl until he's suddenly there, sinking awkwardly down between her and the wall. He's tense and awkward as he stretches out on the ground. Cal stares at him in the grey light – he catches her eye and then looks away.

"Just makin' sure you don't bite anybody," he grouses, frowning up at the ceiling as he tucks a hand behind his head.

"What if I bite you?"

"Shush."

"I didn't say anything."

His glower is fake.

"It's okay," she says, and his brows draw together in confusion.

It's okay to be here.

It's okay to be beside me.

It's okay to want to be here.

She offers him a fake yawn.

"I'm going to bed, Daryl."

He grunts as she shuts her eyes.

It is only when her breathing evens out that he finally shuts his own.


She wakes to silence. She had dreamed of a man leaving her to die in the middle of the road, except his face isn't the contorted and angry expression of Merle, but the quiet and calculating stare of Daryl.

She sits up, wincing as her arm throbs with pain. Daryl sits against the wall as he chews on a spoonful of beans. He sucks the tomato sauce off his fingers.

"Found you some clothes," Daryl grunts between mouthfuls, he finally glances up at her and nods towards a pile of clothing. A roll of duct tape sits off to the side.

She doesn't say thank you, or ask him where he found it. She sits up and pulls the clothing into her lap. The shirt is long sleeved flannel, something warm. The pants are big, but she doesn't care. The duct tape sits on top of a pile of celebrity gossip magazines. At her curious glance Daryl shrugs.

"Lil' thicker than jus' duct tape."

The thought makes her hesitate.

"What?" He grunts, eyes narrowing at her.

"Thanks."

He ducks down to his can of beans with a shrug.

She takes the proffered pile and heads for the adjacent bathroom. The pale light filtering in through frosted glass window makes her hesitate in front of the mirror; a haggard woman stares back at her, more of a ghost than a person. She blinks and turns away.

She changes out of her old clothes, pausing long enough to eye the dark bruising on her arm, the old wound on her side, and the yellowed skin along her ribs and stomach. So changed was the world that the blemishes on her skin seem more inconvenient than concerning.

They were just wounds. They would fade and heal.

Her eyes slide over the bandage on her arm, refusing to acknowledge it. Not yet.

Cal shrugs into the shirt and pants, cinching the jeans tight around her waist and rolling the legs up several times.

She comes out of the bathroom with her sleeves rolled up, exposing the bandages around her arm. Daryl looks at them for a moment before turning back to his beans – his nonchalance makes breathing feel easier.

Cal sits down at the window and peels back the simple strips of cloth and gauze. She winces once or twice, but goes still when she reveals her arm; blackened with bruises, laced with superficial lacerations. In the moment the pain had been very real, made shallow only by her adrenaline; now the pain is a dull ache that echoes down to the very bone.

Daryl lifts himself up and moves towards her. He sucks the sauce off his fingers, and holds his hand up to her forehead. He's so close she feels her breath steal out of her chest - she tells herself it's anticipation of what his verdict might be, or maybe that his touch sparks across her skin.

"Ain't got no fever," Daryl offers, retracting his hand. He leans against the wall, his eyes glued on her arm while he spoons another mouthful of beans into his mouth - as if he's not staring at what might have once been a fatal wound, as if he hadn't just checked her temperature only moments before.

"Usually sets in by now," Cal agrees, remembering the cop with the sad tune. His bite hadn't been particularly deep, but the fever had set in only half a day after the fact - and then he had gone, whistling into the sunset.

"Y'er fine."

"Okay."

Silence stretches between them. Safe and familiar. Daryl finishes his can of beans; Cal stares out the window.

She laughs. "It's stupid."

"Hm?" Daryl glances up.

"I thought I was dead, and I lost my nerve." She doesn't really know what else to say.

"Ain't no problem in that."

She leans against the window, her breath fogging the glass. The whole situation was compounded by her embarrassment; she had lost herself in the moment, overwhelmed by the promise of a certain death. Daryl had seen it all, and it made her flush. He had seen every moment.

"I'm sorry," she says.

Suddenly she feels the warmth of his hand, his fingers coiling tentatively around her hand, seeking permission. She lets him draw her hand closer, his eyes ghosting the superficial wounds, and dark, deep bruising.

Cal stares at his hand, how it coils lightly around her own as if she might break.

"It'll be fine." Despite his pointed look at her bruises and cuts, she feels that he is reassuring her in her emotional distress. She looks up at him, watching as he worries his lip.

"Should heal up alright," he adds as an afterthought, and looks up to meets her gaze. Absentmindedly he brushes her pulse with his thumb; it feels like lightning.

Her brow furrows at the sensation, and she looks down to where he holds her wrist.

His eyes follow her's, his thumb going still. He releases her hand and steps away, a sudden stiffness to him as he wheels about and moves towards the door.

