Only hope you're ready,

So if you will or won't,

So I guess it's now or never

Blaire

I elect to watch Judith again. Daryl keeps his distance, not bringing up my plan to go in and hotwire the truck. I need to do my part, pull my own weight around here. If that means risking my life, so be it. At least I'll die doing something to help others live. That's what Patty would have wanted. No more living for just me anymore, no more just surviving. I made a promise to all the people I lost along the way that'd I'd keep fighting. This mission, no matter how risky, is worth all the people living within these walls. The people in Alexandria are learning, trying to change. I fought for people, for a future and that's what I'll continue to do.

Judith coos, reaching out for my fingers again. She chews happily, drool running down her chin and my thumb, dripping onto the carpet. It's quiet, most people out trying to help with the whip wall. Duke lays, sprawled out over the couch, licking at his paws. Surprisingly, Rick was enthusiastic about me brining the animal over for Judith to play with. Maybe he wants things for her to be as normal as possible in this new life. Babies play with puppies and kittens, growing up next to a furry companion. The lynx might be a bit off from the normal household pet, but Duke does the job.

Gently, I replace my finger with one of the plastic toys people have been dropping off. Judith hums, happy to accept anything that will ease the pain of her teeth pushing their way up through her gums. Hopefully, the teething ends soon. I'm not sure how much more drool the limited number of outfits Judith has can take. Stretching out over the rug, I watch as the child plays, content in her own little world, oblivious to how different her realty is from the one the rest of us know. I miss television, anything to pass the time with. Before, I thought I enjoyed the quiet solitude. Now it looms over me, a constant reminder of what is going on outside. There's nothing left to distract an overactive mind, haunted by thoughts of what could've been.

"Your uncle Daryl is a very confusing man," I announce to Judith wanting to break the never-ending cycle of trees rustling and birds chirping. "One second he could give a shit and the next he's telling me I'm not supposed to do something cause it's dangerous. He needs to make up his damn mind."

Big blue eyes blink back at me; a small burp working it's way up the girl's throat and past her saliva covered lips.

"I guess I shouldn't curse around you. It'd be a shame if the first word that came out of your precious little mouth was asshole or dammit," I mull more to myself than the child. She doesn't understand any of this, blissfully unaware of the trials and tribulations of adult life in walker nation. "How about some lunch?"

Lifting Judith, I bounce her on my hips, searching through the refrigerator for anything suitable for a baby to eat. Alexandria is running dangerously low on food, the pantry stocked with cans of food that have been around since the beginning. If people wouldn't eat it then, they sure as hell won't eat it now. Shoving aside Tupperware's of pasta, I find the blended up vegetables Carol brought over. Lifting the lid, I sniff, the smell assaulting my nose...spoiled. The empty shelves stare back at me, silently taunting, daring me to keep searching them.

The food pantry offers little more, the wire racks empty aside from some Spam, a collection of colorful looking spreads, cooking wine, and an assortment of canned vegetables; most beets. Grabbing a can of the deep purple root, I head back to my house, collecting what is left of the peanut butter I brought. It may not taste good, but at least Judith will get the nutrients she needs. It's gotta be better than expired puree.

As I work, Judith plays, batting at Duke's tail. The animal purrs, gently pawing at the baby's hand. Fidgeting with the stove I get the gas turned on, lighting it with a book of matches Rick keeps stored on top of the fridge. Thankfully, the taps still run, clean water flowing out into a silver stew pot. As I wait for the liquid to boil, I drum my fingers on the counter, singing one of the songs off the mix CDs I found in the spare bedroom. Continuing to sing, Carl's words echo in my head. What would Daryl do if he heard me sing? His emotional outbursts no longer faze me, the yelling used as a wall to try and keep me out. Carol said to try, to not back down. Let him explode. At least it means he's feeling something.

Once the water boils, I drop in the beets, watching as they float to the surface, riding the bubbles within the pot. Hearing the front door open, I curl my fingers around the handle of my knife, walking slowly around the corner.

"What the hell are ya cooking in here smart-ass? Smells like death," Daryl rounds the corner, covering his nose with the red rag that's found a permanent spot in his back pocket.

Rolling my eyes, I relax, "Well, it's not like I can just go to the store and buy her baby food. I had to improvise."

