Wow. So.
I don't know if anyone is still around to read this story, and I am so sorry for that. This past year and a half has been incredibly rough for me. I struggled with some health issues (both mental and physical) and a lot of other personal shit. Writing has been almost non-existent, except in random small bursts, and I could never find the motivation to come back to this story for some reason. I had hit a major wall.
But recently I've received some messages about people still asking for updates on this and I've been having a good month so I finally found the drive to post a new chapter. Honestly, most of this chapter has been sitting on my computer since this time last year. And I actually wanted this chapter to be a lot longer but I thought that posting something a bit shorter would prompt me to post sooner. I hope this strategy works.
Thank you to any and all readers and reviewers. Truly, you gave me my inspiration back.
Disclaimer: I own jack shit.
Warnings: usual gore and language
Ps: Chapter title is a quote by Louise Gluck in the forward of Richard Siken's book Crush. (Everyone should read this book I am serious; I have never found more beautiful poetry.)
Chapter 28: Tell me the lie I need to feel safe, and tell me in your voice so I believe you.
The going is slow, like the Georgia heat and the Georgia sun and the bugs drowsily floating around us. It's almost as if the very air is being antagonistic: it pulls on my limbs and eyelids, making them heavy, lethargic. I shake my head for the sixth time in as many minutes and concentrate on the footprints stretched out before me, careful to step in their indentions and make as little noise as possible. Behind me, people whisper quietly, a nervous chatter. I feel eyes on my back.
"Hey kid!"
I look up to find Daryl scowling at me. "Keep up." His words are clipped and I quicken my pace. When I draw up to him, I see the sweat sliding along the side of his jaw and the red indention the strap of his cross bow has dug into his arm. We've been at this for over an hour and, already, fatigue is starting to creep into all of our bones.
"Sorry," I mutter when I'm close enough. Salt trickles into my eye, and I turn my face to wipe it off on the sleeve of my shirt. "Just tryin to give you some space to work."
Which is kind of true. But mostly, selfishly, I was just lost in my own head, in my own dull flares of pain. My ankle clicks with every step. I try not to think about it.
Daryl hums but doesn't meet my eye; instead, his gaze is trained slightly down and to my left. I frown at the look on his face, follow his line of sight. "What? Is there something on my shirt?"
Shaking his head, Daryl jerks his chin at me. "Lookin at your stitches," he explains. "Don't hurt, do they?"
I glance down at the neat row of black lines, imbedded in slightly inflamed skin. Honestly, I had forgotten all about them. So much has happened since Shane accidently shot me, since Daryl sewed me up. And pain is kind of my constant state of being now. A dull ache in my upper arm doesn't even register.
"I'm fine, Daryl." By the way the hunter purses his lips, I can tell he doesn't believe me. Wanting to divert the conversation, I look back out into the woods, gesturing to the ground with my free hand. "Anyways, have you seen anything? People are getting kind of antsy and, to be honest, so am I."
Daryl casts me a long, disgruntled look but takes the hint all the same. He starts to walk again, and I fall into step beside him. "Not much," he admits at length. He sounds almost guilty when he says it. "The creek's not far from here, but I don't think Sophia's come this way."
His words sit like a rock in my chest. Chewing on my lip, I stare at Daryl's profile. "No signs of walkers though, right? That has to count for something."
I'm trying to look on the bright side, and maybe Daryl is too because he nods and says, "Nah, no geeks either. I might be wrong about the kid though. She could have gone back to the creek, stayed right on the water's edge, and veered into the woods farther along." He glances down at me, and there is steeled resolve in his clear, blue eyes. "We'll find her soon. Trust me."
"I do," I say, and Daryl looks startled. His jaw falls open, works silently, clicks shut. I tilt my head at him, but before I can ask what's wrong, something over my shoulder seems to catch his attention. His eyes suddenly narrow, then go wide, and he's brushing past me before I can stop him. "Keep low. Keep quiet," he hisses. Confused, I turn and follow his line of sight—to a small, yellow tent, half hidden in the brush. My heart seizes, breath rattling in my throat. Quickly, I pass the message on to the others and as the rest of us try to catch up to Daryl, I hear Carol whimper, "Do you think she's in there?"
Something lurches in my chest. I hope she is. I pray she is.
She isn't, in the end.
