A little bit over two weeks and for that I'm sorry :/ BUT! This chap is basically ALL Daryl/Audrey interaction so I hope that makes up for it. :)
I also wanted to thank you guys from the bottom of my heart cuz we've ALMOST hit 200 reviews! :D Do you know how awesome that is? Well let me tell you I think it's amazing and I love all of you who have made this story so popular and made writing Audrey and Daryl's story that much more fun :) This is for you guys!
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OC and her plot. Some dialogue belongs to the amazing writers of TWD as do most of these phenomenal characters.
Warning: Language and gore.
ALSO! If Audrey seems a little...off in this chapter, like not herself, and if the writing seems more choppy and short, there's a reason for that. :) I wanted it to reflect her mindset in this particular piece. See? There is rhyme and reason to my madness ;)
Chapter 22: Sorry About the Blood in Your Mouth; I Wish it was Mine.
Twenty-nine.
That's the number of bodies strewn across the quarry when the sun's first rays begin to heave themselves over the horizon. Ten of them are camp members. The remaining nineteen are walkers. All of them are dead and already decay permeates the air: thick, cloying, and fetid.
Daryl stands off to the side, sweat runnin in rivulets down the back of his neck, formin a crown against his brow. His skin is caked and crackles with grime: blood, dirt, salt, and he feels like the tears of the entire camp are seepin into his very fuckin pores. Everywhere he turns is another weepin person; their cries reverberate in the air and set his teeth on edge, make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It feels like he's comin out of his skin but he's got nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Camp's fucked. Most of the tents have been torn to shreds, walkers havin followed fleein people into their "homes", rendin both in two. The trees hold no more promise of escape. Every rustle has people leapin for their weapons, half jumpin for the RV. Daryl would mock them for it if he didn't flinch for his huntin knife every time a twig cracked.
The women sit huddled around the fire pit, ash all that's left between the haphazardly stacked stones. They have their kids pulled in close, close enough that their bones grind together, that knuckles turn white with the pressure of holdin on, and each woman tries to comfort her child, or children, as they cry, big fat tears rollin down rounded cheeks. Daryl can tell that they ain't do a very good job. Probably cuz the women are on the verge of tears or already cryin themselves. Daryl turns away from the sight and wipes at the sweat on his brow with the back of his wrist, discomfort burnin in his gut and pushin him into action. There's goddamn work to do. He ain't got the privilege of bein idle.
In the early morning sun, bodies are bein dragged off to either side of the RV: left for walkers and right for deceased members of camp. Daryl doesn't see a difference in any of 'em, they're all infected, but he keeps his mouth shut and just shuttles corpses from side to side. He just doesn't have the energy to fuckin argue. He honestly doesn't. It's been three nights since he has had any sleep and three days since he's had anythin but a protein bar to eat. He's not even runnin on fumes now; just the knowledge that if he falls asleep now he'll probably end up dead cuz the rest of these sons of bitches can't keep themselves alive. He ain't bout to trust them to keep him breathin.
The work is slow and quickly, time begins to blur. Daryl blinks and he's twenty yards away from where he last remembered, yet another body in his hands, weight strainin against his arms. He doesn't know if it's a walker or not but someone herds him to a certain pile and he drops the corpse without ceremony. His muscles scream from the effort and his unfocused eyes take in the gouged out plane of a cheek, stark red blood, and brown rheumy eyes. Daryl distantly and abstractly thinks human. Or formerly human anyway. Cuz they ain't nothin but worm food now. Even if their skin still retains some hues of color; even if their expressions are frozen into such masks of terror they can't be anythin less than human. Daryl tells himself they're dead and he can't do anythin bout it; tells himself it ain't his fault.
And he'd believe it…if it weren't for the burnin ice in his veins, turnin him to cold stone with leaden guilt.
He'd believe it…if he couldn't feel green, bottle glass eyes drillin a hole through the back of his skull, a heat like no other spreadin across his skin, a separate heartbeat that pulsed trashshitcrapyouaren'tallowedinheaven and youcouldn'tsavethem.
Daryl does his best to ignore the guilt like poison in him, just as he does his best to shrug off the weight of that green gaze. Neither effort works and soon he finds himself glancin over his shoulder, unable to help it as his gaze automatically goes to a figure not too far away.
She's sittin ten yards away from the others, amongst the ruins of a small lean-to they had erected to house firewood. Perched on a small log, her eyes look dull and unfocused, starin at him, through him. Her hair is lanky and greasy as it hangs in her face, clings to her jawline. There's dirt and blood smeared into her skin, Daryl doesn't know whose, he doesn't want to think it's hers, and there are tear tracks carved into her otherwise pale face. She ain't cryin now though. Just sittin there, unmovin. Every once in a while, Chinaman will walk back over to her, whisper something, touch her shoulder, her hair, but she never really responds. More often than not, she just shakes her head minutely and goes back to starin at nothin. Sometimes, she won't do anythin at all. The chink will frown those times and look like he wants to say more but then Grimes or Walsh will call him back and he'll leave again. Daryl doesn't know for sure but he thinks Audrey looks relieved whenever Chinaman walks away.
He hasn't spoken to her since last night, since he shot that geek in the head before it could bite her, since she spat venom in his face. He hasn't had the chance. It's been one thing after another—check perimeter, make sure there were no more walkers in the area, do a head count, move bodies, start a fire, start the graves. Daryl hasn't had a chance to fuckin breathe let alone go find the kid to talk to her. Not that he wants to just…he couldn't even if he did.
And anyway, the kid doesn't look up for talkin, even if Daryl did want to which he doesn't. She looks really out of it, just sittin there, bandaged leg stuck out in front of her and arms settin lifeless in her lap. Her sword lies discarded in the dirt a few feet away, unsheathed and bare to the elements. She doesn't look like she particularly cares one way or another. Daryl thinks of how he had set the weapon gingerly, and with some care, near the fire pit, tryin to get it out of the way so people wouldn't trample or cut themselves on it. For as much attention as the kid's givin it, he could have just left it in the dirt she dropped it in and it wouldn't have mattered. That fact doesn't sit right with the hunter, the kid's usually as meticulous with that blade as he is with his crossbow, but then again, nothin is sittin right with him now. Everything's fucked up and turned on it's head and Daryl really wishes the ground would quit movin beneath his feet cuz he's tryin to work here goddamn it. Snarlin under his breath, he tears his eyes away from Audrey and goes in search of that pickaxe he saw lyin round, thinkin someone's gotta make sure none of these dead folk ain't gettin back up again and, somehow, he just thinks that Walsh and Grimes ain't gonna be the ones to do it.
Fuckin city folk.
"Audrey?"
A hand on my shoulder, slight pressure.
"Audrey can…can you hear me?"
Fingers grip tighter. Voice takes on a pleading undertone. A pause.
"Please Audrey. Just…just talk to me. Are…are you…do you need anything?"
Tighter grip, thicker plea, and then there are eyes staring into my own, inches away. I blink slowly at the sight and sparse eyelashes flutter in front of me. For a moment, I stare at the cool, blue veins threading through the thin eyelids, skin pale and translucent, eggshell white and just as fragile, but then they flutter again and I'm left gazing into deep brown orbs, drowning in concern.
Confusion trickles through me—words I can hear but not understand—and I end up shaking my head because it's the only thing I can do. The concern in those eyes turns sharper, more poignant, and it would worry me…if I could feel it. But I can't. Can't feel much of anything. It's all hazy and distant and muffled. I feel like I'm submersed underwater but don't have the sensation of drowning. There's a headache at the back of my eyes, the base of my skull, and my chest feels bruised, sore yet not quite, but it's easy enough to ignore. Something far away screams at me, flashing red in my mind, but I shy away from it. Don't want to know. Don't want to see. I'm fine right where I am.
Suddenly, there's something on my face, trailing across my cheek. Unconsciously, I reach for it and I bump into someone else's fingers, hard press against a bruise and I wince at the unexpected pain, stark to my otherwise muddled senses. Blinking as the haze temporarily lifts, there's a pop in my ears and abruptly, Glenn's voice comes crashing into my ears. It's jarring and my head swims.
"Audrey," he repeats and I find myself, for the first time, unable to look away from his face. It's pale. And too close. Sweat winds its way across his cheeks, scattering off the ends of his hair, the sharp, rank smell of it wafting into my nose. I try to move away but Glenn has a hand on my shoulder, another one on the back of my head, and I can't escape. "Audrey," he says again and I say the only thing that comes to mind.
"I heard you the first time." My voice sounds off but I can't pinpoint how.
Glenn blinks at my response and his brow crinkles. If it's possible, he looks even more worried. "W…what?" he asks.
I frown—the motion seems harder than usual, takes more effort—and shrug out from under Glenn's hands. They skim across my skin for a moment longer before they drop away to his sides. "I said I heard you. You don't have to keep repeating my name. I'm not deaf."
"I…I just…you weren't talking," Glenn stammers. He chews on his bottom lip and my eyes drop to track the movement. The lower lip is already split, dry, chapped skin given way under constant worrying. I absentmindedly think back to that tube of chap stick I have squirreled away in my hiking pack and consider lending it to Glenn.
Not taking my eyes off of Glenn's mouth, half formed thoughts of cherry flavored wax and the metallic taste of blood, I reply, "Not much to talk about."
Something in me screams wrongliesomuchwrong but I shy away from it and try to burrow back into the haze. I try to make everything blurred around the edges and make it a game to see how much I can see and hear without really seeing or hearing much at all.
But Glenn doesn't like my game. I'm not sure why. He keeps making me lose; pulling me back when I've almost won; touching my arm or speaking louder. At one point, he actually drops to his knees in front of me and cradles my face in his hands, mindful of bruises and cuts. For a split second, I expect calluses to scrape along the arches of my cheeks or the curve of my jaw but Glenn's hands are smooth and unblemished. Flawless hands. Innocent hands.
I think that they will change soon enough. Nothing can stay innocent for long. Not in this world. Flashes of golden hair and laughing eyes—blue and then amber and then blue again—dance across my thoughts but I let the bottom fall out from under my mind and ground myself in the words Glenn is whispering into the air I'm breathing; words that I had previously not been listening to.
"I think you need to sleep Audrey," he says. "Why don't you…I'll find you something to lie down on and you can sleep."
I tilt my head at him, straining against the grip he has on my face. "But I'm not tired." I'm really not. I'm fine. He's the one that looks like he needs to sleep. There are purple half-moons under his eye; the rims themselves are bloodshot. Even now he's almost panting, like he's run a marathon. Maybe I should find something for him to lie down on. I wonder if he could fit into my sleeping bag.