And then Dale shows up.

"Rick wants to -" Dale's voice flourishes his arrival, he peels through the door, brushing shoulders with Daryl who seems more than eager to escape the stifling tension of the room. He watches Daryl's retreat before turning to Cal, "- start sweeping the development..."

Cal stares at her wrist.

"Cal, what happened to your arm?"

Dale's careful voice shatters her from her stupor. She glances up sharply, and back again to the mottled flesh of her injured forearm. She doesn't move to draw her sleeve down – what use would there be to hide or deny something Dale had clearly already seen? – and instead turns to regard the older man staring at her arm in horror. She offers him a deadpan expression.

"A walker."

"Oh Cal," he sighs.

She shakes her head, "it tried, but failed," she nods to the roll of duct tape Daryl had found for her. "I'm just gnawed up."

"Rick knows?"

"Yeah."

"And Daryl, of course."

Her wrist feels like its on fire. She drags her fingers against her pulse, trying to rub away the tingling and numbness of a phantom touch. "Yeah, he knows too."

Cal drags her sleeve down, and moves to grab the magazines and duct tape from where Daryl had deposited them. She binds the magazines to her arms, ignoring Dale and every ounce of his imploring kindness from where he watches her in the doorway. It doesn't take long until she's finished, and she flexes her arms against the new bindings. She tries to hide the pain; her jaw clenches and her lips pinch.

"Cal..." Dale says, watching as she tries to hide her discomfort.

"I'm fine."

He stands in her way. He glances at her arm.

"I'm fine," she reiterates tightly, and pushes past him.

His shoulders sag, and he stares into the vacant room.


Cal nearly bumps into Daryl on the landing as she tries to button the sleeves shut.

"Walkers," Daryl hisses.

Even from where she stands behind Daryl, the large window of the living room offers her a perfect view. A half dozen walkers are ambling down the streets, their stuttered growls drawing more from the shadows of the houses and alleyways of the gated community. The only relief is that they appear aimless, their eyes glazing past the house with the living and breathing occupants.

"Where'd they come from?" Rick is suddenly there, breezing into the living room with soft steps. He is at the front door before anyone blinks, peering through the floral design on the frosted glass.

Daryl positions himself to the side of the large window, sinking back into the shadowed corner. Cal is quick beside him, peeking through the curtains, eyes narrowed as more and more of them come lumbering from the dark and untouched places of the community.

At once, the others come creeping from rooms and spaces, their footsteps hesitating as Rick waves them all down. At their confused stares, Rick mouths "walkers."

"I thought it was safe here," Hershel whispers.

"That's the funny thing about the end of the world," Cal mutters through a tight jaw. "No where is safe."

Hershel frowns.

"How many are there?" Dale asks, moving forward. He stops when Rick holds up his hand.

"Too many."

They all look between each other, eyes wide with fear. Had they not escaped this same hell only the night before?

"Is it the herd?" Lori asks, her voice coming out in a harsh whisper.

"We're fenced in," T-Dog says. "We shut the gate behind us."

"Maybe we shouldn't have opened thegate," Dale mumbles. Everyone glares.

"What do we do?" Lori asks, her eyes on Rick.

"Oh lord," Hershel breathes, "Maggie."

Maggie and Glenn had gone scouting earlier that morning.

They could be dead, Cal thinks, but she doesn't say it out loud. She doesn't want the awkward boy who offered her his warm pile of blankets to be dead, that would be –

Unfair, she thinks.

The world isn't fair, she reminds herself, hardening her heart.

Rick turns and looks at everyone. "We need to leave. T-Dog, Dale, check the back alley and see if any walkers are out that way." He peers back through the peephole, and shakes his head. "We aren't going out the front door."

"Rick," Hershel's challenges. "What about my daughter?"

Rick's jaw sets, lips tight. Cal can practically hear him saying what she could not: they could be dead. But he doesn't. He leans forward, hand out as if to placate him. "Glenn handled himself in Atlanta. Don't worry about your daughter. They'll get out."

Hershel holds Rick's gaze, searching. The moment stretches between them, and then he nods in acceptance, shoulders falling in a maybe, just maybe I should trust this man sort of way.

"I thought we might use these."

Everyone turns to regard the small voice coming from the kitchen. Carol stands with an assortment of knives in her hands. Her eyes are watery and she smiles sheepishly until Rick moves towards her. She quivers under his gaze; she practically shakes when his hand finds her shoulder – she doesn't stop until he gives her a quick squeeze and a soft thank you.

Lori and Hershel take a knife. Rick slips a small one into Carl's hands and tells him to stay close to his mother. Lori glowers, but a quick look from her husband steals any complaints. Carol trembles as she holds her knife – a meat cleaver – in her fine, spidery hands.