"By cooking a walker?" Daryl walks over to the pot, glancing inside. "Beets?"

I shrug, hopping up on the counter as he pulls open the refrigerator, moving around containers, trying to find something that is edible, "And peanut butter."

No one has really had much time to cook anything between the Pete and quarry situation. Even if there were time, the ingredients left probably wouldn't produce anything people want to consume. Leeks and beets and Spam do not make a meal. Surviving the herd won't do us any good if all the people saved starve. The last few scouts to go out have come back empty handed. Even my rations, fully stocked before arriving, are starting to dwindle, the result of over indulging. "Ya ain't got nothing better at home?"

"Babies can't eat beef jerky and preserves don't have enough nutrients. I fed her bread dipped in water this morning. She can't grow if she doesn't have protein," I explain, taking the beets from the pot and placing them into the blender.

Daryl chews on his bottom lip, watching the maroon vegetable turn to paste, "How much jerky ya got left?"

"Not enough to share," I respond, sliding a piece out of the bag in my pocket and placing it on the counter.

As the bowman picks up the meat, I scrape the sides of the peanut butter jar, banging off the spoon into the blender. Dumping a little water into the plastic container, I shake it, trying to get the last little bit.

"I ain't eatin' that," Daryl mumbles, eyes following me as I begin to blend the peanut butter, water, and beets together.

Grabbing out a bowl, I dump the mixture into it, "Well good, cause it's not for you."

"I also ain't apologizing for trying ta save yer life," Daryl continues on, following me across the kitchen as I collect Judith, trying to coax her into just trying to beet mixture. "Carol says there ain't no use groveling."

The baby draws back her head, pressing it hard into my arm as the spoon grows closer. As the metal hits her bottom lip, Judith stick out her tongue, an instinct that's still left over from her bottle feeding days. The beet mixture reaches her taste buds. Instead of crying out, Rick's daughter leans forward, taking it all into her mouth. "You know how to avoid groveling?"

"Huh?" Daryl answers, trying to get the jerky bag out of my back pocket without touching my butt.

"Stop doing things that require an apology."

I turn, Daryl's hand brushing against the pocket of my jeans. He quickly draws it away, holding it against his body as if it physically hurt him to touch me. As Judith continues to eat, happily spooning mouthful after mouthful between her lips, I toss what remains of my jerky to Daryl. He mumbles a thank you, breaking a piece in half and handing part of it to me. "Just don't understand why yer trying to get yourself killed. Ain't you the one always goin' on 'bout how we need to care about life?"

"If I die doing something to save others, it's worth it," I answer.

Judith finishes lunch, banging the bowl and spoon against the counter to let me know. Scooping her up, I head down the back hallway, carrying the child up the stairs. Placing her in the crib, I flip on the baby monitor, carrying the screen out of the room as I shut the door behind me.

Downstairs, Daryl is stretched out over the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. Duke sits to his left, begging for scraps of the meat he's still working through. While I don't mind his presence, I'm still not fully sure what him being here means. I agreed to stick this friendship out for the long haul, but that doesn't negate the fact that I'm starting to get a serious case of whiplash. "Shouldn't you be helping with the whip wall?"

"Naw," the bowman responds, picking up the book I've been reading, thumbing through the pages. "Rick sent me back. Doesn't like it when people disagree with 'im. Read this to me."

Sitting down on the couch, I take the book, leaning into the cushion. As I put my feet up on the wooden table before me, I make sure to tilt my toes, the tips of them just touching Daryl's dirty boots. Around his ankles, two shoestrings are tied. "Are those hers? Beth's I mean."

The man glances down, letting out a grunt, "Yeah. Ain't talking about it. You gonna read or what?"

"If you want to read-" I pass the book back to Daryl "-you're more than welcome to."

I get a side-glance, the book placed on my stomach, "Reading gives me a headache. I listen just fine."

Opening the paperback, I flip to the first page, beginning the story from the beginning. As I continue to read, Daryl settles in, his eyes fluttering shut.