Before I can offer, however, Glenn starts shaking his head, back and forth, side to side, and when he meets my eyes, they're sad and dark. "Yes, you are," he tells me.
"No. I'm not," I repeat back to him. Twisting my head to the side, I force his fingers to fall off my face. "I think I'd know how I feel Glenn." An undercurrent of irritation laces my words, but the true feeling is watered down, diluted. It doesn't take long at all for the emotion to die down completely, immersing me again in a sort of numb, suspended animation. I blink at Glenn and feel nothing and he must sense it because he reaches out and takes my left hand, the touch of his skin jarring me once more.
Those big brown eyes of his take on a watery quality when he suddenly says, "You're in shock Audrey. That's why you don't feel tired. But you are, I know it, and you need to rest." He pauses for a moment, eyes roving over my face. "Please," he adds, almost as an afterthought. It's a plea. I don't understand it.
Why would I be in shock? I'm fine. Nothing hurts; I don't think I'm bleeding. Why would I—?
"T…th…an…k y…ou."
The words come screaming from the darkness and they shatter against the inside of my skull. They echo and vibrate, setting my teeth grating against each other, and I am unable to stop the word that slithers off my tongue.
"Amy."
Glenn goes rigid in front of me, his fingers tightening to the point of pain around my own. He stops breathing for a moment and when I look up into his face, a lone tear trickles out of the corner of his eye. Oh. That's why. He thinks I'm in shock over Amy. Because she's dead. Dead and gone, torn open by a walker. I drop my eyes and am immediately drawn to the stark red of my hands, dried blood painting interesting patters across my skin, all the way up to my elbows. I cock my head at them curiously, thinking of Rorschach tests and therapists. What do you see here? How does that make you feel?
As my eyes trace the shape of a laughing jaw line tattooed on my wrist, I decide to put Glenn's mind at ease. "I'm not in shock," I tell him. "Though I think you might be." Lifting my gaze, I frown at the ashy quality of Glenn's face. "Maybe you should lie down."
There's a moment's pause after my words and I'm just thinking that Glenn's going to heed my suggestion, but then he takes a ragged breath and squeezes my hand tighter. The bones in my fingers grind harshly together and I wince at the once again unexpected pain.
"Audrey," Glenn starts again, saying my name again, as if I think he's talking to someone else. I really do believe he's the one in shock. His eyes are clear though, which is weird, clear and sharp as they cut through the haze and into my own eyes. "Do you know what…what's happened?"
A lot's happened. The world's ended. I've learned how to cut up a squirrel in five minutes flat. I had my wrist fractured. Walkers attacked camp. Glenn needs to be a little more specific.
As if on cue, my friend continues. "Do you know what happened…to Amy?"
I blink at the quiet exhalation, three letters, two syllables, one name. "Yes," I return and Glenn looks skeptical, like I'm saying mindless words without knowing their meaning, so I clarify. "She died. Got bit. Bled out. I was there." Detangling my fingers from his, which doesn't take much effort because Glenn's grip suddenly goes lax, I lift my hands and show him the Rorschach blots on my knuckles; the red moon with its craters, the cackling skull, the winding crimson rivers. What do you see Glenn?
He doesn't seem to see anything; he doesn't even look at my hands. His eyes stay pinned on my face, more tears swirling in their depths, and the intensity in which he stares at me is unsettling. It's like he's asking something of me but I don't know what, can't even begin to guess, and, what's more, I have nothing left to give. Just these blood blots on my hands and their ever-changing images. Feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I refuse to meet Glenn's eyes and instead stare resolutely over his shoulder. I'm not looking for anything, other than escape from the tears in Glenn's eyes, but I find something nonetheless.
It's a fire. Large and consuming, black smoke billows off the edges of orange flames. It's then that I realize the stinging of my eyes, irritated but dry, empty and having nothing left to give like the rest of me. The smell hits me soon after: rotten and burned flesh; almost gag inducing. They're burning the bodies. I can see the charred, black shapes even from here, piled haphazardly to the left of the RV. Absentmindedly, I watch the smoke twist darkly into the pale blue sky, watch the ash float back to the ground, and think of cremation and ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I think of my expanding lungs, one breath, two, a million, I'm still breathing here, and wonder if the heaviness in my chest is from the countless people I'm breathing in, their remains, nothing but fluttering particles that still retain their weight. Suffocating me.
I take a deep breath and hold it, cheeks puffed out ridiculously, and I believe I can almost taste all those people, billions of lives, memories, all reduced to ash in the air.
The men are still piling on bodies. I don't bother to count them. Does the number really matter? The resounding no in my skull seems to mock me.
Silently, I watch as T-Dog and Morales drag yet another one up from somewhere out of my line of sight and drop it a few feet away from the burning heap. There's a pause, the two men bend over and pant, catch their breaths, and all of the sudden, a third figure walks up. I know who it is without even having to see their face. I can tell from the sleeveless shirt, the hunting knife attached to a hip, the aggressive stride. And when he stomps over to the body that T-Dog and Morales just dropped, hefts a bloody pickaxe over his shoulder and slams it into the walkers head like it's nothing, I know that man can be no one but Daryl Dixon. No one else could do something that gory without flinching; not even Shane, for all his bravado. A thought worms itself into my head that I've done what Daryl is doing—and worse—without flinching either. That fact must mean something. I don't know what.
As Daryl wrenches the pickaxe back, a trail of brain matter arching in the air after him, he suddenly lifts his head and his eyes clash with mine. The stark blue of them jolts me, makes me think of toowhiteblue, gut wrenching cries, a white moon, a pale face and the words thankyouthankyouthankyou. My head swirls, there's a sharp pain in my chest, too sharp, don't like it, and I tear my gaze away, listening to the thud of my heart reverberating in my ear and waiting for the pain to recede back into the haze of my mind.
I'm not so lucky. Because the second I look away from Daryl, my gaze lands on Andrea. Andrea, who is still sitting prone in the Winnebago's shadow, not having moved an inch since last night. Andrea…who has her sister's head cradled in her lap, stroking blood stained, blonde hair off her forehead.
The sight of Amy's corpse makes something in me give but the sensation is distant and removed; like a crack that forms deep within the heart of a glacier. In the back of my mind, I know that dull throb I feel now is only the immediate reaction, that the aftershocks have yet to reach me, but I can't find it in myself to care. Out of sight, out of mind. For now. There's a dim rumble in my ears, an avalanche barreling toward me, but there's nothing I can do for it now so I just ignore it. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind.
All of the sudden, Glenn gasps and I blink, coming back to my senses. I think maybe I've said something without meaning to but when I look back at my friend…he isn't looking at me. He's craned to look over his own shoulder, probably having followed my line of sight, and his profile is shocked and concerned. I frown at the expression and now follow his line of sight, all the way back to the RV's shadow, back to Andrea and Amy's body.
Except Andrea isn't alone any more. Rick's suddenly there; crouched beside the older blonde. And he has a gun in his face. I can't hear the conversation that occurs but Rick quickly backs off, slowly retreating back to the fire pit. Andrea follows him with her eyes for a time, and her gun, but soon drops both, one back to her sister's face and the second to the dirt. The whole confrontation takes no more than ten seconds but Rick looks thoroughly shaken.
So does Glenn, for that matter. He's already half way to his feet by the time Rick's standing in front of the fire pit and he only catches at the last minute, casting half a deliberative glance down at my face, a whole myriad of emotions flickering across his own visage. He wants to talk, say more, I know it, can see it, but I just calmly blink up at him, belaying nothing. I don't feel up to talking right now. I'm not tired just…not in the mood. And Glenn finally seems to get it because he murmurs something about being right back before he steps away from me, hurriedly walking over to where the majority of the camp's survivors, which is not many, congregate around Rick.
A part of me just wants to go back to staring at nothing, just existing which in and of itself is a burden, but my curiosity gets the best of me as I watch Rick and Shane start to argue. Their voices aren't raised but their spines and shoulders are tense, faces creased with emotion, and the others start to follow their examples as their postures begin to change, their expressions tighten and ripple. It's interesting to watch them, fascinating to track the movements of their lips or eyebrows, and I find myself disappointed that I can't hear them. Unbidden, I rise to my feet, swaying for a moment when my ankle threatens to give, when my vision doubles and swims and doesn't ever really even out. Logically, I should sit back down before I fall down. But logic doesn't really have a place in this nonsensical world anymore, so I find myself staggering towards the fire pit just as Daryl, of all people, begins to talk.
"Y'all can't be serious," he scoffs. The pickaxe I saw him wielding earlier is cocked on his shoulder, bloody and gruesome in the morning light. "Ya gonna let that girl hamstring us?" Everyone around him—Rick, Lori, Shane, Glenn and Dale—refuses to meet his accusing gaze. Daryl scowls, the expression so familiar, and stabs a hand in the general vicinity of the RV. "The dead girl's a time bomb."
Rick sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, smearing filth into his skin, every inch of him covered in it. "What do you suggest?" he asks. Even I can tell that he's more than willing for someone to make a suggestion, to take the reigns from him at this point. He looks battle wearied and beaten down; it's hard to imagine he's only been in camp for two days.
Daryl looks at Rick like the former cop doesn't understand English. Taking two steps forward, he leans in and says clear and slow, "Take the shot," like it's the simplest thing in the world. Someone makes an appalled noise, I can't tell if it's Dale or Lori or Glenn, but Daryl ignores them all. He keeps his eyes locked on Rick, whose expression I cannot see, and raises his hand to his temple in the shape of a gun. "Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance."
For some reason, the visual of Daryl turkey hunting makes me giggle and I have to bite my tongue to keep the noise in my throat. I don't think laughing is the appropriate response to what Daryl is suggesting. But what is the appropriate response? I can't seem to find one.
Lori, however, seems to think that it's disgust. "For God sake's," she hisses and I turn to see her glaring death at Daryl. "Let her be. She isn't any of your concern."
Daryl balks at her, eyes wide and shocked. I have to say I'm in agreement with him, though I am loath to admit it. "None of my concern?" he parrots back to her. His eyes are hard and made of blue glass. "Last I checked a walker is all of our concern. And it needs to be dealt with now."
Again, I agree with Daryl.
Not many others seem to.
"That isn't a walker," Glenn suddenly blurts. The young Asian is standing with his back right in front of me so I can't see the shape of his mouth or eyes but I can envision his horrified expression well enough. "That's Amy!"
Rolling his eyes, Daryl shifts the pickaxe on his shoulder and I watch a fleck of gore splatter onto his bicep. "Ain't yer little girlfriend any more Chinaman. She's dead and gone. And that thing," he lifts a hand and points towards Andrea who's cradling her sister's corpse. "Needs to be put down."
