Journey to You

Chapter Four

Blossoming Hope, Crushing Defeat

4th of July, and a week of visiting family kind of kept me from updating this on time but I'm excited to reveal the next chapter to you guys! So much is going on in this chapter. I think it's one of my favorites because we get to see inside the minds of so many of the characters.

What did you guys think about it? I'm pretty much keeping this close to canon since we're really only seeing it through Callas' eyes and she's nowhere near the group right now so don't expect too many changes happening to the Atlanta group. However, I couldn't help the small changes like Daryl going out with Glenn, and him saving the kids, because it just fit my family man version of Daryl better.

As for canon things will start to change more once we get to season three and the Governor is shown.

"Only thing that keeps us apart

is seven thousand miles,

running like a mad dog

Only thing that keeps us apart

is a different timezone."

-TIMEZONE by Maneskin

Her legs were tired.

They threatened to buckle underneath her, but Calla was stubborn, and she kept them moving, one foot in front of the other, as the sun beat suffocatingly down upon her. Her feet had long ago begun to hurt, as she roamed aimlessly for days, keeping her eyes peeled for any sign of another survivor from the refugee, and anything that could miraculously lead her to Daryl.

Neither appeared.

The pack on her back, the child pressed close to her chest, heating her skin, as she did her best to keep him shielded from the sun, were all so heavy. The bat she held in her hand had long since become a part of her so that when Calla raised the piece of wood to use it, the weapon felt more like an extension of herself, rather than a separate object. She had become filthy, covered in blood, and guts, of the sick that came too close and had started to feel as if she was becoming one of them.

Lately, they had even started to ignore her when she'd stumble past them, her eyes staring straight ahead when exhaustion tugged heavily at her.

She learned that if she was silent, and as long as Maverick didn't make noise, they'd leave her be as if she was simply a ghost walking among them.

Calla quit trying to keep herself clean after that.

She was certain she looked quite a sight, her blonde hair, once light, now speckled with blood, having turned a coppery red.

If Calla had been in a better state of mind, she may have realized that she had gone numb, hardly present, not in the way she used to be, and only running on the sole mission of staying alive. She would have realized that this wasn't healthy. That Maverick deserved better than constant travel, with the few moments of freedom, before being confined to the makeshift blanket holder.

As it was, Calla found it hard to care outside of the knowledge that they were still alive, that every morning they managed to see the sun come up, before another harsh day of moving, and scavenging, was a blessing in disguise.

Her feet simply carried her forward.

Down a road that led to nowhere.

Always circling back toward Atlanta.

Until the day she came to a stop, staring at a sign for a familiar landmark, a quarry, one that she and Daryl had visited together.

Her eyes read the familiar scrawl that had been hurriedly written in black paint, addressed to her.

It was a message from Daryl.

The first one she had run across since the outbreak had split them apart all those weeks ago.

Tears built up in her eyes.

Maverick shifted, pressing against the blanket, as he began to whine.

Not safe here. If you see this come find me at the CDC.

-Daryl

There could have been a number of Daryl's out in the world still alive, but Calla knew this was her Daryl. She recognized the handwriting. Her gut told her that this was it. That it was the sign she was searching for.

She had a destination now.

Only, she was in desperate need of water, and night would be falling upon them soon. They needed to find a place to settle in for the night.

Calla reread the sign, accepting that he had warned her from staying in the area, but the quarry was nearby, the one place she knew would guarantee her water, and though she had been rationing the food, making sure Maverick and she had plenty, she wasn't going to last long, out in the sun, without more. They were down to half a bottle, and she had been giving most of it to Maverick.

Staring up at the road that would lead her to the quarry her eyes drifted to the sky. It would take the rest of the day to hike up there, to get the water, to boil it, and set up some kind of safety for herself, and her boy.

Maverick squirmed a bit more, his cries turning louder, and Calla gently shushed him, swaying, as she whispered words of comfort, of promises, promising that it wouldn't be much longer now, he could get out soon, but first, they had to make it to the quarry.

They were close to rest.

Calla felt some of the life return to her.

That sign breathed energy into her body as she focused on her new goals.