Daryl

The door slamming jolts me awake, hand going for a gun that is no longer attached to my hip. Beside me, Blaire stands, greeting whoever just arrived home. Voices float up the hall as I rub the sleep from my eyes. On the couch cushion, the book Blaire was reading sits propped open. I didn't much care about the contents of the story. Sitting down out of the sun, listening to the gentle rise and fall of someone's voice wards away the visions. Despite the almost constant activity of the last few days, Beth still hangs on the fringes, trying to claw her way to the forefront of my brain.

Rick, Blaire and Michonne walk into the living room, Judith on Rick's hip. Stretching, I get up off the couch, taking lil' ass-kicker away from her dad. Walking around, I bounce the girl up and down as she coos out happily. On occasion, I catch Blaire watching me, a grin on her face. Worry slips in, making the hairs on my arm stand up. She's putting herself at risk getting into that truck. Wouldn't have been a point to bringing her back here and taking care of her if she's just going to tumble to her death.

"Why do you care, Daryl?" Beth stands in the corner of the room, pulling my attention away from Blaire. "She doesn't matter to you. Stop letting her get under your skin."

I close my eyes, trying to force the vision out of my head, to silence the blonde's voice. Judith fusses, twisting around in my grasp, trying to get to someone else. Michonne takes her, questioning gaze lingering as she moves back to stand with Rick.

"Stop actin' like her death would be your undoing, Daryl Dixon. You don't even know her."

"Shut up," I grumble, "You ain't real."

Blaire turns, fingers gently touching my shoulder. Her touch makes Beth fade, her words hanging in the air. "What was that, Daryl?"

"Nothin'," I answer, shrugging off Blaire's concern. "Wall finished?"

Rick nods, placing dirt covered hands on the back of the couch. He looks more relaxed here as if he's finally starting to consider this place his home and not just some kind of pit stop along the way. Who knew all it would take is a walker threat to make Rick start to feel more comfortable. "Morgan and I are gonna go inventory the food storage. Once this herd is taken care of we're gonna need to find a way to feed these people."

"I'll come with ya," I offer. There are too many eyes on me in here. Too many people have questions that I don't know how to answer properly. There is still frustration with Blaire for foolishly putting her life at risk that I don't know how to vocalize. Sitting with her feels like being beside a dead woman walking.

Morgan is out on the porch steps, standing as he hears us behind him. Digging in my pocket, I pull out a cigarette, smoking as we walk. People wander the streets, others sitting outside, discussing the events of tomorrow. Fear hangs in the air, creating a kind of nervous electricity. No amount of preparation will put everyone's worries to rest. The dry run will ensure we all understand where to be, but it doesn't help with the unknown. Walkers are easily distracted. We don't have a contingency plan for if they all decide to stop following behind the bike and car.

Inside the storehouse, there is a crash and the sound of bodies moving around. Rick slows his pace, trying to listen. Eugene talks in his slow, southern drawl, questioning the other about what they were doing. As we reach the door separating our group from the one inside, I throw it open. "What the hell is going on?"

Everyone inside goes still. Eugene sits on the floor amongst a pile of broken bottles and their contents, a gun pointed at his head. Tobin, Spencer, and a dark haired woman stand off to the side, all averting their gaze.

Rick steps forward, hands held out in front of him, ready to fight, "What're you doing?"

"I'm taking this place back from you," Carter responds, his body still turned towards Eugene.

Rick chuckles, shaking his head. His gaze shifts from Carter to the others standing off to the side. They all look ashamed, like children who got caught with their hands in the cookie jar. "That's what you were talking about in here?"

"That's what he was talking about," Spencer corrects Rick, not wanting to take responsibility for his involvement. He lifts his hand, pointing towards Carter. The others nod their agreement.

"See, I would have-" Rick chews at his bottom lip, doing his best to contain the anger building inside of him. His hand falls to his empty gun holster over and over again, willing the weapon to appear. "I would have set up some lookouts. That would have been the smart thing. You know if I happened to-" Rick lunges at Carter, elbowing him in the stomach as he snatches the gun away. The other man falls to the ground, hands going up by his ears as Rick points the gun at him. "You really think you can take this community from us? From Glenn? From Michonne? From Daryl? From me? Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

Carter gets to his knees, hands still held in the air. He licks his lips, glancing at the others, "It was just me."

"What?" Rick demands, cocking the gun as he moves it closer to Carter's head.

Carter takes in a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes closed as he speaks, "It was me...it was just me. Just...just kill me."

