Journey to You
Chapter Five
Winter upon a Farm
This chapter is a transition from Season Two and Season Three. I felt it really shows you guys how much Calla has changed, and how this has affected her mentally. It's probably not what you guys expected but I really enjoyed the look inside Calla's mind and apocalyptic personality we get to see here.
We'll soon be moving onto people we recognize before too much longer!
This is also on ao3
"I find the map and draw a straight line
over rivers, farms and state lines
the distance from A to
where you'd B
It's only fingers length that
I see."
-Set the Fire to the Third Bar by Snow Patrol, Martha Wainwright
The cold had seeped into her bones, her muscles aching, as each step felt stiff and unnatural, but Calla ignored it, as she pushed through the woods. The only piece of warmth was from her son, curled up in the thick blanket, and poncho, as he cuddled up into her for warmth. She had been looking for a place for them to stay long-term, but the sick always came, seeming to sense the moment Maverick broke away from the safety of her stench, and out into the open.
The summer had been long, and hard, but the winter had come with its own set of difficulties.
Animals were scarce, and her skills in hunting, while not nearly as good as Daryl's, weren't horrible, but she hadn't come across a single soul in weeks, and they had been living off what Calla could find in homes. She had grown worried, as the weeks went by, and her finds had begun to drag further and further apart.
Barren tree limbs slapped against her face, but the sting was long since lost to her, the cold wind had reddened her face, numbing the skin, as she trudged forward. A scarf covered the lower parts of her face, but her upper cheeks were left exposed to the wind, and cold. They occasionally stung. The worry over needing to find shelter, a place to hunker down for the long term, was at the front of her mind. They couldn't keep going like this. Calla was wasting away, her movements stiffening, as she slowly froze out in the open.
Her only saving grace was the warmth she felt coming from her son, far more protected than she, as they drifted aimlessly through the trees. A few days ago, she had ducked within their safety, another herd of the sick had been roaming along the road, and while Calla had felt that going through them would have been faster, and an option, she ducked away from them, keeping track of where the road was, as they continued walking.
Maverick didn't make much noise these days, the cold having sucked out any energy to do so, but Calla didn't have the strength to fend off the sick if she ended up wrong.
Her mind felt numb.
They had been walking for so long. Each road blurred into the last, and Calla no longer knew where she was anymore. They could have been going in circles for all she knew. The sick had begun to cluster up, and occasionally she found the need to walk among them, forced as there was no other option, and she'd quietly remind Maverick to stay silent before she'd slip free from them as soon as she could.
She drifted in and out of consciousness.
Her legs carried her forward, with no drive, just survival, as she worked on instinct.
When she blinked, realizing she was at a stop, no longer moving forward, and wondering when that had happened, Calla tried to clear the haze from her head, as she took in her new surroundings. Maverick had been what dragged her from the haze. He had begun to squirm, kicking her lightly in the ribs, as muffled words met her ears.
He needed to use the restroom, and they had been just standing there for so long, he complained lightly, his voice not carrying, just as she taught him.
Calla stared up at what once would have been a beautiful farm home. The white of the paint had started to chip, as nature slowly began to take over it, the grass had grown taller without anyone to manage it, and vines could be seen just starting to wrap around the lowest edges of the house.
Someone had been taking care of the building, probably after the fall of civilization, until they no longer were.
Moving toward the trees, Calla helped Maverick down so that he could relieve himself, as she stared at the first building, she had seen in weeks that wasn't swarming with the dead or placed too close to hot zones.
Calla knew, from her moments of clarity, that they were a decent way away from any town, or problematic areas, that would attract the sick. She wouldn't know until she took a look around, but there was potential here, for a place to hide out before they were forced to move on again. Maverick deserved someplace to stretch his legs, and they needed warmth, they wouldn't last much longer if they kept this up.