They would stop for the night, she'd refill their water, boil it, make it safe to drink, and then tomorrow, tomorrow they would head back toward Atlanta.

They'd be reunited.

In a few days. She kept telling herself that, as she walked, the sun dipping toward the horizon. It kept her going. It pushed her forward.

Hope had blossomed.

· ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── ·

Calla found herself walking again.

Covered in dirt, grime, and something awful. She imagined if there was anyone to stumble upon, they would shoot first, and ask questions later, there was no doubt in her mind she looked more like the sick, than the living. Calla had long ago stopped smelling herself, and at some point, Maverick had quit complaining about it.

When he was awake Calla found herself softly talking to him, teaching him to stay quiet, to talk softly, but she didn't want him falling behind, to stop learning, so for hours that's all they would do. She'd teach him new things, anything, whatever fell from her lips, as she kept him talking, jabbering, stimulated, until he'd grow exhausted, and leave her to her own thoughts.

Sometimes, Calla believed that Maverick was the only thing keeping her from losing her mind.

They had been out here, alone, for several weeks, the progress slow, and tedious, but now, with a goal, she moved faster, swifter, and with purpose. Maverick seemed to have picked up on that. His mood had brightened.

She had no clue how long ago that note had been hastily written on that metal sign, it could have been days or weeks, but that mattered little to Calla, as she realized for the first time, in so long, she had proof that Daryl was still alive, and searching for them.

He was searching for her, just as she was searching for him, leaving notes, and she hoped he would come across one of her own.

By now, not knowing where she would end up next, Calla had simply resorted to leaving words that they were alive, and what direction they were heading in. Vague, but she couldn't risk settling down in one place for long, the sick always seemed to find them. They were like dogs with scents, who never grew tired, chasing after the bone that dangled precariously in front of it.

She was so tired, but the idea of stopping, to rest, never entered her thoughts the closer she got to Atlanta. Her nerves were high. A big part of her screamed that the city wasn't safe, that Maverick wouldn't be safe, and to turn back, that all she had was a bat, and her determination to survive, and she feared that wouldn't be enough. Another part, a quieter, but far more determined side of her whispered words of affirmation, and reassurance, reminding her that Daryl was close. They would survive this because she'd expect no less.

Her mother had died, giving her life, so they would live.

So, live they would.

It was a mantra inside her head. Put on repeat whenever the day grew quiet, and Maverick was asleep, his words no longer keeping the darker part of her mind at bay. It helped push her forward.

Calla was strong. Maverick needed her to survive. She wouldn't allow her son to die, to let him fall to a fate destined for pain, and fear.

Her feet carried her further.

The pain was just another part of her. She barely felt it anymore.

They carried her further and further.

· ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── ·

What little bit of hope had sparked inside of her diminished at the sight of a long-since destroyed CDC. The smoke that would have lingered in the air after such a devastating explosion had dissipated, leaving behind nothing but the putrid stench of rotting, burnt flesh.

The building had been gone for a long time.

She simply stared.

Something broke inside of her, and Calla found herself relieved that Maverick was sleeping, blissfully unaware of the devastation his mother was experiencing. She hadn't told him about the possibility of finding his father, hadn't wanted to break the boy's heart if it ended up not happening, as nothing was guaranteed these days.

Her legs shook. The thought of turning, of going back to aimlessly roaming, bit at her mind, something within her growing feral, as tears built helplessly in her eyes, as she continued to stare at a black, empty hole in the ground.

All that was left of her hope.

Had Daryl been inside when it ignited on itself?

She hoped not, but her heart was heavy, and doubt clouded her mind.

Wouldn't she have felt it in her soul if he left this earth, moving on to a plane she couldn't follow after, not when she had Maverick? Her knees felt like buckling, but she held firm, holding herself up, as her free hand, the one not holding the bat, gently laid against her son's head.

He was her guiding light, keeping her alive, and sane, as she moved through this new world with confusion and uncertainty.

