Man, I feel bad, but this is how would imagine Daryl would handle darkness- If someone like Alice existed in his life, as he is a character often seen grappling with his personal demons. This Chapter was suppose to be part of last chapter, but it got split for the benefits the flow of the narrative.
I know it's all you've got to just be strong
And it's a fight just to keep it together, together
I know you think that you are too far gone
But hope is never lost, hope is never lost
Hold on, don't let go
Hold on, don't let go
You're Gonna Be Okay by Brian & Jenn Johnson
Chapter 37 - One Step Closer
Daryl sits on the front cement porch of the abandoned car custom shop, his silhouette outlined by the pale glow of the full moon. He leans against the door, absentmindedly fiddling with an unlit cigarette. The night cloaks itself in darkness, concealing lingering fears and secrets within its shadows. The porch, elevated above the ground, grants him a vantage point over the desolate world below. In the background, the snores of the new group of men, calling themselves the Claimers, echo through the high ceiling of the garage.
It happened again... it has been two days since he lost Beth, and now sleep completely eludes him. He had told Beth he was right behind her, just as he had told his Alie, instructing her to go ahead while he followed. Yet he lost her—she simply vanished. He had chased after the car all night, but he knew that once a car was involved, tracking her became nearly impossible.
Once again, life seemed to be playing a cruel joke on him, bringing him to a crossroads. Life demanded he make a choice—between a train track with a sign leading to Terminus, or another path with a paved road where the car could have gone. Find Alice or chase after Beth. He knew what he would choose: his wife. He would choose her above all else, even his own life. However, the guilt remained, unaffected by his decision, hunting him with Beth's hopeful gaze, her eyes bright with eagerness to find Alice. He knew Beth wanted to prove it to herself, she wanted to be the one to find her.
It was there, seated on the ground at that very crossroad, trying to catch his breath, Daryl found himself in the company of the Claimers. They just showed up, as if life had orchestrated their arrival. These were rugged and weathered men, with simple rules, reminding him of the type of companions his brother might have surrounded himself with. In another universe, Daryl might even have been counted among their ranks.
With lingering hesitation, he made the decision to tag along with them as they headed towards the train tracks—the road that led to Terminus, the road to his wife.
Now, from his elevated viewpoint, Daryl peers into the moonlit path, his gaze fixed on the ghastly figure standing before him. It is a female walker, her long dark hair cascading around her decaying face. Driven by a primal hunger, she snarls and growls, her skeletal fingers clawing at the air toward him, unable to reach him.
But it isn't the sound that stirs something deep within Daryl; it is the haunting familiarity of the walker's form. The shifting moonlight plays wicked tricks on Daryl's weary eyes, distorting the boundaries between reality and haunting illusions, toying with his emotions in this fragile moment of vulnerability.
His fingers tremble as he brings the cigarette to his lips, igniting it, before taking in a shaky breath. He knows it isn't Alie, yet he can't help but notice the resemblance she bears to his wife. It feels as if life is playing yet another cruel joke, perhaps foreshadowing what has already befallen Alie.
"I bet this bitch got you all messed up, hmm? Got you walking around here like a dead man," one of the Claimers had said to him this morning. As he watches, transfixed by the walker's movements, Daryl realizes that this might be what it feels like to be dead, to be consumed by darkness, swallowed whole.
Memories flood back to him—this feeling, this all-encompassing darkness, the numbing mixture of desperation and grief. He had experienced this exact sensation fifteen years ago when he lost her for the first time. Now, without Beth to provide him with hope and lift his spirits, he can feel himself sinking deeper into that pain.
As darkness envelops Daryl, the weight of his grief presses upon him like a suffocating blanket. He stares at the walker before him, her outstretched hand frozen in an eternal call, echoing Alie's plea to be found.
Silent tears well up, mirroring the silent agony he carries within. It runs down his cheeks in waves, teardrops falling like a quiet confession, an unspoken longing, gently tracing down his worn and dirt-streaked cheeks.
In that moment, Daryl's gaze falls upon his wrist, illuminated by the gentle glow of the moon. His eyes fixate on an old scar, etched there almost 15 years ago. Small yet significant, it pulsates with a life of its own, whispering to him, beckoning him to acknowledge its presence.