Everyone explodes into an argument: Lori hissing at Daryl, Rick trying to calm Lori, Glenn saying something loud that I cannot track, Shane moving to push Daryl away when he takes a step too close to Lori, and Dale trying to be the voice of reason above them all. If I was smart, I would just stay silent and let them argue this out amongst themselves. But I'm three for three with Daryl and I can't really see why everyone is upset. Maybe it's because people just generally don't want to agree with Daryl. I don't know. All I know is that, without thinking, I'm stepping up and speaking out.
"I agree with Daryl." Short, concise, and to the point. Simple. By the way everyone comes to a screeching halt, mid-sentence, mid-breath, you would think I just stated some long-winded mathematical algorithm that would cure cancer.
Glenn whirls to stare at me in shock. His face is still pale and ashen but now it also looks stricken. "W…what?" he stutters.
All eyes land on me and I squirm under their scrutiny. Shrugging, I avert my gaze and glance down at the scarlet patters on my arm, tracing pictures. "I agree with Daryl," I repeat. "The longer we let it go the more likely someone is going to get hurt."
I mean…it's only common sense. Does no one see that?
Silence echoes for a moment and then Lori breaks it. "It?" she asks. " 'The longer we let it go'? Audrey…that's Amy." Frowning at her words, I look up and meet the older woman's eye, see the horror in them. It confuses me.
"No it's not. Amy's dead. Died last night, under my hands." I cock my head to the right, gesturing towards the Winnebago. "That's just a body over there. A body that's eventually gonna get up and come after us. It's one bullet. I don't see what the big deal is."
"You don't mean that," Glenn whispers and when I look at him, there are tears on his cheeks. He's looking at me like he doesn't recognize my face and that's when I realize that…he still sees Amy in that body over there. They all do. They don't see a body or a walker or a threat. They see a teenage girl, Andrea's sister, a friend. They don't realize that she's long gone and clinging to a rotting corpse won't bring her back. And I can't make them see that. They have to come to terms with that reality on their own. Just as I did, months ago with the fires of Dalton warming my back.
I lapse into silence, at a loss for words, and everyone just stares at me in varying emotions, none of them particularly good. Well, except for Daryl. I can't tell what is in his eyes but it doesn't look judging. Then again, he can't judge me when he was the first to offer the one bullet solution. I just agreed with what he said.
After a few tense moments, people begin to disperse, though not before casting me parting glances of diluted disdain intermixed with varying degrees of concern. Daryl is the first to go. He takes one last look around the circle of people and rolls his eyes at what he probably thinks is weakness. He spits to the side, narrowly missing Shane's shoes, and turns on heel, marching away, probably to help burn more geeks. I don't know if he meant to, I don't know if he even noticed, but right before he completely turns his back, Daryl meets my gaze one last time. It's just a moment, barely a blink of an eye, but I think I see something like…respect in that one glance. It's gone before I can be really sure though, leaving me to watch helplessly as people turn their backs on me and walk away.
Glenn, not surprisingly, is the last to move away. But he doesn't move towards me either. He just stares. Stares like he doesn't know me; stares like he doesn't want to know me. I feel a spark of guilt for my seemingly callous words and want to explain, try to make him see what I meant, but the words won't come. In result, I'm left staring back at my friend, talking to him in glances, knowing he doesn't speak my language. Not yet at least. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wish he would never learn, never have to. But I know he will. Eventually. Inevitably. Irrevocably and without a doubt know the tongue I speak in. The thought hurts me, makes me feel like I'm somehow a failure, so I push it away and instead ask the only thing that comes to mind.
"What can I do to help?"
Help you understand. Help you never have to feel this pain, know this truth. Help you to escape my fate.
I mean all these things and more but Glenn takes me more literally.
"There's nothing much for you to do," he says quickly but when I raise an eyebrow skeptically at him he sighs. "Ok. There's nothing much you can do." He averts his gaze and looks pointedly at my bandaged leg, then up to my bandaged wrist, thoughtlessly pressed close to my side. "We can handle it. Just…you should just rest."
And we're back to the resting thing again. I don't necessarily want to argue with Glenn, I know I've upset him, but I can't just sit back and twiddle my thumbs while everyone else goes around and picks up the broken pieces of our camp. If I was mobile enough to fight off walkers I can pick up debris or…I don't know, something. Before I can make my case, however, Glenn makes another sudden noise that draws my attention. Unlike last time, it's not exactly a gasp. It's more a shudder nearly giving way to a sob. I glance over at Glenn but he's not where I left him. He's already ten feet away from me and advancing across camp grounds. I frown after him, wondering what is making his strides so long and choppy, but I don't have to ponder for long. Not far from where Andrea still lies prone in the dirt with her sister's body, Glenn comes to a jerking halt, spine ramrod straight. Morales straightens from a hunched over position in front of him and so does Daryl, the former man's face confused and shocked, the latter's just annoyed. Glenn points at the ground animatedly, his voice rising in pitch and breaking at the top and, even though I can't tell the actual words, the emotion behind them in unmistakable. I follow the line of Glenn's arm to the dirt between Morales and Daryl, see a streak of auburn hair and a neck turned at an awkward angle away from me. It doesn't matter that I can't see the face. I know the body is Abby, my tent mate. That giving sensation echoes in my chest again, feeling sharper, like the fissure is widening into the Grand Canyon slowly but surely. I tear my gaze away before the sensation can reach and crack my ribs, turning instead to Daryl who's scowling at Glenn.
A few choice words are shared, Daryl gesturing to the fire that's growing in size. He waves his hands around, throws them out wide and growls something in Glenn's face. But the younger man doesn't back down. He gets right in Daryl's face, making the hunter lean back, and shouts something along the lines of, "We don't burn them! They're our friends!"
My gaze flits to the fire at Daryl's back, the bodies crumbling to ash in it's belly, and then to the other side of the RV, where six corpses lay side by side, each with varying degrees of trauma but no less recognizable as people I've seen milling around the quarry. Glenn's voice echoes in my head. "They're our friends!"
Were, I want to say. Were our friends. They're gone now but Glenn apparently still believes they deserve more than a Viking's funeral. I'm not exactly in agreement but I'm not going to argue again. I've seen that it's pointless.
Daryl has seemingly reached the same conclusion because he bends down and grabs Abby's left arm, Morales stooping to grab the right, and they drag her to the other side of the RV. As they pass twenty feet in front of me, Abby's head flops to the side and I'm abruptly staring into her slack face. What I see makes my stomach churn and that feeling isn't as removed as I would have hoped. Abby's eyes are wide and milky, pale depths gazing into nothingness. There are scratches along her cheeks, deep gouges that no longer bleed, still a deep scarlet color. Cartilage juts out of her caved in nose, an island of white in a sea of red. And…and her chin and lower jaw are missing, tongue dangling towards her throat. I think about how the woman was so loud and boisterous before, how she could talk and joke for hours. The sudden urge to laugh and scream at the same time wells in me, so abrupt through the haze, but my body can't settle on one reaction so I'm stuck in the no man's land in between, silent with my throat clenched tight.
"Ya reap what ya sow!"
I blink at Daryl's words, loud and grating. The two men have dropped Abby's body to the ground and the hunter has a sneer on his face, not for anyone particular, just for the world in general.
Morales furrows his brow and dusts off his hands. "Shut up man. That isn't even fucking funny."
I don't think I've ever heard Morales curse. For some reason, that little tidbit throws my already unbalanced world even more off kilter.
Daryl, however, doesn't seem to be fazed. He just shoves away from the older man and growls deep in his chest. "Ya'll left my brother for dead!" he shouts and the mention of Merle has me freezing mid breath. Morales has the decency to look a little guilty but Daryl is having none of it, scowling so harshly I have this irrational fear his face is going to stick like that, pointing at the row of bodies on the right side of the Winnebago. "Ya had this comin!"
Without another word, he stalks off to God knows where, bending down to retrieve the pickaxe prone on the ground as he goes. Few people follow him with their eyes; most just ignore him. I settle for a little of both, eyes pinned to his back but not seeing a thing beyond the image of his contorted scowl in my head, faulty along the edges, like it's just about to break.
"Ya'll left my brother for dead!"
Now that I think about it…I haven't seen Merle all morning. Not that I've been looking but the older Dixon is hard to fucking miss. His absence can only mean one thing.
Merle didn't come back with the rest of them. And the only reason Daryl wouldn't drag his brother back is if…there was nothing left to salvage.
The knowledge doesn't bring tears to my eyes. I don't break down and sob. Instead, I turn around and limp back towards my previous seat, ignoring the dingy length of steel I've left in the dirt as I collapse back onto a half rotten log. I calmly watch as people pass me, dragging bodies, dragging debris, the stench of the fire reaching into my lungs and suffocating me. At least that's what I tell myself. I tell myself it's the smoke, the ash, the dust, all of these particles in the air that are making it hard to breathe, making my heart have to pump twice as hard, bruising the inside of my chest. I tell myself that and I try to believe it.
But when another shout rises into the air, frightened, frantic, and Daryl yanks up Jim's shirt—quiet Jim with a story like mine—exposing the perfectly circular bite underneath, I know that I'm lying to myself.
The hits just keep on fucking coming and the haze I'm still wading through does nothing to lessen the feeling that, somehow, I have a part to be blamed for in all of this.
If only I didn't antagonize Merle, Daryl would still have a brother.
If only I was fast enough, strong enough, not so weak, I could have saved Abby, Jim, Amy.
If only.
If only.
Daryl doesn't see what the arguing is about. It's pretty fuckin black and white if you asked him. Infected and non-infected. Walker and human. There is no in between. There is no gray area. He doesn't understand the frettin everyone's goin through. The man, Jim, was as dead as the bodies burnin a few yards away. His fate would be no different.
"What are we going to do?" the black woman who Daryl can't name asks. She's the one that had called Jim out on the bite. By the way she was wringin her hands, you'd think she's the one that got him bit.
No one answers her. Not one of the eight other people huddled up ten yards away from the RV, discussin the man sittin on the Winnebago's rear bumper. The silence grates on Daryl, makes him feel antsy, and he blurts out his opinion, the one option they had really but one people didn't want to acknowledge.
"I say we put a pickaxe in his head, and the dead girl's for that matter, and be done with it."
Walsh is the one to answer him, jerkin his head up with a glare that would level lesser men. "Is that what you'd want Dixon? If it were you?" he snarls. Daryl can see the judgment in his gaze but he's too fuckin tired to give a shit at this point. The hunter had done what he could to save people last night. If that wasn't good enough for the former cop then fuck him.