The sound of stumbling, a low moan, announced that they were no longer alone, never far behind, the sick were always right around the corner. She turned, seeing that it was just the one, and she wasn't bothered by it, seeing as how its gaze drifted past her, moving in the opposite direction, but it wouldn't bode well to freeze here. Another moment of pause was just another moment of losing daylight, of running into a crowd of those long gone, and she couldn't risk that, not with the possibility of Maverick making a noise, and giving their trick away. She wished to stay a moment longer, to mourn the possibility of a loss she felt conflicted about feeling, but in the end, Calla couldn't afford it, wouldn't risk it, and her feet were once more pushing her forward, back toward the edge of the city.

There was plenty of daylight left.

They'd move on. Search for a place full of possibilities, and she'd continue to leave her signs, denial her greatest accomplishment, as she firmly turned her back away from that scorched earth, that took all of her hope away.

Her legs carried her on.

Past the barricades, the dead bodies, and letters glistening in the light, written in black paint, on broken and muddied concrete.

Calla continued forward, missing the sign of hope that had been left for her, as she fought with the silence inside her head, and in her heart.

I'm alive. Go toward Fort Benning. I'll leave you a trail to follow.

-Daryl

· ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── ·

Daryl hadn't given up.

After that night of breaking down, of meeting the group of people he could care less about, not when his world was splintering apart, he forced himself back together, glued the pieces that were cut out of him, and shoved together whatever strength he could, just so he could keep going.

He clung to that stuffed rabbit every night, and every morning, before the sun would rise, he was out in the woods, finding food, before placing himself back at camp, forcing his presence on the kid named Glenn, who seemed skittish of him, and preferred to go on runs alone. Daryl had grown gruffer, his temper barely held together, and had been warned many times to keep his shit together by the cop, who had designated himself as the leader, but Daryl didn't care, as long as he didn't keep him from going out every day, searching for signs of his family. He wasn't like Merle, who whined, and complained about the unfairness of it all, of how the pig just didn't understand him and held some kind of grudge against him.

Merle brought it on himself.

Daryl felt less inclined to care than he may have in the past. There would have been a moment where he might have made up excuses for the man, just to keep the peace, but Daryl was raw, every day harder for him than the last.

He only ever paid attention to Glenn, making sure to memorize what days he would be going out, so he could make it clear that he'd be going with him. That cop didn't like them going out unnecessarily.

It worked in his favor that the self-designated leader preferred if they went in pairs, feeling paranoid of anyone going alone, as they bunkered down and waited for help.

Daryl hadn't made it common knowledge that his family was lost, he kept it to himself, and he knew Merle hadn't mentioned anything, not to strangers who weren't blood. He would more likely laugh in their faces than tell them something personal. All this group saw them as were the Dixons', one rude, and the other quick to anger. They stayed clear of them unless they were proven useful for something.

It didn't bother Daryl any.

He was used to living like this before Calla came into his life, and now that she was gone, he didn't have it in him to show who he really was. The man behind the anger, the one who feared for his family, who wished to have back the love of his life, and the child that shared their features.

He scoured for signs of them, never hinting as to what he was looking for, not even when Glenn would ask, growing curious, as it was obvious that the youngest Dixon was out there for more than food and supplies. He never seemed to find what he was searching for, making the redneck easy to temper after yet another day of failure, and causing Glenn to avoid saying anything, but every day he was back, demanding to join, and Glenn had long since stopped denying him. It had never worked and only caused that volatile temper to flair, and an almost desperate quality to enter his eyes, that caused Glenn to hesitate, before giving in.

He didn't know what Daryl Dixon was searching for but whatever it was, was important to him.

Nothing changed until that day Daryl had gone off into the woods, his heart heavy with doubt, and broken thoughts clouding his mind, keeping him from joining the bigger group that had gone to Atlanta. Merle was with them, his first trip, purely for selfish purposes Daryl suspected, but he would keep an eye out, would do it because Calla and Maverick were kin. He'd do it because something had dug itself deep into his brother, keeping him from searching for them himself, and had driven him to seek solitude in the woods where no one would dare follow after him.

Today was Maverick's birthday, the first one Daryl would ever have missed, and the man didn't know what state his son was in, nor where he was.

It held him captive, that fear, and sadness in his heart. He emptied his mind, following the tracks of animals he was certain to find, he couldn't fail here, where he excelled, not like out there, where he failed every day to find a trail to follow after his family.