We don't need another person dead. Rick can't afford to off another of Alexandria's members. The unrest would boil over; those wary of our presence would mutiny. There will be a time when Rick may need to cede leadership but now isn't that time. He's the one that's going to lead us through the current threat. In the stillness of the room, I watch our leader. He breaths steadily, finger curled around the trigger. The vein across his forehead pulses; sweat hanging on his brow, "Rick.

Watery blue eyes leave Carter, settling on me. Rick's gaze softens, whatever rage induced haze he was in, clearing. The gun is pulled away from Carter's head, handed off to Morgan who tucks it away. "I'm good." Rick turns his attention back to Carter. "You can try and work with us. You can survive. Would you do that?"

Carter nods as Morgan moves forward to help Eugene stand up. The others in the group shuffle forward, trying to exit the premise as quickly as they can. No one looks at Rick who stands with his thumbs hooked through the belt loops on his pants.

"I greatly appreciate the rescuing," Eugene announces as he backs out of the storeroom, a can of strawberry preserves held tightly to his chest.

Rick ignores him, looking to the pile of broken glass and fallen cans, "You'd think they wanted to die."

"Maybe they do," I answer, beginning to gather the shards, stacking them in a pile off to the side. Morgan hands down a wet cloth, using his own to start mopping up the food spilled over the wooden floor.

Rick shakes his head, picking up a can of beets, one of the few things we aren't running low on, his eyes scanning the metal shelves, "This isn't even enough to last the month. Daryl, you were sayin' something about a place Blaire knew."

"Yeah, where she was before, out in the middle a nowhere," I answer, handing up cans as Morgan carries the glass shards away. "Talked about going out, but ain't made no solid plan."

Rick nods, his eyes fixed on the bare shelves, "Ask her to draw out a map. We'll head out the day after we handle the herd."

Blaire lays in the grass, her limbs splayed out, eyes closed against the mid-afternoon sun. I approach slowly, sitting down in the yard next to her. I pick at the grass, watching as Blaire's chest rises and falls in time with her breath. Waking her feels wrong. The brunette barely sleeps, wandering the house until all hours of the morning. When she does sleep, it isn't peaceful.

"What do you need, Daryl?" Blaire's voice catches me off guard, her light eyes meeting mine as she props herself up on her elbows. "I thought we agreed that watching me sleep was creepy."

I shake my head, chewing on my thumb, "I ain't never agreed to nothin'."

"Well, I don't have any more food and you haven't seemed interested in the alcohol lately so I'm afraid I have nothing to offer," Blaire states, getting to her feet.

She holds her hand out, looking down at me. I know she wants me to take it, to accept her help. Staring at the grooves of her palm, I reach up, curling my fingers around her wrist. She's warm and soft under my callouses, the scars running up her arms flush with her skin. The pins and needle feeling that I get every time we come into contact returns, willing me to withdraw my touch. I fight it, chewing at the inside of my cheek as Blaire's fingers wrap around my own, leading me inside. "Ain't here for food. Rick needs a map, directions to yer old supply place."

"Why?" Blaire runs water into the coffee pot sitting on her counter, spooning coffee grounds into a strip of tan colored mesh she's using as a filter.

I push myself up onto the counter, continuing to follow Blaire's movements with my eyes. She busies herself, refusing to stand still. That's her way of staying one step ahead of the past, a sort of protection against the images that haunt her. "People need fed. From what ya said, ain't too many people going through yer place."

"Why does he need a map?" Blaire clarifies her question, handing me an off-white coffee mug as the dark brown liquid begins to fall into the glass pot. "I can just go. I'll bring whatever I can back."

Beth's stubbornness drove me up a wall. Blaire's is no different. The way she sets her jaw, squaring her shoulders, the metaphorical putting down of her foot makes my blood boil. It's like she can't stand to be questioned, to accept the help that is nearly being shoved down her throat. Blaire thrives off of the permanent grief she's forcing herself into. Fighting back the urge to lash out, I pass the ceramic cup back and forth between my hands. "Ya get yerself killed trying to start that stupid truck and it won't do us no good to have the location trapped inside your head."

"I'm not going to die," Blaire insists, pouring coffee into my mug.

Lifting the mug to my lips I take a small sip, the liquid burning my tongue, "Why're ya so against making a map?"