Without hesitation, fueled by an inexplicable impulse, Daryl brings the lit cigarette to his wrist, pressing it against the old scar. A searing pain courses through his body, a raw and visceral reminder of his physical existence. The intense heat of the cigarette sears his skin, momentarily overpowering the weight of grief and despair that had engulfed him.
The physical pain becomes a focal point, dominating his senses and temporarily eclipsing the emotional turmoil within. The sensation of burning flesh merges with the scent of smoke, permeating the air around him. Time stands still as he embraces the physical pain, allowing it to wash over him like a wave crashing against jagged rocks. He withdraws the cigarette from his scarred wrist, the faint scent of burning flesh lingering as a testament to his fleeting relief.
With a sigh, Daryl wipes away the tears, leaning his head back against the door of the car custom shop, his wrist throbbing, his heart heavy, his eyes glued to the walker. Yet, now with his emotions somehow pushed aside, he can hear a distant echo of Beth's voice. "Hope," she whispers...
Seated across from Jamie, you meticulously peel the skin from your boiled potato, its blandness somehow matching the dullness of your struggle for survival. Jamie grimaces with every reluctant mouthful he takes, chewing slowly. Lately, all you've been consuming are potatoes, choosing to save your limited nonperishables for the impending journey.
Oh, how you miss Carol's cooking. If she were here, she would have transformed these ordinary potatoes into a delightful dish with a handful of herbs from the garden. Unfortunately, you never really learned your way around the kitchen. As an adult, your time was primarily occupied by school and your career. Even when you were engaged to Frank, he took care of all the cooking.
Yet another week in Woodbury slips away without a single soul in sight. You keep reassuring yourself, whispering "maybe tomorrow" under your breath, but deep inside, you know it's a futile hope. Each day, you venture out into the woods, etching Daryl's sign onto tree trunks, getting as close to the prison as you dare.
At night, sleep has become a challenge, and the unmistakable signs of sleep deprivation slowly begin to show. From a lack of appetite to severe fatigue that consumes you, leaving you drained of energy, yet you push on.
But even when exhaustion claims you, and you manage to close your eyes for a few moments, your dreams are haunted by nightmares, visions of Daryl getting bitten, dying all alone, and being doomed to endlessly wander as one of the undead. Despite your desperate attempts to reach him, his body always disappears into a horde of walkers, leaving you with a haunting sense of loss.
When you wake up, you have to purposefully chant to yourself that it wasn't real, that you have to hold on to the hope, no matter how slim, that Daryl is out there somewhere. Part of you understand that, perhaps now is the time for you to venture out and search for him, leave Woodbury, but you're caught in a dilemma—what if you leave and Daryl arrives, or the longer you wait, the more his trail fades? The decision of whether to stay or move on is tearing you apart. It's a never-ending cycle of anxiety and despair.
Nonetheless, you find yourself slipping back into the old routine with Jamie, the one before the prison: standing guard half the night, not just out of fear of unforeseen events, but also due to the distressing possibility that Merle might pass away and turn in the middle of the night.
Ever since your return with a duffel bag loaded with weapons, Jamie's curious eyes have been following you around, worry itched on his face. How could you possibly tell him that you had to kill a man to get them? But that man deserved it, didn't he? For what he tried to do to you, and what he could have done to another woman. Instead, you weave a tale about finding the guns in an abandoned camp, having to deal with a few walkers along the way to obtain them. You sense Jamie doesn't believe you, but there's an unspoken understanding. As a soldier, he knows that sometimes, you have to do things you would rather not. So, he simply starts rummaging through the bag, inspecting the collection of rifles, knives, and bullets.
The stillness of the room shatters as a groan emerges from the sofa where the older Dixon lies. Jamie is the first to spring to his feet, swiftly moving towards the awakening man, his hand on his knife. Your breath catches in your throat, only to be released with a gasp as Jamie's face breaks into a grin while looking down at the man on the sofa.
"You're one tough sumbitch," Jamie's voice cuts through the tense moment, and a wave of relief washes over you. "Back from the grave, kickin' and swingin'. That's the spirit, man," he adds as you approach the older Dixon.
Merle's half-opened eyes meet yours, a groan escaping his lips. Surprisingly, Merle seems to be clinging to life well enough. Each day, you've managed to trickle water down his throat, force-feed him pain pills, and diligently monitor his wound. "Goddamn, every damn thing's achin'. Even my nuts are hollerin'." Merle grumbles, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.