He dug himself into his instinct becoming less man, warping and changing into something animalistic.

Daryl didn't manage to drag himself back to camp until the next day, a deer slung over his back, the sounds of children's screams meeting his ears.

There was no hesitation. His instinct as a father, regardless of these children not being his own, drove him forward, dropping the deer, as his crossbow came up, and he prepared himself for anything to come. He found them, racing through the trees, a walker on their heels, and not a single adult in the nearby vicinity. Oh, he could hear them, yelling in the distance, their footsteps loud, as they trampled through the underbrush, but they wouldn't have made it. He lined the Walker up in his sights, firing the arrow, not helping the image that this could have been Maverick under attack, as the arrow raced through the air, taking the Walker out.

Daryl Dixon felt anger at those who carelessly left their children's lives up to fate.

The others were there moments after, watching as the girl, Sophia, clung to his leg, tears streaming down her cheeks, as a dead Walker lay mere meters from them. The boy, Carl, he believed was his name, was not the cop's son, but that woman who came with him, stood behind him, looking wide-eyed, and shocked over what they had run into.

The mothers rushed forward, grabbing for their children, as fear and shock covered their features, and Daryl felt the sudden urge to scoff. They should have been doing a better job keeping an eye on them, but at that thought, Daryl's mind began to turn dark, as his own crushing guilt over his kid hit him.

When he caught sight of a man whom he had never seen before, and those uneasy glances being thrown his way by those who had gone to Atlanta the day before, Daryl knew something horrible had gone wrong.

He hadn't reacted well to the news that the last of his family had been left behind, to rot on some rooftop, while he had been losing himself in the woods.

The guilt was never-ending.

· ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── ·

They hadn't found his brother. The fucker had cut off his hand, taken off somewhere into the city, and could have been lying in a ditch, or dumpster for all Daryl knew. He felt the frustration rising within himself. His family kept disappearing, one by one, and he felt the familiar stabbing pain chipping away at his heart as he wondered what the fuck he planned on doing next.

Sticking with this group had never been the plan.

Merle had talked him into it, stating the need to rest, to find supplies, to not go off the deep end, when it was clear he was spiraling, and for once his brother had been the voice of reason, but then they had stayed longer than planned. Now, Daryl wasn't sure what he should have been doing.

He found himself following after the new guy, Rick, who didn't seem half bad, even though he had been the one to handcuff his brother to that pipe. He hadn't been the one to drop the key, but even T-Dog, the one who had done it, hadn't meant for it to happen, and he had given Merle safety from the Walkers.

Daryl just found it hard to shove back that anger, at first, but now, after the day they had, and the realization that his brother was long gone, all he felt was a deep seeded tiredness.

His mind was pretzeled, twisting itself into a knot, as he tried to work out what the best course of action would be. He could leave, right then, and there, and not follow these people back to camp, to somewhere no one was waiting for him, but something kept him from doing it. Where would he go? He had no direction. There was no magical map that would show him where his family was, or if they were alive, and Merle had left no trail to follow, not in this city filled with corpses.

He had no one, and nowhere to go, so he found himself following after those he had been left with. With them he had at least one purpose, helping them to stay alive, as they were all incredibly incapable of doing so. He would continue to search for signs that would lead him to those he loved, and he'd do the same, but for now, Daryl found that it was only smart to stay in a group. You'd die fast in a world like this, on your own, with no one to watch your back.

He hoped he was making the right choice.

His thoughts were still jumbled, and his heart hurt, but Daryl kept moving forward.

· ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── ·

Merle felt as his mind drifted, the moments he was coherent were few and far in-between, but the one thing he was certain about was that half-finished note on the wall, written in those perfect looping letters. He knew that handwriting. His baby brother's name had been on that wall, the words dancing in front of his eyes, popping off the brick, but he had seen what was written there and hadn't hesitated in moving in the opposite direction of where he knew camp was.

His stump was no longer bleeding, the cooked, burnt flesh, a revolting sight, but it had done the job, and all Merle was left with was a light-headed sensation, at the blood he had lost, and the shock his body was experiencing. There were moments of phantom pains, and Merle knew that once the shock disappeared, he'd feel the full extent of losing his hand, and then burning it.

