A/N: Such lovely reviews! Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading my little story and especially to those of you who are taking the time to comment and let me know you enjoy it. I'm trying to stick to my plan of NOT planning, but a part of me is kind of agonizing over where I'll take things next, who will live, who will die, etc. I guess I'll just keep going and see where the characters take me. Thanks for taking this ride with me! And by the way, here's the disclaimer I should probably put on every chapter: I don't own these characters, but I'm having a lot of fun writing about them! No infringement intended…just entertainment.
Carol saw the sun go down and come back once again, and her stomach began to ache from hunger. She tried to keep herself full of rusted rainwater, but she needed food and the coppery taste was beginning to make her gag. She still had the other beer but she was afraid it would make her throw up, even though there was nothing in her stomach. She didn't want to feel even sicker, and warm beer might not be a great idea. But she needed something, and she was desperate.
She grabbed the hammer from the tool bench and started moving around the piles of clothes and junk that lined the walls. It took all of her strength just to lift the piles. She was so weak, she didn't know how much longer she could hold on. She grabbed an old towel and held it at both ends, then waited, tears falling down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and focused on her task. She kicked at the pile in front of her until finally a rat appeared. It stopped and looked up at her for a moment. She drew in a shaky breath and then pounced with the towel, catching the rat inside and then twisting the ends to trap it. The rat squirmed and wiggled so much inside the towel that she could barely hang onto it, so she held the ends and slammed it into the wall a few times until it was still. Then she placed the rat, still wrapped in the towel, on the hood of the car. She grabbed the hammer she'd dropped on the floor and then felt the rat through the cloth to determine where its head was. She raised the hammer and brought it down with as much force as she could. Slamming the rat into the wall probably killed it, but she had to be sure. She was sobbing now, barely able to see through her tears.
She slowly unwrapped the towel, dreading the sight of the bloody dead rat. She steeled herself, wiping her tears again, and tried to convince herself that eating this rat was the same as eating the squirrels Daryl brought back from his hunts. Squirrels were rodents, after all, and she'd eaten tons of squirrel meat over the last year. But it had always been cooked over a fire, and Carol hadn't found matches or any other way to start a fire in this garage. If she had, she would've started one a long time ago for warmth. No, she would have to eat this rat raw, and she would have to hope and pray that it didn't carry a disease. Who am I kidding? she thought. What difference would a disease make at this point?
Carol had tried to keep her spirits up and maintain some hope, but it was getting harder every hour, every minute. She was so desperate that many times she'd very nearly headed out of the garage armed with that hammer and wrench and taken her chances with the walkers. For hours she had stood at the garage door, peering out a small corner of one of the windows and looking for a chance to escape. But walkers constantly shuffled in and out of the driveway, and she could see more of them across the road, ambling around the yards of the other houses. Armed with those two tools and weak from hunger, Carol couldn't hope to last more than a few minutes. Many times, she'd considered heading out anyway, because she was going to die in here if she didn't. She knew the chances of anyone finding her were very slim, even if they were still looking. A part of her wanted to simply lie down in the backseat of the car and wait to die. But another part, the part that had grown used to surviving, the part that held on to the belief that she would see Daryl again if she just didn't give up, still lived deep inside her. It was that part of her that gave her the strength to open the towel and slice the dead rat open with the sharp nail she'd found on the tool bench. She used the nail to carve out a small chunk of the rat's flesh and brought it to her lips. She'd opened the can of beer and kept it nearby to wash down the meat. She knew there was a good chance she would throw it all up and this would be for nothing, but she had to give it a shot if she didn't want to starve. She closed her eyes tight and put the flesh in her mouth. She tried to chew it just enough to get it down, keeping it on her teeth and trying to keep her tongue out of the way so she wouldn't taste it. But she couldn't help smelling and tasting the blood, metallic and hot. The rat tasted like both life and death at the same time, the hot blood that had just been coursing through its body now sliding down Carol's throat. She managed to consume several pieces of the rat's flesh and drank the entire can of beer. She was desperate to get the taste out of her mouth, but the beer only seemed to make it worse.
What a last meal, she thought, and then she shook her head. "No," she said aloud. "That was not my last meal. I will get out of here."
She already felt a little rush of strength from the food, though she was still a bit lightheaded. She crossed over to the garage door and peeked out again. Two walkers were standing directly in front of the garage, and one of them turned to face her. She quickly covered the window again and stepped back. Why couldn't they just go away long enough for Carol to slip out of here, even if she had to find another place to hide? She went to the back seat of the car and settled into her blankets again, hoping for a dream to take her away for a little while. When she closed her eyes, she could see Daryl's face, could imagine his strong arms around her. Over and over she had relived the moment when he'd told her he loved her, the way his voice had sounded, the way he looked at her. He'd said it once. Exactly once. And now she might never hear it again. She couldn't bear the thought that he hadn't survived the herd's attack, but she knew it was unlikely she would ever see him again. Even if she escaped the garage, what were her chances on the road by herself? What if she managed to make it back to the house and they were all gone? Even worse, what if she was the only one who had survived?
Carol drifted into a dreamless sleep and woke only moments later to the sound of the garage door rattling. Oh god, she thought. They're finally coming in. She looked around frantically and realized she'd left the hammer and wrench on the floor across the garage. She quickly closed the door of the car and hunched down low into the seat. Then she heard her name, whispered softly. "Carol?"
She looked up and saw him through the back window of the car. He was holding her knife, crouched in a defensive position. "Oh my god, Daryl!" she cried, throwing her body against the car door and pushing it open with all her might. She fell out on the ground beside the car, sobbing and shaking. Daryl rushed to her side and grasped her face, looking into her eyes.
"You bit?" he asked, and she shook her head. "What's all that blood around your mouth?"
"A – a rat," she said, looking down. "I ate a rat." His eyes widened and he shook his head a little. "I'm ok," she said, nodding and smiling up at him.
He smiled back at her. "You're alive, anyway. Come on," he said, and lifted her into his arms. He started to carry her out of the open garage door.
"Wait," she said. "The walkers. Did you kill them all?"
"What walkers?" he asked, stepping out into the sunlight. She looked around and saw that the neighborhood was completely quiet and still. The walkers she'd seen only moments earlier were nowhere in sight.
"But. . .but they were just here," she said.
"I only saw these bodies here," Daryl said, jerking his chin toward the corpses of the walkers Carol had killed days earlier. "It was a bitch gettin' your knife outa her eye. But that's how I knew to look for you here, when I saw your knife."
"No. . .no walkers?" Carol muttered. Had she imagined the herd of walkers outside the garage door? Was she trapped in there by her own imagination? No, it couldn't be true.
"Well, not right now," Daryl said, "but we better get out of here in case." They crossed a few streets, Daryl still carrying her, and Carol rested her head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. He was alive, and she was alive, and he was taking her home.
When they reached his motorcycle, Daryl gingerly set her on her feet. "You got it?" he asked, concern on his face. She nodded, and he hopped on the bike. "You think you can hold on to me?"
She got on the bike and wrapped her arms around him. Of course she could hold on to him. Didn't he know he was all she'd held onto since the day her daughter disappeared?