"Yeah," Daryl returns after a time. "And I'd thank ya while ya did it." Which isn't exactly true. Or maybe it is. Daryl doesn't know; hasn't given his inevitable death much thought. All he's worried bout is the moment he's breathin in. If in the next minute he gets bit well…he'd deal with it then but he ain't gonna throw himself into no geek's arms. He's gonna fight to the goddamn last.
Walsh scoffs and the conversation picks up again without Daryl. It goes back and forth for a while, between Grimes and Walsh, the CDC and Fort Benning. It's all bullshit. There's no cure and there's sure as hell no such thing as safety. What did these people not understand bout end of the freakin world? At one point, Daryl just gets tired of the fuckin crap. These dumb asses keep talkin like there's an option B, belly achin over this one man! A part of Daryl, deep down, feels sorry for the bastard, havin drawn the short straw and bein dealt a death sentence. But mostly, Daryl is getting goddamn pissed off all over again. Grimes has been arguin to save Jim for nearly ten minutes now, even though everyone knows it's futile. Fuckin Merle got ten seconds of consideration before he was dealt his death sentence. It's not fuckin fair. It's fuckin bullshit. And before, after hearin what happened to Audrey…Daryl kind of understood. But now…with all these people cryin bout their sisters and their friends…like Daryl isn't in the same goddamn boat…it sets Daryl bones shiftin. Merle is gone. God knows where. Hurt, probably sick, maybe dead. And no one gives two shits. But here they all are, debatin on goin 100 fuckin miles across the state in search of a pipe dream.
Daryl is fed up. With all of it.
"You go lookin for asprin," he speaks up, interruptin Grimes. The former cop blinks at him but Daryl doesn't give him the time to respond. "Do whatever bullshit ya need to do." He adjusts his grip on the pickaxe in his hands and whips around, fixin his gaze on the doomed man crouched on the end of the RV. Advancin forward, he hefts the pickaxe up and shouts, "Someone needs to have some fuckin balls to take care of this damn problem!"
He doesn't make it within five feet of Jim before Walsh is divin in front of him and there's the telltale click of a loaded gun right at the base of his skull. Daryl pants harshly, pickaxe poised over his shoulder, sweat drippin of the end of his nose.
"We don't kill the living," Grimes says firmly, barrel of his revolver brushin the shell of Daryl's ear. The hunter bares his teeth in a sneer and turns around slowly, droppin the pickaxe cuz he knows he ain't got nowhere to go.
"That's funny," he growls. "Comin from a man who just put a gun to my head."
Walsh snorts behind him. "Dixon put it down. I ain't gonna ask you twice."
Daryl turns to look at the bastard and then back at Grimes. Both men wear stern, no nonsense expressions. They ain't backin down and he's got no choice, caught between a rock and a hard place. Scowlin, Daryl stabs the pickaxe into the ground and stalks off without a backwards glance. "Ain't even worth the goddamn trouble," he throws over his shoulder. "He'll be dead soon enough." Someone grumbles after him to just shut the fuck up but Daryl pays them no mind. He just walks away, skirtin around the blonde chick and her dead sister, tryin not to think of his own lost brother.
It's a little hard, however, when that goddamn fuckin kid just pops up right in front of him, bandaged and bruised and bloodied, Merle's fingerprints and knuckles still imbedded in her skin. She's sittin back on that log again but this time, she ain't starin into mid air. She's starin right at him, green eyes locked on his face. The emerald orbs are still uncharacteristically flat, dull like dingy glass, but they look more focused now, not as lost. Daryl squirms under their scrutiny, rememberin how she sided with him bout the dead blonde girl and contrastingly how she basically cursed him the night before. He knows the kid's fucked up, knows that the blonde chick had been her friend. Daryl had seen how the kid reacted last night, how she had collapsed beside the dyin girl and cried for a time before fallin strangely silent and limp, not respondin when Chinaman pulled her into his arms, frantic and fervent. Watchin her friend die undeniably fucked the kid up; Daryl just knew. She sounded out of it earlier: cold, detached. For fuck sake's, she agreed with puttin a bullet through her friend's skull without flinchin, talked about the girl dyin under her hands without battin an eye. For someone who balked at the animal traps he and Merle set up, that's a flag right there.
But it's not like Daryl can do anythin bout it. He'd made it pretty fuckin apparent he wanted nothin to do with the kid, on more than one occasion. And even if he…even if he wanted to change his mind, the kid was seemingly fed up. Not that he blamed her but he couldn't help but feel…
Help but feel…
Feel…
Jesus H. Christ.
What the hell is he doin?
Daryl abruptly tears his gaze away from Audrey and spins on heel, only decidin to check the perimeter again when he's already halfway there, never mind that he's checked it twenty times over. Anythin to get him away from those green eyes and the rest of these dumb asses and anythin to keep him movin, cuz if he's movin he doesn't have to think. And that's exactly what Daryl wants now, what he needs. Not to stand around and bitch over some kid or worry over her. She…she ain't his problem, ain't his friend.
The hunter tries to tell himself it's not disappointment that wells in him but just sheer exhaustion.
The lie falls flat even in his own mind and he slips into the underbrush, knife at the ready just in case, with traitorous half thoughts of poetry in the woods, soft smiles imbued with appreciation, and apologies.
Seein Daryl try to put a pickaxe through Jim's skull is enough to get me up again. But not in the way it should have.
Objectively, I know I should be up in arms over Daryl trying to kill Jim. I know I should be siding Shane's Fort Benning plan or even Rick's CDC pipedream. I know I should be feeling something—sorrow, anger, guilt—and to some degree I guess I do feel those things. But they're fading, melting away like the morning fog, transparent and insubstantial. I can't seem to grasp them and they slip through my fingers; slip underneath this slowly encroaching wave of abject hopelessness and detachment. The haze comes back more potent this time and I'm powerless to stop it. Soon, I'm underwater again, and the only thing that I can think to do is to help clean up camp.
The span of time between one blink and another finds me back at my tent. Or what used to be my tent. The grey material is torn to pieces now, collapsed in on itself, strewn across the dirt. In fact, most of the tents around me have suffered a similar fate. Our "homes" have been destroyed, in more ways than one. Now, we are homeless and we are hapless. And, for the life of me, I can't see an end in sight. Or at least an end that isn't drenched in scarlet or crimson. As I painstakingly pick my way through the wreckage, Amy's face and Jim's and Abby's and, because underneath it all it comes back to her, Kaleigh's does as well. It's a collage of auburn hair and blue eyes—oh no wait amber—and mechanic overalls with a cap pulled down to shade a brow in my head and there's no way to stop it so I just keep moving. Keep moving and don't stop.
An object in motion tends to stay in motion and an object at rest tends to end up dead.
The majority of my things have survived the carnage. In what used to be my corner of the tent, my worn and weathered hiking pack remains untouched. Most of my clothes, piled at the end of my bedroll, are also intact. However, some of them are unsalvageable. As is my sleeping bag itself. Those items are alternately ripped or slashed or splattered in more crimson Rorschach tests: coffins and hourglasses with no sand, clocks with no hands and a scythe cleaving the world in two. Abby's side of the tent is just an ocean of vermillion and its patterns hurt my eyes so I collect my things as fast I can. Taking one last look at the ruined remains, I move away from the labyrinth of destroyed tents and back up to the RV, hiking pack shouldered and heavy. The progress is slow, I still can't use my right arm, my right ankle gives at certain instances, but I spend the lengthy time debating on whether or not I should ask Shane about burning the trashed tents or just get someone to help me drag the waste to the steadily growing fire.
Shane, however, is nowhere to be found when I look for him. By overhearing a conversation between Lori and Dale, he and Rick are apparently digging graves up the hill, ironically where Jim had started the endeavor yesterday under the influence of a dream. Or perhaps a psychic premonition. Well, lot of good it does us now.
Morales and T-Dog are similarly busy making sure the geek fire doesn't engulf the rest of the quarry. Armed with shovels, they throw dirt on the gnawing edges of the flames, corralling them back and making them docile. So they are also no to me. And I can't ask Glenn. Can't or won't, makes no difference. Can't and won't look him in the eyes right now. Standing near the firewood pile once more, I've come to an impasse, unsure of what to do next.
It's when the straps of my hiking pack have started to cut deep into the meat of my shoulders, when sweat has dripped into my eyes and pooled in the hollow of my collarbone, that something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. For a split second, I go rigid in fear, not recognizing the slow, mechanical motion in my peripherals. My instincts scream danger and walker and run but when I turn to look…it's only Daryl.
He's standing along the RV's front bumper and to his back sits the red Charger that Glenn drove into camp two days ago, now gutted and scavenged. In the ten feet between the vehicles, a span of dirt and scattered rocks, lie two uneven rows of corpses, their blood having drained from their veins and staining the Earth below. Daryl stands amongst them, feet shoulder width apart and that pickaxe once again in his possession. For a moment, the scene doesn't click for me, I don't comprehend what I'm seeing, but then Daryl shifts his weight and slams the weapon in his hand down and a skull gives way beneath his blow with a slick cracksquelch, a spray of blood arching into the air.
Oh. Right. Damage control. Of course Daryl get's dealt this job.
A quick glance at the ground reveals to me that the hunter's only gone through three bodies; that there are seven more heads still intact. A part of me thinks he's got his work cut out for him and that same part goes to turn away, remembers you ain't worth the goddamn trouble and yer just like every other asshole here and fuck all of y'all! The second Merle and I get back, we're gone; remembers every time Daryl's snapped at my attempts of friendship and how I'm tired of trying for fucking nothing. I nearly got fucking killed by Merle and for what? Daryl won't let me call him a friend and apparently doesn't need me as a partner. So fine. Fuck him right?
But then Daryl stumbles.
One minute, he's hefting the pickaxe over his shoulder again, moving on to the next corpse, and then he's suddenly swaying on his feet, stuttering to the right until he collides with the front fender of the Charge. The bloodied pick slides from his fingers and drops to the dirt, clanging dully on impact. Daryl doesn't even reach for it. He's too busy clinging to the car's hood behind him with one hand and his head with the other.
There's this moment, a fleeting thought that slashes through my mind, that he's been bit. The infection is mostly characterized by blistering fevers but there are also bouts of dizziness and vertigo, headaches, as your brain begins to fry from the inside. But then I get to thinking. And counting.
Daryl left camp three nights ago to hunt; he was gone before dinner. He came back yesterday morning and dove straight into Merle's rescue mission. And when he returned last night, it was hell on Earth. When was the last time he slept? When was the last time he ate? When was the last time he just wasn't on his feet?