"Hey, that's between you and your doctor," Jamie teases, watching as you inspect Merle's injuries. You've been handling him cautiously, unable to estimate the extent of unseen damage. But now that Merle is conscious, he can provide better insight verbally.
"I can't vouch for your nuts, but you sure lost a lot of blood," you inform him, gesturing for Jamie to assist you. Together, you gently roll Merle onto his side. As you lift his shirt, Jamie gasps audibly as his eyes land on the exposed, scarred back. Long, jagged scars crisscross Merle's back, extending from his shoulders down to his lower spine. Jamie shoots you a wide-eyed look. In response, you shake your head subtly at him, your expression silently instructing him not to probe further. This could be a sensitive topic, after all, as it was for Daryl.
You remain unfazed, examining the exit wound, already accustomed to seeing similar scars on Daryl. However, the extent of the markings bears clear evidence that the older Dixon brother may have borne the brunt of the torment. "You're lucky to be breathing, Merle."
"Huh, what can I say? Had to drag my ass back here, just so I could flap my gums 'bout bein' some big shot hero. Merle the hero... damn, that's a tune for the ages, ain't it? Merle... the damn hero," Merle manages to chuckle weakly. Just from his lively banter, you know he's doing better before you even check his ribs and the rest of the exposed areas. Once satisfied that there are no additional injuries, you gently lower his shirt and help him return to a comfortable position.
"It's a bird, it's a plane, nah, it's Merle with his country-ass drawl," Jamie interjects, his laughter echoing around the room as he steps back, allowing you to resume your careful watch over Merle.
"Oh God, don't fuel his ego," you playfully chide Jamie, abruptly aware that it's the first time you've heard his laughter since Charles' passing almost two weeks ago. Swiveling to Merle, you tease, "I bet you're going to lord this over me, aren't you?"
"Heh, you're damn right I will. Bet your sweet cheeks on it," Merle retorts, a broad grin splitting his face. Rolling your eyes at his cheekiness, you kneel beside his makeshift sofa bed, reaching for the stethoscope nonchalantly resting on the coffee table behind you—a remnant of last night's examination.
"Well, when I mentioned a 'heroic moment,' I wasn't referring to myself. Or did you forget you were supposed to save one of the Greens and win Rick over?" you question, recollecting the five-step plan you had laid out for him. Surprisingly, he had taken your advice to heart, ticking off each item on the list—even the part about saving a life.
"To hell with Rick and his Scooby gang. You got my back, and I gotchu. That's how it is, ain't it?" Merle snaps back, turning his gaze away with a huff. You suspect Merle might be able to endure cohabitation with Rick, but obeying his commands, especially with the painful reminder of his severed hand, would be an entirely different matter.
"Merle... What you did was reckless. You could've ended up dead," you admonish, sliding the cool disk of the stethoscope under his shirt.
"Same goes for you, darlin'. What in God's name were you thinkin', rushin' after her like that? Just 'cause Charlie boy bit the dust don't mean you gotta follow suit," Merle counters, locking his gaze with yours. His voice is rough, yet steady, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat which you're closely monitoring with the stethoscope sliding on his skin.
"I can't quite explain it..." you start, your voice a soft murmur, willing yourself to open up. "I was consumed with this... rage. I saw the gun, but it didn't truly register... not until you lunged at me," you admit, the memory of your red-tinged fury flooding back with startling clarity. The danger you had thrust yourself into hadn't fully dawned on you until the aftermath, until Merle almost died for it.
"Well, I'm glad I was there to yank your ass outta the fire. But don't go thinkin' I'm gonna step in front of another bullet for ya," Merle grumbles as you withdraw the stethoscope and loop it around your neck.
"I get it. Being a hero isn't all it's cut out to be," you retort, your grin resurfacing, "I'll try not to do anything stupid like that again."
There's a momentary pause, the conversation winding down. As you lean back on your heels, you notice that Jamie is no longer standing behind you. He's retreated to a corner, engrossed in peeling potatoes, affording you and Merle a sort of semblance of privacy. Though his back is turned, you sense him prick up his ears, his attention subtly tuned into your exchange. Suppressing a chuckle, you bite your lip at Jamie's rather obvious attempt to pretend he isn't eavesdropping.