Her eyes roamed over the signs that something had gone down here. There had been a barn, at one point, that had long since burned down. Calla could see the sick, where they had been put down, littered across the lawn, a clear sign that someone had put up a fight. There was no clear picture of how it ended. Whoever lived here could be dead, lying among the decay, lost, and forgotten, or they could have made it, leaving behind the sanctuary they had thought would last.
Nothing lasted these days.
It had been a hard pill for Calla to swallow, but all that was left inside her was a person who adapted and survived. Reaching out, Calla took Maverick's hand in her own, watching as the boy sent her a startled expression, showing her how much things had changed. She hardly allowed him to wander around like this, free, holding her hand, out in the open.
He lightly bounced at her side, following closely, as his small fingers wrapped tightly around two of hers, as they walked across the grass. There was excitement in the way he held himself. Calla smiled softly, forgetting that her lips knew how to make such an expression, as they continued forward until they came to the porch. She had wanted him to stretch, to feel a moment of relief, before she swung him back up into her arms, automatically he hid under her poncho, squirming until he lay comfortably in the blankets that wrapped him securely to her.
She had seen the disappointment on his face, but Calla couldn't focus without knowing he was safe, and she silently promised him this time would be different. They would stay here longer, hopefully surviving the rest of winter here before she'd be forced to move them along. Calla was still searching for Daryl, even if a part of her, the darker side, tried pleading, and begging her to accept that he was gone. That he had died back at the CDC, not wishing to drag the pain out, when one day she would be forced to accept it as fact, but Calla was stubborn.
She slowly walked the porch, peering into the windows, looking for any signs of the dead, and upon finding none she tapped her bat, loudly against the door. The sound echoed from inside the house, filling the silence that had wrapped around the farm, announcing that it was awake once more. Someone had arrived. It was no longer abandoned, frozen in time, as it waited for those who had fled from the sick. Reaching out, Calla was only slightly surprised by the way the door swung open without any resistance. Stepping in, Calla closed it behind her, not wishing for something to stumble in behind her and catch her off guard.
Carefully she slid her arms free of the bag that stayed glued to her back, the weight falling off, causing an inaudible grunt of relief to escape her lips, as she lifted the bat in her hands. It had grown lighter over the months, but it still dug into her shoulders the longer she carried it.
Slowly, and carefully, Calla cleared each room, starting on the first floor before making her way up.
Whoever had lived here had fled in a hurry, Calla picked up on the signs of panic, random bags having been laid down and forgotten during the chaos, and Calla itched to search them. There was potential. No one, no one smart, would drag along things that weren't essential to survival, and maybe, if she was lucky, this farm would have been untouched by anyone since, and she'd gain from someone's carelessness. She pushed the thoughts out of her head, about how they were human, and something big had happened here, that she shouldn't feel happy about gaining anything from someone else's misfortune, but a bigger part of Calla didn't care. If it kept her son alive another day there was very little Calla wouldn't do with a smile on her face.
The second after she cleared the place, having made sure the whole house was free from signs of the dead, Calla allowed Maverick to slide free as he glanced around in curiosity and happiness. Quietly he began to ask her questions and Calla answered them as best as she could.
Yes, they would be staying here.
No, she wasn't sure for how long but hopefully until it warmed up.
He looked satisfied as he followed along after her. Calla helped him back down the stairs as she set way for the kitchen. There she found hints of food, things left behind, but it had been the bags where most of her goals were accomplished. She found clothes, some that fit her, but none for Maverick, and in one there had been nothing but cans of food, and jars of preserves. It had been carelessly left behind, but Calla silently thanked whomever it was as she fed her son their first decent meal in days.
As Calla searched the bags, their stomachs now full, Maverick walked around the room, climbing on the furniture before sliding back off, as he took in the freedom of simply being allowed to move around. Calla worried he couldn't walk as well as he should have at this age, her fault, but it couldn't be helped. Not with their new lifestyle, but he managed, growing bolder the longer he was at it. It reminded her, yet again, of Daryl, as she watched him from out of the corner of her eye. The way he looked determined, the slightest of frowns tugging at his lips, as he gripped tightly at the cushion of the couch and struggled to pull himself up. Daryl had carried the same expression. Every time he found something that didn't quite click, he wouldn't give up, would just keep chipping away at it, until it finally slid into place, and he accomplished it.