I think about all of this clinically, objectively; just stating the facts. And then I look at all the bodies on the ground; all the work Daryl's been dealt while Rick and Shane dig graves and the other men mind the fire. If the hunter's three days out of sleep and food…he's probably on the verge of hitting the dirt. As if to prove my point, the hand Daryl has on the Charger's hood slips along the warm metal and he pitches forward, only catching himself at the last minute, finding his footing by thrusting one foot out. He lands heavily one someone's hand and it gives way with a sharp snap. I refuse to look down to see who it was and instead cock my head at Daryl himself.
He's wiped out. Even if he wasn't swaying on his feet, it's obvious as hell. There are dark purple half moons beneath his eyes; his face is an ashy pale color underneath all the soot and grime; the scruff on his cheeks and chin is longer than usual, giving him this haggard, hollowed look. I realize he needs help and looking around, there's no one else to give it but me.
That stubborn part of me doesn't want to give it; is fed up of trying with Daryl. But honestly…I'm too tired to hold grudges, too tired to be petty and think you hurt my feelings so I'm not going to help you. I'm not going to go up to him and ask for a hug or a shoulder to lean on but…he did save my life. Again. If nothing, I owe him a helping hand for that.
Thinking only of the debt I've managed to incur, I quickly fish something out of my hiking back and make my over to Daryl.
Even incapacitated, Daryl's on red alert, senses cranked to an eleven. I don't make it within five yards of him before his head's snapping up and his eyes land on mine. I pause for a moment at the diluted anger in his gaze but press on regardless, thinking as impersonal as I can. Just helping with a job that needs to be done. Nothing more.
"Here," I say in lieu of greeting. My voice is quiet and flat, no inflection. I extend my hand and open my palm at a normal pace, not an angry jab nor a comforting unfolding. The offer seems almost perfunctory, like I'm doing this on a whim and could just as easily not do it. Something in me, so distant I barely notice it, feels uneasy at the fact that…I wouldn't have too much of a problem walking away right now, leaving Daryl unsteady and sick. Glenn's comment of being in shock comes to mind but I ignore it.
Daryl's gaze slides from my face and lands on my outstretched hand. I jostle my fingers and listen to the crinkle of plastic wrappers. Half of a memory, snatches of lollipops and sharp claws, flickers through my mind but it's gone before I can catch it.
"Well?" I prompt when the hunter doesn't move. "Are you going to take them or not?"
The hunter looks like he's actually considering not, brow furrowed and mouth pinched. His eyes dart up to mine and there's actually confusion swirling in their blue—right blue not toowhiteblue—depths, warring with a thinly veiled suspicion. I continue to stare at him blankly and, after a moment, Daryl reaches out and curls his fingers around the protein bars—my last ones—before pulling them from my grasp. The tips of his fingers brush my palm and I let my hand drop to my side, ignoring the warm, slick trails of blood his touch has left behind.
Still looking at me like I might have laced the bars, Daryl tears one open with his teeth and bites off half of it, traces of a ravenous hunger escaping through cracks in his usually stoic mask. "Thanks," he garbles around the bite after some careful consideration and realization that no I didn't poison them. The word is quiet and reluctant, like it's being wrenched from him against his will. I shrug and move away, walk towards the Charger and drop my hiking pack against its fender.
"You saved my life last night," I tell him without looking up. "A couple of granola bars isn't exactly lavishing you in gratitude but you look like you needed them."
Daryl doesn't correct or confirm my statement but I wasn't expecting him to. Ignoring the weight of his gaze on the side of my face, I nod towards the bodies at our feet, not seeing any faces, just splashes of color and varying degrees of rot. "Need some help?"
It's a rhetorical question, we both know the answer to it, but Daryl grunts out a negative. "I got it," he mutters and I actually manage to snort in derision.
"Yeah I can see that. Look, why don't you just let me deal with these here and after you've eaten you can help me drag some of the debris to the fire T-Dog and Morales have going. Sound like a fair trade?"
For a minute, Daryl doesn't respond and I try not to squirm under the intensity of his blue-eyed stare. Then I hear another plastic crinkle and the sound of chewing before a dull scrape as he hefts up the pick once more. I turn and see him giving me this inscrutable look, jaw working around the second protein bar. There's a granule of chocolate covered granola stuck to the corner of his mouth and it's in that moment that I realize I'm hungry too. The sensation isn't very potent though and, like much of everything now, it's easy to push aside.
Clearing his throat, Daryl walks up to my side, close enough that our arms brush. He looks me straight in the eye and holds my gaze. "This ain't for the faint of heart kid. Why don't you go find that little boy or girl, hell even Chinaman, and just sit yer ass down?"
His statement isn't particularly vindictive. In fact, if anything, I think I almost sense concern in his words. But I've had enough of the puppy eyed looks from everyone else. Enough of the coddling hands and shushing voices. I'm fine. And even if I'm not that's nobody else's business but my own. Not Glenn's and definitely not Daryl's.
Giving Daryl another blank look, I reach over my right shoulder and instantly come into contact with a familiar handle. I don't know when I picked up my katana from the dirt; I certainly don't remember strapping it on. It's not something I'm about to complain about though so I just pull the length of steel out of it's sheathe and decide not to ask questions.
The blade is still stained from last night, the previously bright blood now dull and dried. Inappropriately, I think I'll have to clean the sword soon before it rusts. Maybe after this. After all, no reason to clean it now when it's just about to get dirty again.
Tearing my eyes away from Daryl, I advance to the body closest to us. The corpse is slight, twisted in a way that has nothing to do with broken bones and more to do with arthritis. I can't see the face, it's pressed into the dirt, back facing me, but the blood matted silver hair is a give away, as is the ripped and tainted tweed suit from a different era. Shifting the katana in my hand, I wriggle my right foot under what looks to be a dislocated shoulder, gritting my teeth at the warm flares of pain in my ankle, and shove. The body flops over with a dull crunch and then I'm left staring into the slack face of Mr. Andrew St James.
The first thing I notice is that his glasses are missing. Without the wire-rimmed frames, his face looks large, more open and, if it weren't for the bloody furrows carved into his cheeks, his brow, his visage would appear to be sleeping. But the illusion would be a weak one at best. The elderly man could be nothing but dead, what with his chest cracked open like an egg dropped onto the kitchen floor, his entrails spilling out like red, thick yolk. And yet, despite the fact that I can see straight through to his spine, despite the fact that half of what appears to have been his heart is dangling out, despite the fact he died in the most gruesome way imaginable…
There's a smile on his face.
It's nothing big or grand; no teeth are showing. The corners of his lips are tilted up just slight, frozen with rigor mortis. For a moment, I think maybe it's a death grimace, maybe I'm seeing it wrong. But then I look down his body, past the gaping cavity of his torso, pieces of intestine and what looks to be a shredded stomach out in the open, rotting, and see there's something clenched in his arthritic, liver spotted hands. Tilting my head at the dirty and bloodied object, I quickly realize it's that stuffed dog he always carried around. The fur is more red than brown now, there's a leg and an eye missing, but a collar still clings to its neck and when I stoop down, eyes watering at the rank stench of gore, I see there's an engraving on the silver tag.
To Lu-Lu.
From Papa Andy
I don't know who "Lu-Lu" was but…she must have been very important to Mr. St James if he clung to her toy even as he was being ripped a part. My eyes flicker back to his face and land on that little half-smile of his and I think maybe…I understand now. Just a little. Pushing myself back to my feet, I spare half a thought to wish that Mr. St James is in a place where he can see Lu-Lu again, where he could see his daughter Clara, the teacher with the big heart who taught children, once more.
"Your heart. Your heart's like Clara's. My sweet, sweet, Clara's. It sees the good in people. And the bad. You'll need your heart to live. Need it now more than ever. Listen to it ok? Above all else, listen to it and don't let them take it from you. "Never let them take it from you."
"Sorry to tell you Mr. St James," I whisper as I place the tip of the katana between his eyes. Beside me Daryl shifts suddenly in the dirt, "Uh kid—". I ignore him and suddenly shove down, steel slicing through bone with the familiar jarring resistance before the slick give. Twisting the blade for good measure, brain matter turning to slurry under the force, I carefully pull back and don't even bat an eye at the gore that follows.
"But heart's are kind of overrated nowadays," I finish and, not sparing a second glance at the dead old man, move on to the next body and the next, the hollow feeling in my chest making me think that perhaps my heart's already been taken from me.
Perhaps, I never had one to begin with.
Daryl ain't a sensitive man. He ain't squeamish nor does he have a weak stomach. He's been guttin game since before grade school; blood and gore don't faze him.
But watchin the kid move through those bodies, mechanical and robotic, not even flinchin when she put her sword through their mouths or eyes…it made his stomach churn.
He couldn't stop her though. Once she started, that was it. She didn't hear him when he called out to her and he wasn't bout to touch her. And not only cuz she had a lethal weapon in her hand. Daryl couldn't bring himself to reach out cuz…he honestly didn't want to see if his fingers fit the bruises on her. People always said he and Merle were alike, Dixon's through and through. Daryl didn't want to know if they were right.
The kid gets through four corpses before Daryl steps in again. By that time she's already dealt with an old man, an auburn haired woman who he thinks was her tent mate, and a man and a woman who he knew were a married couple. He thinks the man was in the Army or something; there's half of a tattoo left intact on his right bicep that looks military but Daryl can't be sure.
She's just bout to slice through another man but Daryl cuts her off, heavin the pickaxe over his shoulder and slammin it down again. Audrey looks up when he yanks back and for a moment, they just stare at each other, blue on green, neither saying a word. He sees again how her eyes look different, disconcertin, dull. But there's also somethin he didn't notice before. It's small, fleetin, like somethin swimmin under a foot of green frost, but it's there nonetheless. He can't place it though and every time he tries to look closer, it dances away, playin hide and seek. The kid blinks at him like she's waitin for him to speak but he's got no words. So, he settles for steppin back and noddin at one of the last bodies between them, givin her the "honor". After a brief hesitation, a small head tilt of appreciation, she steps forward and cleaves the head in two and Daryl thinks that if he can't stop her, he's at least gonna watch and make sure she doesn't turn that blade on herself.
He tells himself it's cuz he owes her, is indebted through Merle, but in the back of his head he thinks about that spark in her eye and how he swears it looks goddamn familiar even though he can't name it.