"That place was mine. That's where the people I care about are. I don't want your people traipsing through there, tearing it all up," Blaire answers, sliding down the cabinets across from me, ending up on the floor. "I know we need food and supplies. I'm not trying to keep it for myself or not let these people have it...I'll go, but just me."

I stare down at Blaire, continuing the drink the steaming contents in my cup. She keeps her gaze on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest. Her hands cup the coffee mug that stays glued to her bottom lip. Tears glisten in her eyes, a few escaping; racing down her scared cheek. Despite the world around her, Blaire is still human. She feels the things she does, the people she's lost. I think there's strength in that. Blaire is stronger than I first thought. I see it in the way she carries herself, shoulders rolled back, fingers always curled around the knife fastened to her thigh. I see it in the way she dances around Rick's living room with Judith when she thinks no one is watching, in her gentle touch; in the way she pushes me. Her strength is the same as Beth's. I only wish I had seen it in the other sooner.

"Why'd you take me? To yer place, I mean, if it's so special."

Blaire lifts her gaze, wiping away her tears with the palm of her hand, giving me a smile, "You're different. I could see that you had a story, that you understood struggle and pain. You got it." Thin fingers reach out, lying over the top of mine. I make no move to pull away. "You are something else, Daryl Dixon. That's why."

Blaire

The growls from the dead echo off the quarry walls; rotting flesh tumbling over itself, fighting to get at the group that gathers outside the barrier. Rick stands before us, positioned in front of where two semi-trucks come together. Leathery flesh reaches through the gap, searching for anything to pull into the pit. A vast ocean of the dead roll below the quarry side spanned out as far as the eye can see. I was told it was a herd, a group of the dead that could wipe out all of Alexandria, but I could never have imagined this. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I try to hide my nerves.

"This is where it all starts tomorrow," Rick addresses the group, his voice rising over the roar of the dead. "Blaire, you'll hotwire the truck. Tobin, once she's out, you'll get in, opening the exit and we're off. Once you've got the truck out of the way catch up with your team at red, stayin' on the west side of the road. Daryl will lead them out."

Before Rick can continue, a low rumble cuts through, sounding like far off thunder. Across the quarry, rocks begin to tumble down the embankment. The wheels of the semi-truck on the opposite side slip, the cab tilting towards the bottom of the pit. Metal creaks, the rest of the truck falling from the ledge it has been sitting on, hitting the bottom of the quarry with a thud.

Time stops, the world moving in slow motion as the herd begins to pour out of the opening, heading straight for us. This was just supposed to be a test run; a time to make sure everything was going to work out. We aren't ready. This has to be a dream. My heart thuds against my chest, stomach churning.

"It's open!" Rick's voice pulls me back to reality, the others around us springing into motion. "We gotta do this now!"

Flying forward, I throw open the door of the semi-truck. Shoved inside the ignition is the key, ready to be turned. Curling my fingers around the plastic ending, I twist hard. The engine sputters, flipping over; once, twice...the semi-truck roars to life, the seat underneath me vibrating. So far, so good.

"Sasha! Abraham! You meet Daryl at red," Rick continues to shout out instructions as I rejoin the group. "Let him take them through the gauntlet."

Sasha nods, "Yeah, we meet at red! She turns, hurrying towards the car sitting in wait for her. Abraham follows, throwing open the passenger side door.

"Rick," Glenn calls out, "I'll hit the tractor place.

"Okay," Rick turns to the rest of our group, "Who else?"

Stepping forward, I volunteer myself. In the original plan, I was only here to help Tobin hotwire the semi-truck. After that, I was to help where I'm needed. Glenn can't handle to tractor place alone. We have no idea what's waiting for us there. "I'll go."

"Blaire! You go with Daryl. If anything happens you'll have to take over," Rick instructs, moving onto the next group of people.

Nodding, I move over to where Daryl sits on his bike, ready to go. Swinging my leg over the motorcycle, I curl my fingers around his leather-covered shoulders. It's now or never. This is happening whether we're ready or not. This has to work. There are no second chances. The people back home are depending on us to keep them safe.

Rick raises his hand in the air, his voice once again rising over the commotion, "They're heading for home! We don't have a choice! Get ready to hit the flares!" Our leader drops his hand. "Now!"