"You know how to use that?" Rick asks, his voice low and kind.

Carol looks at him, a sudden courage in her voice. "Ed loved roast beef. I hate it."

"We need to go, Rick," Cal hisses from her place at the window. "They're starting to get thick out there."

It is in that moment that Dale and T-Dog return, explaining in hushed whispers that the back alley is clear save for a couple walkers. They move as one, Rick leading the way from the house, the others following in suit, with Cal and Daryl taking up the rear.

The first walker they see dies quickly and without complication, but the sound of its body hitting the ground causes a second to turn and let loose a rattling moan. Two more wheel around, teeth clicking. Rick and T-Dog take them, easing their bodies to the ground lest there are others.

No one sees the rotted fingers coil around Carol's ankle. She lets out a soft gasp, her hands fumbling with the cleaver. Daryl, having been right behind her, moves forward with hurried steps. The knife sinks into the walker's temple before Carol even understands what is happening. She blinks, lets loose a single sob, and then Cal's hands curl under her arms and haul her to her feet.

"Thank you," Carol whispers, her eyes darting to Daryl and Cal.

Daryl doesn't say anything. Cal's hand pushes Carol forward.

They run.

By the time they make it to the end of the alley, several walkers have spilled in behind them. They are far enough away that it doesn't matter.

"This is some bullshit," T-Dog hisses as the group scurries through the alleyway. "Why can't we get a break?"

"Could be worse," Daryl offers dryly.

T-Dog's eyes widen, "Aw come on man! You can't say shit like that when we're running for our lives."

They stop at the edge of the alleyway, Rick signaling them to hold. Cal leans forward, close enough her breath ghosts across Daryl's cheek and ear. "You know, he's got a point."

He grunts in reply; anything to hide his discomfort at her closeness.

"Run," Rick mutters, leading the group into the open.

Having chosen a house relatively close to the main drive, the gate was only a short distance away. They sprint across the asphalt quietly, but it doesn't stop the crowd of undead wandering aimlessly in the streets to turn their eyes, mouths yawning open in hunger. The initial growls are hardly more than whispers, their stumbling gait hurried as they catch sight of their prey, but eventually the volume grows as more and more walkers start a jagged lope towards the group.

Rick pulls the sliding gate open enough to slip everyone through. Daryl hangs back, knife lashing out to sink into a walker's temple. It hits the cement with a thud.

"Come on," Rick hisses.

Daryl pushes himself through the opening with a quick hop, Rick slides it shut with a gasp. It takes only moments for the first walker to slam against the gate, arms stretching through the bars with eager fingers.

As one, the group backs away. They stand there quietly, each one of them staring as walker after walker slowly press against the barred gates, hands grasping and teeth clicking.

"No," Hershel mumbles, and moves towards the gate. "No, my daughter-"

Rick grabs him by the elbow. "There are other ways out," he warns, and glances back at the group of walkers who crowd the metal gate; Hershel stands just out of their reach.

The older man nods, and turns, moving to lean against the hood of one of the trucks they had – thankfully – not brought past the brick walls and metal gate. His shoulders shake with barely restrained grief.

"Maybe we can lure them away from the gate," T-Dog offers, "and a few of us can try to find Glenn and Maggie."

"Maybe," Rick nods, hands on his hips as he studies the faces of the walkers.

Cal stands near the gate, watching the walkers push and reach and stretch towards her.

"Pro'lly thought their walls would protect 'em," Daryl murmurs to her.

Cal says nothing. Atlanta is still vivid in her mind.

"Will we be able to clear them out?" Lori asks.

Rick moves to the truck and climbs atop its nose, looking past the wall of rotting flesh pressing against the gate, into the belly of the walled community they had only just come from.

He pales.

"Where did they all come from?"

He isn't surprised to find Cal beside him.

"I don't know."

The small group that scrambles at the gate is nothing compared to the walkers stretching down the street, stumbling from behind houses, alleys, and dark places. They are seemingly unending.

"Yeah, we tried to warn you."

Glenn and Maggie come out from behind a copse of trees, sweat stained and dirtied. Glenn runs a bloodied hand across his forehead, and shakes his head, "they were in the church. They weren't even moving until we walked by, and then they just sort of... came from everywhere."

"All Dead. Do Not Enter," Dale announces. He holds up a sign covered in leaves and dirt.

"Oh, well that's handy," T-Dog says flatly.

"It's supposed to be on the gate-"

"Dale," T-Dog holds up a hand, "I know it's supposed to be on the gate."

Rick sighs and jumps down from the nose of the truck. He takes the sign and looks at it, fingers worrying the edges of the metal. Someone had taken the time to make it, but something – most likely a combination of poor placement and weather – had seen fit to discard it.

He tosses it down in front of the gate.

"I think we best move on."


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