Merle's deep sigh brings your attention back to him. "You know, sometimes life has a way of knockin some sense into you," he starts, deliberately avoiding eye contact as his fingers absently rub the stump of his missing hand. You had removed his prosthetic when you first moved into the house, concerned that he might injure himself during restless nights.
"I reckon it's about damn time I apologized proper-like," Merle begins, slowly lifting his gaze to meet yours. "I messed up real bad, and I ain't too proud to admit it. I'm sorry for all the shit I pulled, with the whole letter debacle. Thought I knew what was best for him, but part of me was just plain selfish. No excuse, just the way it is."
His frank confession leaves you slightly taken aback. "I didn't buy into you two at first. Figured it was just a matter of time before you'd split from Daryl. Didn't think you could hack our world, or that he could slide into yours. Thought y'all were just snot-nosed kids playin' house. But, turns out, I was dead wrong. Somehow, despite not having a lick of charm, Daryl snagged you. And I know damn well you love him. I read you wrong. You've sure as hell got the guts and the balls to be a Dixon, that's for sure."
"Wow, this morphine's workin' its magic," you retort, your mouth still slightly agape, his admission leaving you momentarily stunned. You'd long since abandoned the hope of receiving any form of apology from him. "You must be high as a kite? Because you sure are blowing an awful lot of smoke up my ass," you reply, camouflaging your surprise with a dose of light-hearted humor.
"Keep your wisecracks and accept the damn apology, will ya? 'Cause I ain't sayin' it again," Merle huffs, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.
"We've come a long way since our rocky start, haven't we?" you ask, a smile adorning your face as you observe his aged, weather-beaten features, so different from when you first encountered him. You know all too well the kind of man Merle is, and acknowledging his mistakes must be a tall order for him. But none of that matters now; along the way, you've managed to forgive him. "As you've said, let's let bygones be bygones."
"I remember when I was convinced that I was clever enough to outsmart my father and keep Daryl," you begin, reminiscing about the past, finally willing to admit that perhaps, by withholding the letter, Merle might have inadvertently saved his brother's life. "My father always told me to stay five steps ahead, so I devised a five-step plan for him —it was naive and desperate. I didn't fully grasp the lengths my father would go. Who knows what might have occurred had you delivered my letter? Maybe we would've survived, maybe things would have spiraled worse." Now, all that remains is a string of hypothetical scenarios.
"Despite all odds, we found each other again. I'm here now... and Daryl... Daryl's somewhere out there," you murmur, your gaze locking with Merle's.
"Don't you worry, Doc. We'll find him, you can bet your sweet ass on that," Merle reassures you, reaching out to place his hand over yours on the sofa. "I ain't the best tracker in the South for nothin'. Give me a few days to heal up, I'll sniff him out. He won't be far."
You nod, feeling some of the burden lifting from your shoulders. Merle's recovery and return to consciousness is already a significant victory, especially considering the dire circumstances you've been facing. With his tracking abilities, you're confident he can lead you in the right direction.
"And afterward..." Merle initiates, an unusual vulnerability sneaking into his tone as he withdraws his hand from yours. "I know I ain't exactly a peach to deal with. Hell, I've been a real pain in the ass more times than I can count… And I know I ain't Charlie boy, but I can step up, fill that void." You realize then what he's offering - he's extending an olive branch.
"I can handle the dirty jobs; ya know I'm game. You 'n me, we're one hell of a team. We're family, you got me, and I gotcha. So, what's the verdict? Gonna let your pal, Merle the big hero, stick around? Gonna sign me up for this club?" he proposes, a sly grin playing on his face, but his eyes tell a different story.
"Merle, you know I wasn't going to leave you behind," you assure him. But there's a difference between mere coexistence and counting on someone as part of your mission to DC - a responsibility you're not sure he can handle. "But you're impulsive, and you tend to go rogue. Where we're headed, it's dangerous. Especially now that Charles is no longer with us." You're already stepping into the unknown; the last thing you need is someone leading you astray.
"I ain't all bad, you've seen it. Step four, remember? Play the good guy, right?" He argues, reminding you of the strides he's been making. "Ain't you the one who said all them things 'bout me? Clever, street-smart, unparalleled survival instinct, mighty good lookin', funny..."