Flares shoot out over the quarry, pulling the herd towards us. As Tobin climbs up into the truck, a dead one slips past, it's skin peeling off as it struggles to get to the living. As it reaches for Rick, Daryl releases an arrow. The dead one stops, hovers for a second, then crumples. Rick nods as Daryl revs the bike engine, turning us away from the coming swarm.

"You all have your assignments," Rick's voice sounds over the radio strapped to Daryl's shoulder as we drive slowly up the road, beginning to lead the herd in the direction we want them. "You know where to rendezvous. Daryl leads them out. Sasha and Abraham join him at the bottom of the hill. Glenn, you hit us when you take care of the walkers at the tractor place. That's the only thing we gotta get ahead of. Everybody, keep your heads. Just keep up."

My fingers stay curled around Daryl's shoulder, the knuckles going white under the pressure. He revs the engine again as we head down a gravel road lined with rusted out cars. Behind us, the moans of the dead linger, their feet dragging along the loose rocks. We keep a car length between them and us, just enough so that we're safe from outreached arms. Out of habit, I begin to hum, mumbling the words of a song under my breath, trying to drown out the sounds of those who would turn us into a feast.

"Don't," Daryl cautions, going ridged under my grip.

I fall silent, chewing on my lip as we continue to lead the herd towards the main road where Sasha and Abraham will join us on the journey. Glancing out over my shoulder, I watch the dead behind us, inching their way up the path. It's us or them. We just have to trust that Rick's plan will work. "Why?"

"The singing, it just reminds me of her," Daryl answers as I turn around, staring at the back of his head. He looks at me through the side mirror on his bike. If he's scared or worried, I can't tell.

Gently, I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his chest, my cheek resting against the worn leather of his jacket, "You can't run from her memory forever, Daryl. You can't keep blaming yourself."

"Ain't running," Daryl responds.

I tighten my grip as we hit a dip in the road, the bike jumping underneath us, "Then what is it you're doing?"

Daryl's shoulders rise and fall under me as he shrugs, "Trying to keep livin' best I can."

"We're at red at the bottom of the hill," Rick's voice crackles over the walkie-talkie. So far so good.

The bowman nods, chewing on his lip as the front wheel of the motorcycle hits the paved road. A rusty red car falls in pace beside us, Abraham nodding in our direction. Sasha sits beside him, her eyes glued to the scenery laid out in front of us. Daryl reaches up, depressing the talk button on his radio. "Here comes the parade."

"Shitting your pants yet?" Abraham questions, giving me a smile.

Chuckling, I shake my head, "You wish."

"She's a lot braver than she looks, huh?" Sasha's passenger looks to Daryl, drumming his fingers against the flaking red pain.

The man before me shrugs, once again catching my eye in the side mirror, "Guess so."

We fall into a silence, the herd continuing to follow behind us, drawn by the rumbling of the bike and the sputtering of the engine in the old car. The red rust bucket should hold, getting it's occupants safely back inside the gates of Alexandria. Its insides looked good, only needing a top up on fluids. As long as it's kept under thirty it won't give out on us.

As we near the whip wall, Daryl slows, foot on the ground, working to walk the bike around the curve. From behind the metal plates, flares go off, trying to keep the herd heading in the right direction. I can hear bodies hitting into metal, the sounds of bones cracking as the dead push forward, trying to get closer to their next meal. I could turn and look, making sure that none are slipping through, that they're all actually making it around the curve, heading away from the people back home, but I don't. My eyes stay glued to the back of Daryl's head, teeth working at the raw skin on my thumb.

Beside us, a door handle clicks, rusted metal grinding against each other. Lifting my gaze, I see Abraham, sliding out of his seat onto the road. He's got a knife held tightly in his hand, eyes set on the dead behind us. "What're you doing?"

"Got some dead trying to stage a walkout," Abraham answers back.

I shift my gaze, watching as a group of the dead begins to veer off to the left, heading towards the tree line. "Need help?"

"Naw," Abraham shakes his head, taking off towards the runaway group. "I'll catch up!"

My heart thunders in my ears, each beat counting off a second. Everything sounds louder, the rev of the motorcycle, the moans of the dead. Off in the distance, a horn begins to sound.