Instead of hurting, Calla found that this warmed her heart, as she watched her son, and saw that no matter what she would always have a piece of her husband with her.
For the first time in months, she felt something other than a deep ache.
Tilting her head back down Calla reached for another bag, the last of them, as she hesitated at the familiar rip on its side, and the logo from a hunting store Daryl used to drag her to all the time. There, on the bottom left, was a cluster of drawn hearts in marker, just barely eligible as the black ink was just a shade darker than the material of the bag.
Her insides froze.
Maverick had gotten a hold of Daryl's bag last year, deciding his daddy needed something to remember him by when he went on his hunting trips. The bag had been bland and boring. Daryl loved the reminder of his son every time he took it with him.
With shaking hands Calla rolled it over, searching for the signature right underneath it, Maverick's name, written in a terrible childish scrawl, but it was there, telling her who had owned this bag, and that he had been there.
She ripped it open, the zipper flying across the material, as a sense of desperation took over. Anyone could have found it, stumbled across it, and decided to use it for themselves, but the inside, the contents would tell her if it had been Daryl.
Hope blossomed back up but Calla was quick to reign it in.
It meant nothing.
In the end, all it told Calla was that he had been alive at one point, inside this house, and not where he was now.
She shuffled through the clothes, smiling slightly at the signs of shirt sleeves butchered, having been removed long ago, and then there, at the very bottom was a photo. Her eyes filled, the tears falling free, as her fingers shook, dropping the picture before she was picking it back up.
There, smiling at her, was her face, leaning into Daryl, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, as he held up Maverick, a look of pride and happiness on his face, as he kissed the top of his son's head. She had taken it only a few months after Maverick had been born. Calla could clearly see the tiredness etched into their features, from the sleepless nights, but it was outshined by the love that engulfed the small family.
A sob escaped her lips.
It was like a dam had been broken inside of her. Her body shook, as she gripped so tightly the picture dented, crinkling in her hands, as she buried her face in the bag, trying to muffle her sobs.
"Mama," questioned a soft voice. Tiny hands lightly patted at her head as Maverick thumped, sitting down next to her, his fingers snagging against the knots in her hair. "Mama, no cry. Mav here. Mav loves mama."
Calla turned, her body still shaking, as she buried her face into his hair, and brought the picture closer.
"Mama loves Mav," she whispered, as tiny fingers curiously grabbed at the picture. A giggle escaped his lips as he began to crow happily.
"Daddy! It's daddy, mama, and me." He giggled again as he poked at the picture. "That's me, mama!"
"Yes, baby, it's you."
He moved, crawling into her lap, as he stared intently at the picture in his hands.
"Miss daddy?"
"Yeah, I do. I miss daddy lots." Maverick glanced up at her, one of his hands reaching, as he patted her cheek.
"Me miss daddy too." Calla kissed the top of his head as they both stared at the picture, neither looking away from the man in the photo. "Mama not leave?"
"No, mama isn't going anywhere."
"Pwomise?"
"I promise."
They sat like that, Calla didn't know for how long, just cuddling, as they memorized the man's face, they hadn't seen in months.
· ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── ·
From that day forward Maverick rarely let the photo out of his sight. Everywhere he went it was held tightly in his hand or stuffed into his pocket. Calla let him. If it brought him peace, gazing at his father, in that photo, then she would not be the one to take it away. Even when her heart had grown heavy once more, with loss, and doubt, she could hardly settle her gaze on it without her head growing fuzzy, as something dark tried to take hold.