There's one last body to be dealt with and Daryl is gonna let the kid have it, doesn't feel like fightin for it, doesn't want to admit his vision is still a little shaky, but she suddenly freezes, body goin tense from head to toe. He wonders if she's had enough, or if one of her injuries has flared up. She still looks like hell after all, right arm bandaged and pressed closed to her side, right leg weaker and not properly bearin her weight; that's not to mention the bruises and contusions all over her, the split lip, the black eye, the broken nose. But she banishes all of those thoughts the second she begins to laugh. It's quiet and dry, bitter and brittle, and Daryl thinks it seems just this side of hysterical.
"What?" he asks. The sound makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, makes him uneasy. He opens his mouth only to get her to shut her own.
Audrey continues to chuckle but shakes her head in response to his question. "Nothing," he says and her voice cracks in the middle of the word. "Just…the walkers beat me to it." Daryl frowns at her and then looks down, tryin to decipher the kid's words. It doesn't click for a while, he can't see past blood and bits of torn flesh. Then he sees who the corpse is. Or was. It's that little girl's father, the asshole. Daryl never said two words to the man but he knew what he was. Knew the man used his fists instead of his mouth to speak. Daryl had seen the bruises on the little girl, on her mama. He just never said anything cuz everyone thought he was the same as the man on the ground before him, the same as his brother. What no one knew is that Daryl had more in common with the little blonde girl, Sophia, than anythin else. But no one knew that and, what's more, no one would believe it. Daryl was a Dixon, through and through. Trash and shit and crap. Garbage that ain't allowed in heaven.
"You know," the kid suddenly says and Daryl realizes he's been silent for a beat too long. "I threatened to kill him just yesterday." She reaches out and pokes at the man's half gnawed on face with her sword, pushes slightly and watches the head flop to one side. "We were down by the quarry—the women and I—doing some laundry. Ed was there too, sitting back, smoking, being a fucking bastard. At one point, he came to the water's edge, started some shit. He smacked Carol clear across the face."
Daryl can't say he's surprised at that but he is surprised to hear the pure hate in Audrey's voice, such heat after so long of speaking with ice.
"I had never said anything to him before, Carol asked me not to. But seeing that…I couldn't let it go. I got in his face, held him at the end of my katana. And I told him, I promised him, that if he ever laid a hand on his family again, I'd kill him. Gut him like a pig. Cut off his dick and his hands and make him suffer for all the shit he put Carol and Sophia through." Daryl can only see the profile of her face but he thinks the kid's almost smilin.
It seems she finished talkin and Daryl wonders if she's waitin for a response. He fidgets cuz he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if the kid's feelin guilty for her actions or not. In the end, he settles for, "Yeah well…if ya ask me, he got what he deserve."
For the first time since she saw who the last corpse was, the kid looks up at him and Daryl was right. She is smilin. The expression doesn't dissolve his unease though. If anything, the glimpses of white teeth below her swollen lip highlights the dead look in her eyes and Daryl feels his stomach roil once more.
"I couldn't agree more," she says. Daryl, for once, wishes she would fight him on this. For once, he wants someone to look at him in abhorrence and disgust cuz this calm, lethal, acceptance makes him think the kid's goin crazy, goin under. He wishes he could tell himself he doesn't care but now, seein her, lookin like she's been to hell and back, knowin what he does, all that shit bout his brother, her would be murderer, and still she is reachin out to him, he can't even believe that lie any more. Daryl doesn't know what to do with this information and ends up just gazin silently at the kid.
Before either of them can speak, there's a sudden rustle behind him and, turnin, they see a figure approachin. "Carol," Audrey says and the older woman looks at the kid with this haunted/scared expression and Daryl wonders at how much she heard. He then wonders how the kid's gonna explain her callous words but it doesn't even look like she's even gonna try. She just blinks at the timid woman and Daryl can't see a speck of remorse in her gaze.
"I…I wanted to…he's my husband," Carol stutters. She wrings her hands and glances down at the remains of her spouse. "I…I should be the one to do this." Liftin her chin, she holds out her hand to Daryl and meets his eye.
And here the hunter thought she was comin to pay her respects.
He considers tellin her no, like he told the kid, but then suddenly tosses the idea cuz if the woman wants to kick the bastard for some closure, he ain't one to stand in her way. Ain't none of his business. He hands her the pick and steps back. He'll admit that, despite the stubborn tilt to the woman's jaw, he doesn't think she has it in her.
When she splits her husband's head open and then keeps goin, till there's nothin left but blood and her half-crazed sobs, Daryl knows he's been proved wrong.
Pickin up his head, he looks for the kid, wants to see her expression, but she ain't where he left her. He frowns and flips his head from side to side, finally catchin sight of her limpin towards the geek fire, not even pausin to glance down at her dead friend and her catatonic sister. Daryl can't help but shake his head at her retreatin back, even though the motion makes his still throbbin head feel worse.
The kid and him keep colliding into each other, smashing tightly together, just for a few instants, before whirling away with the impact, circling an unknown orbit that's a constant crash course with no destination. He's gettin tired of the endless rings and wished that they could just fuckin stay still, if only for a little while.
I'm not there to see Andrea put a bullet in Amy's corpse but I hear the gunshot. And I see the aftermath. I was sitting amongst the wreckage of the tents, picking through the spare things scattered around me, not caring whose they were, just seeing if they were still useful, when the echoes lashed out across the quarry. For a minute, I thought maybe there were more walkers. But I didn't hear any more screams; there was no commotion. If anything, it was too quiet. When Glenn stumbled down the incline towards what used to be our tents, I figured out why.
He didn't say anything at first; just shuffled towards me and dropped to the ground, sat in the dirt, pulled off his cap, and stared into the trees. I didn't ask him what he wanted and he didn't tell. I also politely ignored the tears slipping down his cheeks, the salt I could almost taste in the air. We just sat there in silence while I rifled through belongings and calculated the possibility of actually patching some of the tents, some of the items of clothing.
"She came back," Glenn said after some time. I didn't have to ask who.
"You knew she would," I returned. I didn't mean to sound mocking or I told you so. But what was he expecting? People get bit, they die, and then they come back. Unless you took…precautionary or preventative measures, they always came back.
That was the end of the discussion and, not too long after, Dale walked down to us and said that the funerals were going to start soon. Glenn nodded and got up, left with him. He didn't wait for me and didn't ask if I was going, if I needed help. He just left and didn't look back. I tried not to feel grateful.
Now I'm standing near the RV again. Amy's body is gone and Andrea is nowhere in sight. The rest of the group crowds around the fire pit, speaking in hushed voices. Well, save four people anyway. Jim, I hear, is in the RV, to keep him safe from Daryl. I try not to call bullshit because, if anything, we need to be kept safe from Jim, not the other way around. Shane and Rick are still digging holes and the final absence is Daryl himself. But he isn't far. He's standing a little bit away from the others, as per usual, leanin against the rusted out side of his truck. The tailgate gapes open and bundles of varying sizes lay stacked inside the bed. The sheets may be a different color but all of them bare the same spots of drying blood, the same haphazard shape and manner, as if someone tried to fold them correctly but just couldn't bear it half way through. I think I see a lock of blonde hair peaking out from one of them but I tear my gaze away before I can be sure.
Behind me, I hear the stirrings of people getting to their feet. Someone sighs, another clears his or her throat, and Lori quietly says, "It's time."
Time for the funerals. Time to say goodbye. Like it all fucking matters. It all kind of feels a bit useless to me but I've upset people enough today and I don't feel like dealing with any more of their judging stares.
But I am not walking up that hill again. Yesterday was enough. And this time I don't have Am—
The thought brings me up short and I find myself moving without knowing it, away, away, away. I'm not running though, and not only because I can't. There's just no point. I can't run from reality. Amy's dead and that's that.
"Ya need somethin kid?"
I'm suddenly standing in front of Daryl, my elbow brushing the warm side of his truck. He's looking down at me and there's this guarded question in his eyes, almost a suspicion. I don't have the energy to wonder as to what he's suspicious about.
Thinking about what the hunter's just asked me, I realize I don't have an answer. I wasn't looking to walk up to him, I was just instinctively moving; no thought process, just base movement. I shake my head at him in response but don't move away. Daryl regards me for a minute and I stand still under his inquisitive gaze. For the millionth time, I watch as a set of eyes dart across my face before dropping to the rest of my body, clinically cataloguing instead of anything unseemly. I know he's looking at the bruises his brother left, my fractured wrist, bum ankle. I wonder as to what he would say if he knew about the busted ribs under my shirt, Merle's boot prints along my side. I wonder if he would even care at all.
Daryl chews on his bottom lip, gaze glued on my ankle, before he meets my eyes again. "Ya goin up?" he asks, jerking his head towards the hill where Rick and Shane are digging graves. I shrug and then nod, look away and then back into his face.
"I guess," I say. Daryl hums and then averts his gaze. It's like we're playing pinball and our eyes are the balls in play.
"Need a ride?" he asks at length. I can't help the small spark of surprise that lights up in me. Though I guess I shouldn't be. I must have walked over here for a reason, even a subconscious one. The truck at my elbow seems like a good enough one. Still, I can't say I was exactly expecting Daryl to offer.
I'm not about to turn it down though.
"Sure."
The hunter nods and then goes to turn away, to slip into the driver's seat, but jerks to a stop at the last second. His body abruptly goes rigid and I here the air hiss sharply through his teeth. I frown at the way his face goes pale under the dirt on his skin and ask him what's wrong. He doesn't answer me right away and he doesn't look me in the eye. It's not until I realize he's staring at my arm that I understand his sudden tension.
"It's not a bite."
Daryl's eyes snap up to mine and I can the skepticism in them, can almost see Jim's reflection cascade through their twin pools. Reaching up, I pull on one of the ends of the hastily made bandage, gritting my teeth against the pain as the scrap of fabric flutters to the floor. "Got shot," I say, switching my gaze from Daryl's face to the furrow in my arm. It's no longer bleeding but the gash is deep and the scab looks tentative at best. It looks deep enough to probably need stitches. The skin around it also looks slightly red and I spare half a thought for infection before I look up to see Daryl's expression.
It's not as closed off as I was expecting but it's still not easy to read. The most I can glean is that Daryl looks vaguely pissed at the sight and I can't even begin to think why that is.
"What happened?" His voice is low and controlled though, belaying the heat in his eyes. I drop my gaze to the wound again, rolling my shoulder, half to shrug at his question and half to see if I could get it to bleed again.
"Shane was trying to put this walker down. I got in the way. Not that big of a deal. It barely grazed me," I tell him and I'm being honest. It's not that big of a deal. Carol and Sophia are still alive and that geek is nothing but ash now. Win-win as far as I can see.
"Walsh put a bullet in you?" he growls. The heat in his eyes is suddenly in his voice now and it confuses me. I frown up at the hunter and can't understand the scowl on his face.
