Daryl spoke to her willingly for the first time in days as they approached the weather beaten clubhouse. Albeit it was just to instruct her but Beth was pleased with the interaction all the same. The main doors were secured from the other side somehow.

'We'll check around the side,' Daryl told her gruffly.

Through a series of silent nods, they made their way around the side of the building, checking over their shoulders for the walkers that had come from the woods. They were catching up now; Beth could hear them rasping and moaning as they gained on her and Daryl. He found an old golf club and picked it up, weighing it in his hands as if to decide on whether it would make a good enough weapon. Slowly he pulled on the door handles. The door swung open easily.

There was something eerie about the club house. Beth wasn't sure whether it was the murky darkness inside the building or the deafening silence in a place which was once so full of life. She decided it was a combination of both. Daryl closed the doors behind them, leaning his weight against the wood to ensure they were secured before sliding the golf club through the handles.

The smell of death was overpowering in the small room. Beth gagged, forcing the bile back down her throat. She picked her way across the room in the dim light, crunching debris under the heel of her boot. Three walkers hung from the ceiling, thrashing and clawing. Beth swallowed hard. She could sympathize with the despair that they must have felt when they were alive; thinking that ending their lives was one way to avoid how the world had turned out. She thought back to Rick's admission about how everyone was infected and wondered if that would have made a difference to the decisions these people had made about taking their own lives.

She scouted the room, checking for any bottles of alcohol that she could pick up and complete her mission. There was nothing left; just empty packets and bottles, the remains of people and makeshift beds. On a table, she found a silver spoon etched with a picture of the White House and the words 'The Capitol - Washington D.C'. She pocketed it, unsure why, and turned to find Daryl on his knees scrabbling among personal belongings, stuffing money and jewelery into a leather backpack.

'Why are you taking that stuff?' She asked, puzzled.

He shrugged and continued to stuff the bag until they were disturbed by a rattling sound. Walkers outside pushed against the double doors, bending the golf club to a point that Beth was sure would snap.

'Go,' Daryl ordered, shoving her roughly in front of him and through some doors which led deeper into the building.

They found themselves in a kitchen, old food and empty packaging strewn around the counters and littering the floor. Beth drew her knife as she crunched across the floor, sending broken glass skittering under metal shelves. She was unsure of what she was looking for apart from alcohol, yet she wandered into walk in refrigerators and peered into each cupboard. Finally, she spotted her prize; a dusty old bottle on the top shelf. She reached up to get it, fumbling clumsily with her fingers in an attempt to bring it closer to her. She over reached, upsetting the balance of the shelf, and for a moment the bottle seemed to hang in mid air before crashing to the floor. Beth studied it in disbelief for a moment, her stomach sinking in disappointment.

From out of nowhere, drawn to the noise, a male walker lunged at her, pinning her to the wall. She stared into it's lifeless eyes and the cavern of it's mouth as she squirmed and twisted, shoving it away from her. With a grunt of exertion, she stabbed it, crying out through her gritted teeth from the effort. The blade missed the desired spot and she arced the weapon through the air, this time connecting it with the skull and drove it home. The walker stilled, and as Beth pulled out her knife, it slumped to the floor. She wiped her brow and turned to find Daryl watching her.

'Thanks for the help,' she snapped, sarcastically.

He shrugged, his face nonchalant. 'You said you could take care of yourself. You did.'

For a brief moment, Beth thought she heard a hint of pride in his voice. Together, they continued through the rooms, descending down a narrow staircase which led to a darkened corridor. A glass display cabinet had been pushed, or knocked over, onto the opposite wall creating a barricade in the middle of the room. Gingerly, the pair crawled underneath the opening that was left, cautious of the broken glass spread across the floor which glinted in the light of the torch Daryl shone in front of them. Beth noticed an old grandfather clock, with the words Tempus Fugit engraved on the face. The clock was still ticking, a steady rhythm that felt almost comforting. The corridor opened up into a large room filled with golfing paraphernalia, clubs, ball and - the thing that made Beth smile - new clothes.

'It must have been the store,' she grinned excitedly to Daryl.

He shrugged in return, surveying the room with his crossbow raised. Beth ran her hands over a yellow t-shirt, admiring the soft and clean feel to it, and pulled it from the hanger. She held it against herself deciding it would fit and - taking cover behind a rack of clothes - slipped her dirt encrusted vest up and over her head, replacing it with the new garment. She looked around for Daryl, spotting him perched on one of the counters looking at a sight in front of him. As she got closer she saw what it was and revulsion rose in her throat, escaping from her lips in the form of a strangled gasp. Somebody had cruelly attached the torso of what used to be a woman to the lower half of one of the store mannequins. Attached to her breast was a sign, the words 'Rich Bitch' scrawled in a childish hand.

'Help…help me take her down,' Beth managed to say. She gave the torso a gentle tug but it was stuck firm. 'Daryl?'

He didn't move, just continued to sit and watch her. 'Don't matter, she's dead.'

Beth bit her tongue, preventing the angry and disappointed tirade that she wanted to yell at him. It did matter. Someone had taken this woman's death and made it more undignified than it already had been.

'It does matter,' she stressed. 'Help me.'

After a few silent beats, Daryl rose, rummaging behind the counter for a sheet. He carefully draped it over the corpse's head. 'There.'

Beth nodded her thanks. From the corridor came a loud chime from the clock. Two dull bongs reverberated through the otherwise quiet building. Beth winced, knowing that sound would alert walkers. She was right; from the room to the left they came spilling into the store, shambling and groaning, arms outstretched with claw-like hands grasping for them.

'Go!' Daryl ordered, pushing her forward.

With a panicked cry, Beth fled into the next room. It was light and wide, with lockers lining the walls. At the other end was an open doorway, a gaping void of darkness beyond it. She headed towards it and stopped when she realised Daryl had paused in the middle of the room. Horrified, she opened her mouth to tell him to hurry as the walkers filed into the space. The words caught in her throat and she stood uselessly as he fired a bolt into the head of the first walker, and smashed his heavy crossbow into the one behind. She could feel the rage radiating from him as he angrily scooped up a golf club and swung it through the air, slicing through it with a loud whooshing sound as he smacked it against the third walker's skull. He hit it with such force that the end broke off, embedding the sharp point into the brain.

'Daryl!' Beth cried, unsure of whether to help him or not.

Another came through the door, mouth open. With his face contorted in rage, Daryl snatched the knife from his belt and drove it hard into the eye socket. Beads of sweat flew from his reddening skin, his breath coming in hard gasps. Without pausing for a second, his hand reached for another golf club as an elderly walker stumbled through the door. Instead of going for the head, Daryl whacked the club across it's chest repeatedly. The hard thud of the weapon against it's bones made Beth wince. She looked on, concerned as Daryl continued to bludgeon the walker until it fell to the floor. Still it rasped and reached for him, and still he smashed the golf club down again and again, raining furious blows. Beth knew this was his way of letting out some of the anger he felt. She stayed back, hovering in the doorway not wanting to intrude on this moment that he so obviously needed. And then, sweating and panting and red in the face, he swung the club at the head detaching half of the face which sailed through the air, spraying blood and bone matter, which landed with a soft noise on the front of Beth's clean shirt. Had the situation been different, she would have laughed, but the look on Daryl's face as he stood back made her press her mouth together. She said nothing, instead indicated with her head towards the door. He pushed his long hair from his face and followed.