A few days turned into a few weeks, and the food that those who had lived here left behind began to slowly dwindle away until Calla felt forced to leave the farmhouse to search for more. They managed not to run into many of the sick there on the farm. The land, besides the bodies that Calla had to clean up so that Maverick could go outside, looked untouched by the destruction the rest of the world faced. You could almost imagine that the barn had simply been an accident, but Calla could still see those bodies she had dragged inside the hollow frame, having no energy to bury people she didn't know, and not wishing to attract anyone or anything with fire, she settled on simply placing them all in one spot away from them.
Regardless, the sick left a stain on the world. Even pretty places like this one.
"Don't wanna, mama," Maverick cried, staring at the blanket holder Calla had tugged on with distaste. He had grown used to the freedom the farm allotted him and the idea of being once more placed inside the confines of that blanket and poncho was suffocating.
"It's only for a little while, baby," Calla soothed. "Just long enough to look for food. We're coming back."
Huffing and throwing a small fit, trying to fight it one last time, he finally relented and allowed her to swoop him up so he could settle against her. He was growing bigger, and soon this would no longer work, but Calla set that thought away for the future. She still had time. Time for what she wasn't sure about, but Calla would figure something out when the time came. She always did.
Maverick wrinkled his nose as he settled against her, having almost forgotten about the stench that blanket carried with it, and the poncho that quickly slid over the both of them.
Calla had cleaned up a little since their time at the farm, but she hadn't bothered to figure out her hair, it was still splashed with blood, and her arms had begun to regain the dirt and grime from before. She felt safer with the blood and grime littering her skin, an anti-sick shield around her, that kept Maverick and herself safe. She hadn't felt the need to clean herself up completely. It wasn't like before, caring for oneself in such a way was pointless, and Calla didn't care what people thought if she were to run into another soul.
If they were disgusted, well, it just meant it had given her another layer of protection.
The bag was thrown over her back, almost entirely empty, and the bat, an object that was to her, as that photo was to Maverick, a form of protection, and peace, was all she needed before setting out in search of supplies.
They stumbled upon a snarl of vehicles first, not an unusual sight, as Calla had come across many like it since leaving Atlanta. Curiously she began to search through them, growing quiet and drifting when one of the sick would join them, until it would disappear somewhere up ahead, aimlessly following a path that was hopefully somewhere far away from the farm. She'd pick right back up where she left off, growing excited at the drums of water, only a few left, before moving on. Later she would figure out a way to get them to the farm, but for right now, it made her happy to just see it.
It hadn't taken her long to figure out that the abandoned cars had been picked clean, everything useful taken away, and she suspected it had been Daryl, and whomever he was with. It forced her to move on, to follow a road that led them into a town, which she hoped would lead them to find something.
Calla had begun to grow frustrated, wondering if it too had been picked clean, as worry dug at her stomach. It was close to the farm. She didn't think they would be finding much here, but leaving empty-handed wasn't an option for Calla, as she continued to search. There had to be something. People didn't always look in the least obvious places, and she had grown lucky many times in the past searching in spots that were overlooked.
Moving toward a store, not feeling anxious over the thought of the sick, they were hardly ever a problem to her anymore, and with that poncho and blanket back over her, she was protected against them. Occasionally she would whistle lowly, a reminder to Maverick that she was still here, and that he was to continue to sit in silence. Calla was never certain when he was awake, not when he stayed still no matter what, and the reminder was something he found comforting, so she did this periodically. A higher-pitched, almost bird-sounding whistle would tell him it was safe to talk if he wanted to. It had been taken from Daryl and Merle, their own calls they used while out hunting, to keep from chasing away the game when talking wasn't allowed. The sounds were different, but the idea was the same.
She stepped into the store, not bothering to use the bat to draw the sick out, finding it much safer in situations like this, to just roam carefully, not moving like someone alive, just in case she stumbled upon a group of them. Her heart no longer sped up when she saw them, the fear that had been there at the beginning of the apocalypse had disappeared, and now only acted up when there were signs of people who were alive.
She could blend in and lose herself easily in a crowd of the sick, but people weren't always nice, and Calla couldn't gauge their intentions.
People lied.
The sick were only ever truthful.