"Not technically. As I said, it just grazed me. Why? It's not like I was in pristine condition before." I lift my arm and wave it in Daryl's face. The hunter flinches and it's in that moment, that split second, that I see the guilt in his visage as he stares at the bandaged appendage, as his gaze clicks back to my face and lands on the split lip his brother gave me.
He knows.
He knows what Merle did.
I don't know how, I mean I know I shouted something to the effect of blaming Merle last night, but he couldn't have figured it out because of that. Someone told him. I wonder when. I wonder if it was before or after they didn't find Merle, if the knowledge was meant to be a warning or a consoling gesture.
You know your brother tried to kill Audrey. You better keep him in line when we find him.
You know your brother tried to kill Audrey. He was a menace. Perhaps this is for the best.
Daryl doesn't respond. He just whips around and stalks the few feet to his door, wrenching it open and slamming it behind him once he's in the driver's seat. I think I might have just squandered my ride up but then he sticks his head out the window and barks if I want to get it, I'd better do it quick. I don't have to be told twice. As fast as I can, I skirt around the bed of the truck, ignoring the flash of blonde hair glinting in the sun, and slip into the passenger's side of the truck. The second the door clicks shut behind me, Daryl is throwing the vehicle in drive and were lurching up the road without a second of preamble. I turn and look out the back window, to see if everyone else is following, but the truck's kicking up too much dirt and all I can do is trace patterns in the dust clouds we leave in our wake.
The ride up doesn't take that long; three, maybe four minutes tops. Daryl doesn't say a single word the entire ride up. That's more than fine with me. In the few silent, spare seconds, I find myself curiously looking around the cab of Daryl's truck. There isn't much to look at. The seat is a long bench, customary of older model vehicles. The dark blue upholstery is cracked and faded, sharp edges digging into the bare undersides of my thighs. The dashboard is no better, bleached by the sun, bearing the scars of years of use. Absentmindedly, I reach out and trail my fingers across one long slash, the tips of my fingers bumping along what looks to be a stab wound. Huh. I kind of want to ask Daryl what happened but the urge is a small one, overshadowed by my desire for silence. Still, I'm curious as to what could make someone so angry that they'd stab the dashboard of a truck. The ghost of a smirk pulls at my lips as I envision some country girl named Mary Sue or Anna Beth pissed enough to spit fire, lashing out with a blade—because all country girls carried knives right?—as Daryl booted them from his truck. Then that smirk withers and dies because who am I to speculate on Daryl's past life, love life or non? It's none of my business. I'm not his friend, his partner, his anything. The two of us are just fellow survivors; the only thing we have in common is that we don't know when to give the fuck up and roll over. The world's gone to shit and we're still going through the motions: breathe in and out, heartbeat ba-dump ba-dump, keep moving though there's no were to go. Two fighting, fucked up creatures that don't know the battle's long over; that can't admit we're all just waiting in line for slaughter.
At one point, Daryl swings the truck around and backs the rest of the way up the hill. You wouldn't know it if your eyes were closed though. He drove just as well craning around to stare behind him as he did gazing out the windshield. The position was a little more uncomfortable, Daryl had to sling an arm across the back of the bench seat, twist his neck and lean his body in my direction, but it worked. I try to stay as close to the window as possible, give the hunter the space he always needed, but I can't help but let my eyes rove over the corded arm inches from my face. Sweat covers every inch of skin that dirt does not but there's this one spot, on the inside of his arm, just below his armpit, that's darker than the other places. For a moment, there's this flare of memory in my head: a flat blue lake, warm leather between my fingers, Daryl at my elbow and a Hymn Before Action echoing in the air between us.
It's a tattoo. I've seen it before, down at the quarry lake, a brief flash as he crawled up onto the boulder beside me. It's not very large nor is it that intricate. Just a few black lines that come together in harsh points and stark shapes. I tilt my head at the rearing demon and wonder again as to what's the story behind the ink but, like the slashed dashboard, I let the question go unasked. We all have our devils after all.
The jarring stop as Daryl slams the truck into park pulls me from my musings. I blink and lift my gaze to the hunter's face, only to find him staring back at me. His arm is still outstretched between us and he switches his eyes from me to the image etched into his skin and back again. He drops his arm quickly and throws open his door. "We're here," he grunts before he's swinging out of the car and shutting the door harshly behind him. I sit there in silence for a few minutes before I follow him outside.
Daryl messes around with something near the bed of the truck and I contemplate going up to him but I find myself drawn to the holes Shane and Rick have dug. They're haphazard and uneven, each a different width and depth. The edges crumble as I skirt around them and I blankly watch the dry dirt tumble into the dark holes, down into the center of the earth, into molten magma and mantle and all the way out through China. A cleared throat draws my attention and I look up to see Shane on the other side of the grave I'm balancing on. The former cop is drenched in sweat, his police academy tee clinging wetly to his skin, covered in soil. There's a smear of dirt on his cheek and his eyes are as dark as the hole we're straddling, deep and fathomless. He tilts his head at me and I see the unspoken question in his gaze: Are you all right?
The thought makes me smile and I nod at him, as if he had voiced his inquiry aloud. My response doesn't mollify him though and Shane frowns at my expression and that's when I realize my face feels kind of funny. I try to widen my smile but the sensation gets worse. It's like my mouth and cheeks are covered in cement, heavy and stiffening. I wiggle my jaw but the muscles in my face seem numb and no matter what I try, I can't get them to cooperate. After some time, I give up and just let my face go slack. Shane's frown deepens at that but before we can get into this tedious conversation, murmured voices reach us and we both turn to see the rest of camp crest the hill.
Show time.
Lori is the first in sight, Carl at her side, blue eyes wet as he clings to her hand. Glenn is next and after him follows a trudging line of people, solemn and single file, every inch the perfect picture of formal mourning. They are a funeral procession, all in line and in order, and that gets me thinking. Funeral processions used to be this big thing. Police escorts with flashing lights, a long black hearse, and lines of cars marching to the cemetery. People would stop to watch them go; some would shake their heads; others would cross themselves and murmur prayers. Either way, it was always an affair; even for the strangers casually watching the never-ending line of cars and people dressed in black.
Well none of us are dressed in black and the only vehicle in the immediate vicinity is Daryl's truck. All those other traditions are done away with now. Funerals are no longer the public events of look at us; look at us and watch us mourn our dead like model, empathetic human beings. Now…now funerals are shoddy holes dug up in the hills, secret places that no one will find and no one will remember to visit; if there's anyone left to remember that is. There are no black suits or lace veils; there is no reverend or priest or pastor to say, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens." (1)
No one will be shouldering coffins today; six men will not line up on either side of a pine box and bear the weight of the deceased. For a moment, I imagine Daryl and the rest of the men curling their fingers under the hot metal of the hunter's truck and hefting it up. The insane image actually makes me huff half of a laugh but I quickly shake the thought away, knowing now is neither the time nor the place for such musings.
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens. A time to joke and a time to shut up Audrey. Now is the time for the latter.
I drift away from Shane and the black hole he dug, limping back towards Daryl and his truck. The hunter casts me a glance as he passes me, going the opposite way, but we don't share words. He goes his way, walking up to where Shane and Rick are finishing up digging, and I go mine: right up to the bed of his truck where I heft myself up onto the tailgate. The metal groans in protest at my added weight but I pay the angry screeching no mind, just as I don't spare the stench of rot a second thought. It's just festering meat. Nothing more. Not Amy, not Abby, not Rebecca or Simon or Mr. St James. That line of thinking is what makes it easy for me to lean back, for me to not flinch when I bump into something. It makes it easy as breathing.
"I still think it's a mistake," someone speaks up and I lift my head from watching my swaying feet to see Daryl addressing Shane. "Not burning these bodies. It's what we said we'd do right? Burn 'em all, wasn't that the idea?"
The other man flicks his head irritably and sweat scatters off the tip of his nose, the ends of his curly hair. "At first," Shane replies sharply. "Things have changed." He stops digging and thrusts the end of his shovel into the dirt, leans on the stick and fixes Daryl with a steely glare.
Daryl scoffs and rolls his eyes. I find it curious that he's even saying anything. He's not usually so needlessly antagonistic. That's generally Merle's calling card. Daryl tends to just shut up and stand in the shadows. And yet, here he is, calling Shane and Rick out. It's just curious. I think maybe's he's had enough crap and doesn't see the point in being silent anymore. "What?" he goads, pressing on. Shane narrows his eyes and his mouth thins into a dangerous line. "The Chinaman gets all emotional, says it's not the thing to do, we just follow him along? Tch, that's bull. These people need to know who the hell's in charge here, what the rules are. If ya can't cut it Walsh…"
"Hey! Ya shut yer mouth Dixon or I swear—"
"Enough," Rick suddenly intervenes. Both men swivel to glare at him but the former sheriff ain't made of glass. He turns to Shane first and with only a look, the burly man subsides. Huh. I need Rick to teach me that trick. Tearing his eyes away from Shane, Rick then rounds on Daryl and by the expression on is face, he seems less than patient.
"Look, there are no rules ok? We're just trying to get by, same as you," he says and he just sounds so tired. Daryl opens his mouth, presumably to argue again, but someone else cuts him off.
"Well that's a problem," Lori interjects. All eyes turn to her but the woman is just as tough as her husband and meet's everyone's gaze head on. "We haven't had one minute to hold onto anything of our old selves. We need time to mourn and we need to bury our dead. It's what people do." Her voice cracks by the end of her little speech and she's dewy eyed. Obviously emotional, I don't know what urges me to speak up against the older woman.
"Actually, people have been burning their dead for centuries." Sixteen pairs of eyes whip around and look at me like I just materialized on Daryl's tailgate out of thin air. A thin and reedy voice at the back of my head is weakly screaming for me to shut up but it's a relatively quiet voice and easy to overlook. Unperturbed, I continue. "Many religions in Asia—Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism and Buddhism—even mandate burning as part of their faith. The Ancient Greeks did it and it was also very common in the Roman Empire. And what do you think cremation is?" I look from person to person, waiting to see the understanding, the epiphany followed by acceptance, but I encounter it nowhere. I just get that same appalled and disgusted looks, tinges of pity around the edges. I do one last sweeping gaze but when it becomes apparent that no one understands, I sigh and drop my eyes, taking up the hobby of watching my kicking feet. "Just saying," I murmur. Just trying to make this easier on you, I don't say. Just trying to point out it's not wrong. Just trying to be helpful.
When Daryl walks up to the truck, when he's the only one to meet my eye as I gingerly hop down so he can get to the bodies, I know I've accomplished none of those things.