Daryl comes out of the tent coughing, gagging on the smell of rotten flesh. The stench reaches me, five yards away, and my stomach turns violently. "Ain't her," he manages between hacking bouts. "Ain't her."
The group sags, in relief, in despair, and I'm caught in the line between.
"What's in there?" Andrea asks cautiously. Her voice is hesitant, like she wishes she could take the question back.
Shrugging, Daryl tugs at the hem of his shirt, wiping his face against the fabric on his shoulder, as if to rub away the scent of death that follows us so. He's the picture of nonchalant, but I catch the glint of metal at the small of his back. No one else sees the gun, and I don't mention it. "Some guy. Been dead awhile. Looks like he did what Jenner said and opted out." There is something suddenly jagged about his voice, sharp and rough, broken glass and gravel. He's glaring at Andrea. "Ain't that what he called it?"
Andrea scowls back at him. She's still pissed about Dale, about Shane; she's itching for a fight. "You trying to say something?"
I suddenly remember their argument at the retirement home, Andrea's condescending tone, and Daryl putting her in her place. They never were big fans of each other, but now they are downright hostile.
"It ain't Sophia," Daryl says. He looks away from here like she isn't even worth his breath. "That's all I know."
Sneering, Andrea looks on the edge of retort before she's cut off.
By the sound of church bells.
I whip my head around as someone gasps. People begin to mutter, turning from side to side, trying to locate the noise. My blood starts racing a moment before Rick points off to the right and ducks into the brush. Shane is quick to follow, everyone else hot on his heels. I shove away from the tree I had been leaning against, but my leg throbs harshly in protest. My ankle gives under my weight. Cringing, I falter, taste blood on the back of my tongue.
"Come on kid." Daryl is suddenly by my side, nudging me gently forward. Sweat slides down the sharp slope of his nose, and I can see how tired he is. But he's not stopping, and it seems he's not about to let me stop either. He doesn't coddle me, doesn't pause for pity. His elbow is a persistent pressure in my side and, focusing on that, I stumble through the woods, faster and faster, the taste of pennies sliding down my throat. The pain is almost overwhelming as I clear logs and large roots. I don't pay the agony half a thought.
SophiaSophiaSophia. It's a mantra pounding through my bones, replacing my heartbeat, erratic in my veins. Please be Sophia. Please let her be safe.
God knows how long later, Daryl and I break the treeline. I'm heaving painfully, half bent over with spots swimming before my eyes. Before us sits a church, small and white and quaint. An even smaller graveyard surrounds it, gray stones cropping up through the waves of dying grass. The rest of the group crowds a handful of yards away. Rick and Shane are arguing. Through the roar of blood in my ears, I can hear their raised voices.
"That can't be it, man! Got no steeple, no bells."
"It has to be!" Rick snaps back. He sounds wild, hysterical. He takes off at a dead sprint before Shane or anyone else can stop him. Groaning, I fumble forward, pushing Daryl in front of me.
"Go," I grunt. "They'll need…help." My lungs are still on fire; there's a stitch in my side that won't quit. Daryl frowns, but I shove him again because Rick has almost reached the church doors and what happens if there are walkers inside?
What if Sophia is inside?
"Grimes' got enough help," Daryl scowls. He steps back towards me, reaches out for my arm. "Yer the one that needs—"
"I'll help her."
Carl appears abruptly, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His blue eyes are pale and frightened, but he slips under my arm without much hesitation, takes my weight like he's not half my size. It's only when he's pressed against my ribs that I realize he's shaking.
"I'll stay with her," Carl repeats. He squares his chin at Daryl. "I can't…do anything else but I can get Audrey to the church." His voice quivers, and his fingers dig harshly into my opposite hip.
Daryl looks like he wants to argue but bites back whatever he's going to say. "Just don't let her do anything stupid," he grits out before he turns and runs as fast as he can for the church, crossbow held high, locked and loaded. Something in me wants to feel indignant at his comment, but I can't find the energy to do so.
"Where's your mom, Carl?" We start making our way slowly across the field; the pain pill Daryl had given me has worn off. My body protests each breath, and if it weren't for the adrenaline, I'd drop.
The boy lifts the arm not around my waist and points at the white building in front of us. Everyone else is still crowded around the doors, Daryl now included. Squinting, I can just make out Lori's thin figure towards the back of the group. She has her arms around Carol's shoulders, but her head is craned back to look at us. It's too far to see her expression, but I can imagine the worried and frightened curve to her mouth well enough, needing to keep her son in her sights.