She knew whom she preferred.
Inside the store was nothing but quiet, an almost unpleasant sensation, as Calla found there was almost, always, some kind of background noise. If it wasn't the animals, then it was the low hum of the sick, as they wandered in groups.
Here, she could hear nothing, and it set her on edge.
Crouching, Calla kept an ear out for sounds of footsteps, as she reached underneath the shelves, carefully searching for anything that may have fallen down. Her hands bumped into two cans, that were quickly stored away in her bag, as she moved on. Outside, she could hear the distant sound of the sick, far enough not to be a worry, but as focused as she was on the task, Calla still heard the sudden squeak of a shoe on the ground.
Her body tensed, barely noticeable, as she stayed crouched down until she could hear whoever was standing right behind her.
It wasn't in Calla's best interest to hesitate, to wonder who this person was, were they good, or bad?
Hesitation got you killed, or worse.
Survival didn't rely on what-ifs.
Apologies could always be made after. You couldn't ask for forgiveness if you were dead.
Centering herself, making sure she was balanced, Calla shifted, twisting, as her bat flung forward, knocking straight into the knees of the man who had tried sneaking up behind her. He grunted, a scream catching on his lips, as the nails from her bat dragged across his skin.
Another laughed, finding the scene in front of him amusing, as he stared at Calla in surprise.
"Well, fuck me!" he laughed. "It's alive!" He took a step closer, peering down at her, but not daring to get within reach of her bat, as he continued to chuckle. "Well goddamn, darling. We thought yah was one of the dead."
Calla straightened, stepping back, as she held the bat firmly in her hands, noticing that they hadn't drawn weapons. Either they didn't have any, or they still thought they could take her. They didn't know she had her son strapped to her. They wouldn't know that her balance was not at its best with Maverick and the bag, but they would underestimate her because she was female, small, and weak-looking, and Calla would make sure to use that against them.
"Fuck!" the male she had attacked yelled. "The bitch got me! She got me good."
"Quit your yapping," the first ordered. "You were the stupid prick to get too close." He turned his attention back toward her. "Sorry, darling. You can imagine we thought you were one of the dead. Were just about to quietly take care of you." His gaze roamed over her, taking in the mess that was Calla, as he tried to look past the gore that coated her like a second skin. "You're looking a little rough there. Yah got anybody? You could come with us."
Calla didn't speak. She didn't dare utter a word as she carefully watched them and listened for any sign that they had someone else with them.
"You don't speak." He held up his hands, shrugging, as he tried smiling calmingly at her. "I get it. A couple of strange guys. One still cursing up a storm." He kicked the guy, silently telling him to shut his mouth, his focus never leaving her. "Well, I'd be a little apprehensive as well." He chuckled again, hands still in the air, as he took a step closer.
Calla zoned in on that, her bat raising, as she took a step back. A silent reminder to stay away.
"Sorry!" He froze, but he didn't step away, not like he should have to earn the trust of anyone. "Do you need food? We've got food."
Her fingers dug into the grooves of the wood of her bat. They were not good. Her mind screamed at her to get away. To flee, and to run. No one offered food out of the goodness of their hearts. No one would try so hard to get someone who just attacked them to come with them. They weren't there to help Calla. She took another step back, watching as a muscle twitched under the guy's eye, as he suddenly reached out, grabbing for the bat in her hands.
Calla had been prepared for it. She pivoted, moving just out of his reach, and off to the side, as she swung the bat around, forcing it forward, as it smacked into his side. A rush of air escaped his lungs as he clamped down on the yell of pain that wanted to burst forth.
"Give. Me. The. Fucking. Bat!" He reached out again, but Calla wouldn't give in so easily, finding that her heart was pounding loudly in her ears, causing a roaring sensation to crowd her head.
She swung again, grazing the side of his head, but he had dodged, growing more careful as he tried herding her back toward the other man, who still lay on the floor.