For the life of me…I really can't find it in me to care. Bury the bodies. Burn the bodies. Makes no difference.
Dead is dead is dead.
I stand off to the side of the graves, away from the others, and it's only when something brushes my ankle that I realize my katana is in my hand. I let my gaze travel down the length of stained steel and at the tip of the swords resides two words, carved into the dirt. I had been writing something without realizing it, etching letters into the Earth.
Memento Mori.
"Remember you must die."
Well that's funny.
I don't think I ever forgot.
Daryl doesn't know why he just doesn't leave once the last body is hefted out of his truck. He didn't know any of the people that were bein tossed in the ground; couldn't even give their names save maybe the young blonde girl, Amy, Audrey's friend. Other than that, he knows the rest as faces he passed but never cared to get to know. As the other survivors cry over the shallow graves, Daryl can't help but be selfishly grateful.
But, as it is, he stays rooted to the ground, set back a ways from the other mourners. He watches as Walsh and Grimes and the other men grab shoulders and ankles, lowering body after body into the Earth. Sometimes, Daryl even helps. For the most part though, he's a bystander. And an awkward one at that. More than once, he tells himself he's just gonna hop back into his truck and drive back down to camp. But he never does. And it's namely cuz of the kid.
When he and the rest of the men had dragged the bodies out of the truck, Audrey had not so gracefully gotten out of their way, standin a few feet away and watching impassively as the corpses were taken out one by one. But the moment they were out of the way, the kid had climbed back onto the tailgate, puttin her sword down beside her, and starin at nothin but her feet, kickin them like a child would who couldn't yet reach the floor. She hasn't moved since and every so often, Daryl will glance behind him to make sure she's still there, make sure she hasn't fallen into one of the graves or somethin just as idiotic.
It takes bout an hour for all but one of the bodies to be buried, six feet under and a rock set atop each mound as a makeshift headstone. The last one to go is the blonde girl. For a while, the older sister wouldn't even let them get close to her, cradlin the girl's body protectively, tensin something awful when anyone tried to approach her. Eventually, the old man in that idiotic fishin hat gets through to her and inch by inch, leads her to the last grave. When the body is just startin to be lowered into the ground, Daryl turns to look over his shoulder, lookin to see what the kid is doin, but, again, she's not where he left her. For a moment, Daryl goes rigid with surprise and is about to move away and start searchin for her, but before he can so much as uncross his arms, she appears at his side, materializin out of thin fuckin air.
From this distance, mere feet, close enough that if he breathes deep enough their arms would be brushin, Daryl can see the different hues her bruises take on, can see the edges just beginnin to yellow, like a fruit startin to rot. He can also see that she's not as lax and loose as before. She's alert now, eyes focused and spine straight as she can manage. He thinks she might go help the older blonde and the elderly man put the body in the ground but she doesn't. Starin as her friend's dropped into the Earth, the kid doesn't say a word, doesn't move a muscle. Daryl doesn't even think she breathes. For some reason, it's worse than if she broke down and cried.
The funerals end not long after that. Walsh is the one to pat the last grave down and after a few moments of silence, the people begin to disperse. The older blonde, Andrea, Daryl hears someone call her, is led away by the old man. She fights him at first, twists her neck to keep her sister's grave in sight, but the old man is insistent and with shushin words and a gentle hand, he guides her back down the hill. The last to take the windin dirt road back to camp is Chinaman. He starts for it at first but then pauses, glancin over his shoulder. His eyes immediately go to Audrey. Audrey, who hasn't taken her eyes off of the blonde girl's grave and has, somehow, walked right to the edge of it. Daryl frowns at the kid but then looks back at the chink, wonderin what he is gonna do.
Chinaman meets his eyes after a moment and Daryl feels uncomfortable seein the naked emotion in the other man's eyes, fidgets at the tears dryin on his cheeks. The two stare at each other for an endless eternity but at the end of it, the chink just casts Audrey one last look and then ducks his head and walks away. He doesn't look back; he doesn't call out to the kid. He just slips out of sight and then Daryl is left alone with the kid and the ghosts of all these dead people, the cicadas the only noise in the whole damn world. There's a spark of anger in the hunter—wasn't the chink supposed to be the kid's friend?—but it's gone after a moment cuz he's just too damned tired to maintain it.
Daryl contemplates leavin again but the idea is no more serious than it was before; in fact, it's probably even less now. He ain't bout to leave the kid stranded up here; he ain't that low. But it's not like he wants to stay in this makeshift cemetery forever neither. The sun's more harsh up here, more blindin and scaldin, and Daryl would be lyin if he said the neat rows of rocks on the ground didn't make his skin crawl. He wants to get gone and yesterday. With that thought in mind, he shakes the pins and needles out of his arms and moves towards the kid.
It's when he pulls up beside her that he realizes she ain't as quiet as before. She's talkin now, mumblin to herself, and the words are so low that no matter how Daryl strains, he can't hear them clearly. After a full minute passes, he finally blurts, "What are ya mutterin?"
Audrey starts like she hadn't been aware he was less than a foot from her. The garbled words abruptly stop and she turns to him with big green eyes. Save for a spark of surprise, the orbs are as flat and placid as marbles. "I didn't hear you walk up," she says after a moment. Daryl grunts and shifts his feet, shyin away from her a bit.
"Yeah. I got that from the way you jolted like a skittish buck." The kid doesn't rise to the bait and just stares at him blankly so he quickly adds on, "What were ya slurrin again?"
It ain't none of his business, maybe she was prayin, but he can't help but feel curious.
The kid regards him coolly for a time, not even blinkin, considerin his question. He's just about to come to the conclusion that she ain't gonna answer him when she suddenly turns to stare back at the grave before them. He hears her take a deep breath.
"It was nothing much," she says. Her hair blocks her profile from Daryl's gaze and he has nothin but her voice to go on. For the first time in his life, he wishes he were lookin someone full in the face.
"Just somethin that came to mind," she finishes quietly. Daryl chews on his lip for a moment and then releases it.
"And what's that?"
It's silent for a breath. Then, the kid clears her throat and sighs something. Cranin forward, this time, Daryl catches it.
In this short Life
That only lasts an hour
How much - how little - is
Within our power (2)
Daryl waits, thinkin there's more, but Audrey offers nothin else. He doesn't know what to say in return. He wants to say "yeah no shit" or somethin like that but he stops himself cuz he know that ain't gonna help, knows that the kid's bein held together by god only knows what at this point. He could say somethin spiteful but the idea doesn't even sound good in his head anymore. He can't bring himself to snarl at her now. Not after all this fuckin shit. Not after she's sided with him twice in one day, not when she gave him more food to eat when he was sure he was gonna pass out like a pussy.
Not when she should hate him and not be able to look him in the eye, spit on him and want him gone, just like his brother. The thought of Merle awakes a foul taste in his mouth but he pushes it aside for later.
Daryl doesn't know what it means that the kid's not doin any of these things but he hopes that…maybe…when she comes to her senses…that she won't change her mind and look at him like he's nothin but Merle's little brother, the same type of asshole with the same poison in his veins. He'd say he didn't know why he hoped that but really, it would only be a lie at this point.
The kid is…different. Different from anyone Daryl had ever met. He can admit that. And, for reasons he doesn't want to fully inspect right now, Daryl doesn't want to push her away anymore. He'll say she's useful; he'll say she's just a kid; he'll say he feels responsible for the shit Merle pulled; he'll say he's just too fuckin tired to try anymore. He'll say all that crap and more and, while it is all true, there's somethin else there that won't let him be the dick he always is towards other people. He can't name or place it but it's there and he can no longer ignore it.
With that in mind, Daryl looks down at the grave at his feet, just as Audrey's doin, and says, "Ya really don't wanna win this bet do ya kid?" It's the first thing that came to mind and the only thing he could think of that wouldn't remind either of them where they are or what's happened.
He doesn't know what he was expectin as a response but a short laugh, soundin more like the normal kid that he knew, not the bitter, half hysterical chuckle she's been usin all day, wasn't exactly at the top of the list. As she quiets down, Audrey lifts her head and Daryl's suddenly lookin into her eyes: bright and sharp as emeralds, not dull marbles with nothin beneath 'em. It only lasts a moment but the fact that they could even look like that again unhitches somethin in his chest, makes it easier for him to breathe.
She doesn't say anythin back, doesn't quip or retort, try to correct him or admit defeat. She just smiles, thin and small but there nonetheless, and knocks shoulders with him. The blow isn't that powerful but Daryl isn't expectin it and kind of loses his footin. Scramblin to not fall on his ass, Daryl has half a curse on his tongue but when he looks up, the kid's already limpin away, dartin glances over her shoulder as she rounds the side of his truck. He thinks he hears her laugh again, light and normal, but he can't be sure.
Shakin his head, he goes to follow her but somethin makes him cast one more look at the blonde girl's grave and he sees somethin that he hadn't noticed before. Furrowin his brow, he squints his eyes and then squats down and as he does so, the image becomes clearer.
The rock that's bein used as the blonde's headstone is about the size of a brick, smooth and grey, like somethin ya'd find in the riverbed. And there, right in the center, are three words, scratched hastily into the stone. Three small words in thin, shaky letters.
Amy
I'm sorry.
The last two words dig deeper into the rock and are much harsher, the last y looking almost slashed into the stone. Daryl bites the inside of his cheek, troubled at the sight, and looks over his shoulder but the kid's already sittin in his truck, starin straight ahead. He looks back down at the rock one last time and then pushes himself to his feet, walks to his truck. But those three words stay with him. Even as he slips into the drivers seat, even as he puts the truck in drive and heads back to camp, Audrey sittin quietly in the seat beside him. The words stay with him and he can't help but wonder if the kid had actually been sayin that poem when he walked up or if she had just been repeatin those three words to herself, to the ghost of her friend, to the dry air around them and to the whole world.
I'm sorry.
Amy.
I'm sorry.
(1) Passage from the Christian Bible usually read at funerals: Ecclesiastes 3:1
(2) In this short Life by Emily Dickinson
Another disclaimer! The title of this chapter is not mine. I borrowed it from an amazing poem by Richard Siken. :) I claim no rights to it.
And thoughts? :) I think this is the most Daryl/Audrey we've had in a while...which is kind of fucked up O.O I apologize for that. XP
Still! Please remember to review! I'm already working on the next chapter and I REALLY want to know what you guys thought of this one! :DDD Please! I will give you cookies and virtual hugs!
I really love all of my readers and I hope you guys are ready cuz shit's starting to get real here at Bite of a Blade ;)
Until next time guys!
~Shadows