"She said to come help you. I just think she didn't want me to…in case something happened…"
I look down at Carl, but he's staring resolutely forward, guiding us through the headstones, pace quickening as we watch Rick and Daryl shove open the church doors from afar. My heart rate ratchets up, and Carl and I start a hilarious rendition of a three-legged race—half sprint, half stumble. There are no screams, no shouts, no wails. I take that as a small comfort as I trip again and again, Carl dragging me along.
We stutter up to the church steps just in time to see the last walker fall, blood splattering the wooden pews. I lean against the doorframe, catching my breath as Lori immediately pulls Carl back to her side. Carol shoves past me, head on a swivel, searching for her daughter. I don't need Rick's scream of "Sophia!" to know the little girl is not here. The church is small; it's made up of only one room. There is no place for Sophia to hide.
"I told you it was the wrong church, Rick," Shane pants. Black blood is caked along his neck. His voice is quiet, pitying instead of condescending. "It's got no steeple. No steeple, no bells."
Carol whimpers but, as if to prove him wrong, the clanging sound of bells starts up again. Louder. Closer. Right above us. I spin around and half fall back down the steps, craning my head up, looking for the steeple we might have missed. There's nothing but a plain, wooden cross above us but the sound persists, jarring deep down into my bones. People sprint passed me, rounding the side of the building. Daryl brushes my arm as he goes by, not stopping but his eyes scan me for new injuries. I turn the corner and Glenn's tearing at a box mounted to the siding, cutting the wires that lead up to a speaker near the roof.
The ringing cuts off abruptly, and we are left with nothing but silence.
"A timer," Daryl pants out. He's out of breath too, dark red blood speckled along the hem of his shirt and the bottoms of his jeans. "Damn thing's on a timer."
The reality of the situation hits us all at once. I've never seen so many stooped shoulders, no many downcast eyes. It's like the weight of the world is crushing us all equally, slowly, painfully.
Sophia's not here.
Most everyone goes back inside, for respite from the heat, for a place to sit, for absolution or prayer or whatever it is they need. I drift back towards the graveyard and drop into the grass with a pained grunt, my back against a tombstone. The sun is hot on my face, and I close my eyes, concentrate on breathing. Cicadas hum around me—always and perpetually humming, a backdrop to the nightmare I'm forever living. It's unfair; the world is so unfair.
"That ain't nothin new."
Cracking open an eye, I find Daryl standing over me. He has a hatchet in one hand and a bottle of water, half extended towards me, in the other. I snort at the visual. It's so Daryl, through and through. Part vicious survival, part shy kindness. I take the water with quiet thanks.
"I didn't mean to say that out loud," I tell him as I take a sip. The lukewarm liquid slides down my throat. "But I'm aware of how not new it is." I give the water back to him.
Daryl almost smirks as he perches on a headstone right in front of me. "Still talkin to yerself, kid? Ya really are goin crazy."
I roll my eyes at him, but my lips are twitching. "Aren't we all?" I murmur. Daryl only hums in response.
The two of us sit in silence for a while. In the distance, I halfheartedly watch as Lori and Shane argue in hushed tones outside the church. Lori storms back inside before long, and Shane just watches her go. Somewhere deep inside me, I feel bad for the former cop. I remember how he looked at Lori and Carl these passed couple weeks. He loves them. But they're no longer his to love. Talk about unfair.
I turn away from the church, my gaze skipping around for a distraction before it falls on the headstone between Daryl's thighs.
Declan Hale
1968-2002
Beloved husband and son.
A memory crops up in my mind, sudden and unbidden, and the corner of my mouth jerks up like a puppet with its strings being pulled. "Hey Daryl?"
The hunter looks away from the tree line he had been studying, eyebrow cocked. There's dirt smeared across his cheek and sweat in the hollow of his collarbone. His shirt hangs half open and he's even streaked with dirt there, sternum grimy beneath the sparse smattering of hair. For some reason, my cheeks heat up at the sight, but I push it aside for the moment.
"Do you remember the day we met?" I ask instead.
Daryl actually, honest to God laughs. He doesn't throw his head back, and he doesn't fall over, but it's a good laugh, a little hysterical around the edges. "Do I remember?" he says. His blue eyes find mine and hold them, unwavering, firm, honest. "Fuck, kid. How could I forget? Ya broke my goddamn nose." He rubs at it now, along the small scar on the bridge.