Droplets of blood stained his white shirt, right on the side, where she had hit him. Calla had injured him. That would be where she aimed again. Darting back, the other man reached out, intent to trip her, but Calla stomped down, catching his fingers under her boots, as another holler tore from his lips.
"Shut the fuck up!" hissed the other guy. "Quit being a damn pussy and grab her. You're going to drag all of the dead down upon us."
Calla could hear them outside, her ears tuned to the slightest of sounds, and knew they were already on their way. She swung back around, this time aiming for the shelves behind her, the metal shelves crashing to the ground.
"Shut the fuck up!"
He made to grab her, but Calla aimed for his head, watching as he ducked, and she took the opportunity to slip around the corner. Her steps were quiet in the store as she began to move further back, away from the men, hoping to find another exit, when suddenly there were arms wrapping around her stomach. He made to lift her off the ground, but there was more weight to Calla than it looked, as he still hadn't noticed Maverick.
Calla's elbow dug into the side that she had hit with the bat, as it clattered to the ground, and he struggled to keep hold of her.
"You're more work than I bargained for, but fuck, I'm gonna gouge out those pretty eyes from your head. Fucking, bitch." He spun her around, shoving her to the ground, as a whimper escaped from Maverick, causing the man to hesitate, uncertain of what was going on. Calla took the opportunity to reach up, her fingers grabbing at the sides of his face, as he pushed weight down on top of her, causing Maverick to yell out. "What the fuck yah got with you, huh?" He tried to grab the poncho, to push it up, but only managed to reveal a small foot before Calla was pushing her thumbs into his eyes.
He yelled, rearing back, dislodging her hold, before snatching at her hands, and forcing them to the ground.
"You should have just come calmly." He glared at her, with hate, and rage-filled eyes. They both ignored the screams of his partner, the sick had found them, but the man in front of her was far too gone in his anger to care. "Now, I've got to kill the both of you. I would have been nice, and the kid would have been kept safe, but now, fuck if I care."
Calla snarled, her knee coming up, pushing against him, keeping the man from growing closer, from crushing Maverick, as she struggled to free her hands. Behind him, she eyed the way the sick were slowly lumbering toward them, having sensed more activity.
Her other leg wiggled between them, catching him off guard when she brushed against his groin, as he made to move to defend himself, and gave Calla her opening. Her hand slipped free as he used his own to block her knee. She tore across his face, her nails digging into his skin, as her thumb aimed once more at his eyes. She bucked, forcing him off, as her foot dug into his gut, and with a kick, she shoved him back. He stumbled, reaching out with one hand to grab a shelf, as the other covered his face, where he was bleeding. Calla rolled, her hands grabbing at the bat, as she hauled herself to her feet, and swung the weapon for the final time.
It contacted his head, and a sickening crack rang out, as the nails dug into the side of his face. Blood splattered across her face, as she watched him tense, his body seizing up before it automatically made to move back. Right into the searching arms of the sick behind him. Calla held her breath, crouching low, as she fled away from them, keeping out of sight, as she moved several shelves away.
The screams of the men pierced the air, but Calla felt numb. Her breathing had settled as her mind began to drift. The scene in front of her wavered as the pounding in her ears grew louder.
She didn't want to be here.
Her bat brushed against her leg, as she hunched over, waiting for the screams to quiet.
She wanted to be back home.
Daryl wouldn't let her open her eyes. He had said it would ruin the surprise, but Calla was impatient, as she wiggled in the seat of his truck, asking, yet again, if she could take the blindfold off.
"Peach, if yah don' close that mouth of yers I'm gonna have to shut if for yah." His voice was gruff, but the amusement gave way, telling her that he would not, in fact, shut her up. She rolled her eyes, knowing he wouldn't be able to see, not with the damn cloth covering her face.
"Oh yeah?" she teased. "You got something to keep me occupied?"
"Don' get any ideas." She could hear the way his voice had deepened, her suggestion not lost on him, as he shifted in his seat.