There were moments of time missing from his memory, as he'd awaken in a new place, stumbling along, with only one thought passing through his head.

He knew where that sister-in-law of his was.

Something had spooked her, not all of it had been left behind, but what she had written, he recognized the location.

She was alive.

He had, at first, been keen on making his way back toward camp, to rain hell down on those who had left him behind, but stumbling past that alley, seeing that section of wall had his one-track mind, hazy with shock, aimed for an entirely new goal.

Merle didn't have thoughts of his brother clouding his mind. He didn't feel guilty about not showing back up, knowing that he'd probably be worried when he was told what happened because Daryl had always cared. Merle had always been the selfish one. He had been the one that ran away every chance he got or did something stupid that got him locked up. Merle, simply, had never really been there for his young brother. Daryl hadn't needed him in years. However, Merle had always needed Daryl, to look up to him, to know that someone on this god-awful planet cared for him.

Daryl didn't even need him right now.

Hell, the man was used to Merle running away, and probably wouldn't see this as anything different. He'd just see it as another moment he had failed him.

He needed those two who were out there lost, separated from him, and Merle found himself focusing on that sole thought as it dragged him forward.

He'd keep moving forward. Falling in and out of consciousness, as the streets he'd wake back up on was not the same as what he last remembered. Merle wouldn't allow himself to stray from this goal.

Not until he came to once more, the situation dire, as he blinked, wondering if he was imagining the Walker barely being held back, as its jaw snapped shut, skin pulling away from the bone, as Merle barely kept it from clamping down on his neck. His head spun, black spots dancing in front of his eyes, as he pushed against the Walker, feeling as the skin began to slide free, and it lunged forward, moments away from doing him in when the creature suddenly slumped forward, blood pouring out from its forehead, as Merle idly thought he had heard the sound of a gun going off.

"Bring him here to me," a man commanded, his voice low, and dangerous.

Merle felt himself being hauled to his feet, his head spinning, as he felt that familiar daze hover over his mind, threatening to pull him back under. The men holding him up grunted, dragging him forward, before letting him fall to his knees in front of the man. Merle had never knelt before another in his life, his legs shaking as he tried pushing himself back up, determined not to allow today to be the day, but he was shoved back down.

"No, it's quite all right," the man in charge chuckled. "Let him get up. If he can." He looked amused as he watched Merle struggle to his feet, but he did it, a gleam in his eyes, showing the strength the man held.

"Don' wan' no trouble," Merle muttered. His vision swayed, locking in on the grin of the man in front of him, who charmingly held up his hands, as he exclaimed in surprise at Merle looking dead on his feet but still managing to stand. Instinct prickled at Merle, telling him to proceed with caution, that the man was dangerous. That smile hid something malicious behind it. Merle had met plenty of men like the one in front of him. "Jus' lookin' for mah kin."

"We're all looking for someone these days." The man nodded. "You're not looking so good yourself right now. That hand looks like it's fresh, it's going to need to be treated, or an infection could settle in. That's about as good as a death sentence these days."

"Don' matter. Gotta find 'em." Merle made to push forward, to keep going forward, he knew he was close but close to where was when it got tricky. His memory of that note had grown foggy inside his head, he had been moving forward without any real attention, and Merle was no longer certain that he was on the right track anymore.

"Hold up there." The man reached forward, pushing Merle back, his hand firmly holding him in place, as his eyes lightened, but the grip on his shoulder told of a different story. Merle stiffened. "Why don't my men help you, we've got a nice little settlement, Woodbury, we could use men like you. Look what you managed to do, one-handed, out delirious out your ass. I could use a soldier like you." The man nodded, looking determined, as his cold eyes settled on Merle. "In return, I'll help you find these kin of yours. Lend you my man power."

Merle tried shaking his head. Feeling as if it wasn't the smart thing to do, regardless of the shape he was in, he was hit with a strong wave of dizziness, knocking him off balance, as he swayed, and nearly toppled over. The black dots that had been dancing at the edge of his vision drew closer, and the reply was lost on his lips.

Everything around him went dark.