"Did I say that?" you ask, laughter bubbling up from within, "I must've been referring to the other Dixon."
Merle snorts, rolling his eyes, "Pfft, that boy wouldn't know humor if it tickled him."
Laughing lightly, you shake your head, meeting his anticipatory side-glance. Who could have predicted that you would find yourself in this situation with Merle of all people? You recall trying to forge a similar connection with him when you last saw him as a teenager, the night you gave him the letter, attempting to bridge the divide between you two for Daryl's sake. Now, 15 years later, he's making the same sincere effort; he's offering to follow your lead.
"Alright then, Merle," you start, exhaling, a smile nudging your lips. "You're in, but you need to make me a promise right here and right now, and actually mean it." You extend your hand, firmly gripping his sole remaining one.
"With Charles no longer with us, I'm now leading my team. Even though I have the final say, it's crucial we operate as a team and make collective decisions," you express, tightening your hold on his hand to emphasize your point, even though your team only consists of you and Jamie at the moment. "You have to be prepared to follow my lead because our survival is really riding on trust, on us working together as a team. We've got to move as one, or this whole thing could fall apart."
"Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, you got yourself a deal," his response comes swiftly, accompanied by his trademark smirk. "I may have my moments, but I ain't gonna step on your toes."
You nod, hoping this agreement won't backfire. "I'm placing my trust in you, Merle. Please, don't let me regret this decision." you assert, your voice carrying a subtle blend of determination and vulnerability.
Merle nods with a triumphed expression, and you let out a gentle sigh, accepting his answer, before leaning forward, and tenderly planting a kiss on his forehead. "Thank you, Merle," you whisper, gratitude filling your words, "for what you did, for saving my life."
"No need for thanks, darlin', we're kin now, and no matter how much we scrap, how much we can't stand each other, us Dixons... we always stick tight." He replies with an air of bravado, his chest swelling with pride at the memory of his heroic act. "Now that I'm up and swingin', the Dixon double trouble is back on the prowl, and we're gonna stir shit up, kickin' ass and takin' names." The infectious enthusiasm in his tone is hard to ignore.
Before you even have the chance to respond, Jamie interjects, "Hold on, aren't you guys forgetting someone? Am I simply being overlooked in this duo? That's a low blow, right below the waist, I must say," his mock-disappointment emphasized by a theatrical shake of his head.
Merle snorts, tilting his head to catch sight of the pouting soldier. "Don't go gettin' your knickers in a knot, Brooklyn. We ain't forgettin' about you. You dragged my sorry ass all the way here, and I owe you one."
"You're damn right you do! I thought my back was going to snap, hauling your hefty ass through those walkers," Jamie counters in a playful tone, massaging his lower back for emphasis. "A little acknowledgment wouldn't hurt. And Alie, don't you forget about me either. I'm not just some sidekick," he points at you.
Chuckling, you hold up your hands in a gesture of surrender. "Jamie, trust me, you're far from being a sidekick. You're a critical member of this team, and we wouldn't have made it this far without you. In my book, you're a bona fide badass."
The conversation comes to a dead halt as Merle's stomach rumbles loudly, causing Jamie to chuckle. "All this chit-chat's making me hungry. What's the grub situation?" The older Dixon questions.
Quick to respond, Jamie answers, "Our menu boasts a variety of potato dishes. Boiled potato, baked potato, sliced potato, diced potato, fermented potato, charred potato, or subtly smoked potato for that extra oomph," ticking off the options on his fingers.
"Well, ain't that just a banquet of potato delights?" Merle's response is drenched in sarcasm, as he laughs at the rundown. "Brookyln, you certainly have a knack for stirrin' a man's appetite."
"Alright, Bubba Gump, we've got your point, you've had enough of potatoes," you quip, pulling yourself up to assess the stash of non-perishables, intending to select something easily digestible yet nutritious for Merle's recuperation. "What if we gamble a bit and crack open one of those bean cans?"
That night, for the first time in two weeks, you fell into a sleep so deep that not even the stirrings of the undead could rouse you. The comforting knowledge that Merle was awake, and alert gave you a sense of peace. You held onto the hope that soon, you would go out looking for Daryl, and it would only be a matter of time before you found him.