A smile tugged at her lips as she reached out, patting the seat, as she searched for his leg. Her fingers brushed against her target when he was suddenly swatting at her. "Behave, damit!"
Calla could hear the slick sounds of the sick as they feasted on the men who had attacked her. Her arm came up, pressing Maverick closer to her as she felt him shake, but Calla still couldn't move.
It wasn't safe.
Her mind screamed it.
It locked her up.
She wanted to be back where she felt safe.
"C'mon Dare," she whined. "What do you have planned?"
"If yah would just have some patience you'd know soon."
Unbuckling herself Calla slid over, automatically lifting her leg to avoid the gearshift, as she pressed up against him. Her hands searched for the seatbelt in the middle, brushing against it, and quickly strapped herself in, as she settled happily into his side.
"You're being awfully suspicious." She heard him groan lightly from next to her as his arm came up to drape across the back of her seat.
"Just give me this, Calla."
Calla did, indeed, fall silent, as she listened to the wind race past the truck. Playing with the engagement ring on her finger, she wondered what he had planned for her, as she silently contemplated it. Daryl didn't typically do secrets, he was an open book to her, which only made this that much more suspicious in her mind, but she would be lying if she said she wasn't excited. Daryl was not a man of many words, but his actions spoke what a thousand words couldn't.
The truck slowed to a stop.
Calla had shuffled forward, merging with the sea of sick, that had joined them in that store. They didn't notice as she passed them by. The bat swung harmlessly at her side, her fingers swaying back and forth, as they kept a loose hold on her preferred weapon.
Maverick had grown deathly silent. He could hear the sick as they roamed around them. The shuffling of their feet, and the quiet sound, almost a hum, clung to them, as they constantly made noise. It drowned out the mess inside Calla's mind as she slipped back into the memory that had become her temporary oasis.
Daryl gently guided her from the truck, his fingers automatically threading among her own, as they walked forward. She trusted Daryl to not let her fall. That excitement buzzing under her skin had begun to pulse as she lightly bounced on the balls of her feet. She heard his chuckle, as he watched her, before pulling her to a stop. His hand brushed against her cheek, moving toward the cloth that covered her eyes before he hesitated.
"Yah ready?"
"Daryl Dixon, I'm gonna combust if you make me wait any longer!" Sunlight blinded her eyes, causing her to blink, as she adjusted to the sudden change. She reached out, without thinking, to reconnect them, as she glanced around, confusion clouding her mind as she took in the foreign neighborhood. "What are we doing here?"
His arm wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her closer, as he led her up a path, toward a little house she was just now noticing.
It was beautiful.
The white picket fence that surrounded its perimeter was exactly what she had pictured having when she was a child.
"What is this?"
Daryl smiled at her, moving to unlock the gate so that they could step inside.
"This is ours."
"This house?"
She stared up at it in amazement.
"If you want it."
Calla turned, staring at him, as she tried piecing together the thoughts racing through her mind.
"You got us a house?"
"Didn' think yah wanted to keep livin' with Merle." He had begun to bite his cheek, the nerves growing, as he continued to watch her carefully.
She turned to him, jumping suddenly, forcing him to catch her, as her legs wrapped around his waist.
"I love it!" Her voice was full of excitement, the confusion disappearing, as she held onto him tightly. Their lips met as she vibrated with happiness, raining affection down on him, as he slowly began to carry her toward the door.
"Wanna see the inside?"
"Yes!"
He carried her across the threshold, into the little home that was now theirs, where they would start the beginning of the rest of their lives.
Calla blinked, refocusing, as one of the sick bumped into her, the growl a warning, as it continued on, moving to run into another like it. Carefully, she leaned down, grabbing the bag that the man who had gone down first was carrying, as she allowed it to dangle from her fingers, inconspicuously, as Calla escaped the store, walking away from the disaster that had happened, and back toward the farm.
Not a single one of the sick followed her out.
She held that memory close to her chest, as she walked back toward their makeshift temporary home, thinking of the one who could bring a sense of safety to her, even when he wasn't there.