"You shot me in the head," I remind him, but without the anger the words originally came with. That seems so far away, so long ago. I don't even have the will to recall that anger.
Grunting, Daryl takes another swig of water. "Barely grazed ya," he mutters. But his voice is quieter, more subdued. His eyes flit over to my temple, to the raised skin there, and I don't miss the flash of guilt. I frown because I didn't mean for that; I didn't mean to blame him. I stick out my leg and brush the side of his ankle.
"Yeah I know," I tell him. "You're a shit shot, Dixon."
He scowls at me, and I bite my lip—uncaring of the cut his brother left behind—to stop my lips from twitching.
"Tch," he grumbles, but he pushes his leg out, leans into the slight pressure of my foot. By the way he rolls his eyes, I can tell he knows I'm teasing.
"Anyway back on topic. Do you know why I was standing by the creek that day?"
"Let me guess: to get some water?"
I stick my tongue out at his attitude. "Funny…and also true. That's why I went to the creek originally. But I'm talking about the moment you saw me, right before you shot me. Know why I was standing there?"
Daryl blinks and slowly shakes his head. His eyes are doing that strange thing again, flickering, like something is hiding beneath their surface. Something I can't see, can't reach. All of the sudden, a part of me wants to take Daryl to pieces, strip away the walls he keeps erecting. I know it's because of what I saw last night, his scars. I know it's about Sophia too, my mind latching onto anything other than the thought of her fate. I know it's an odd combination of a million fucked up things in my life. I no longer care; Daryl is my friend. He makes me feel…happy is a strong word but I can't think of an alternative. Happy. The concept is so strange now.
Pushing myself up with a barely restrained wince, I limp forward. Daryl follows me with a confused expression but doesn't stop me when I sit next to him. Not meeting his eyes, I half turn to slide my fingers up the cross that rests against our backs. The rough stone abrades my skin.
"There were graves there. Along the creek." I close my eyes, and I can see them: five, wooden little crosses, haphazard, shoddy, loving. The last resting place of the Harris children."I came across them when I was looking for water. Five of them, all strung out along the elevated bank. They were just some wood strapped together in the form of crosses, names and ages carved into the faces in shaky handwriting. I probably shouldn't have even stopped but…they were kids, Daryl." I take a deep breath and open my eyes, lay my temple on the cross despite my ribs protesting the twisted position. The hunter's face is barely a foot from mine. "All of them were kids," I whisper. "One of them was even Sophia's age."
Daryl parts his lips and inhales. From this distance, I can see how his pupils contract, can see the way his heart stutters in the hollow of his throat. He exhales and I breathe it in. Clenching my jaw, I look away from him, look out over the cemetery. "I was paying my respects to those 5 strangers—those children—when you came loping out of the brush."
It's silent for a moment. I wonder what Daryl is thinking, how he's processing this information. I don't look back at him though; instead I train my eyes on the farthest point in the distance and try to measure how long I can go without blinking.
"I thought you were moaning."
Just as I was reaching a minute and a half, Daryl's comment makes me blink purely out of shock. I can't help but face him. "W…what?"
The hunter shrugs, but there's some color along the ridges of his cheekbones, in the tops of his ears. He's blushing. "That day…I thought you were a walker, all dirty and covered in dried blood."
"Hey. It's not like you were exactly clean Da—"
"Ya gonna let me talk?"
I scowl but shut my mouth with a click. Daryl waits for a moment—eyebrows raised—but then he continues.
"As I was sayin, ya looked like a geek from a distance, and I couldn't see yer face. You were shufflin about and I thought you were moanin, that god awful fuckin sound. I couldn't hear ya clearly over the creek." He shrugs again, eyes skittering away. "And if it walks like a geek and sounds like a geek well…"
This time, I'm the one that laughs. It doesn't sound right; it rings hollow, feels rough as it leaves my throat, but maybe Daryl can't tell because he's shaking his head and smirking. When I'm out of breath, ribs pulsing, I lean against the cross again and Daryl settles back as well. If we inhale at the same time, our shoulders brush.
Time passes. By the church, people begin immerging. Even for this distance, they look tired, defeated. My chest aches, and it has nothing to do with broken ribs.
"I wonder," I muse quietly, thoughts dancing at the back of my throat, rattling to life. In my peripherals, I see Daryl glance at me, and I couldn't stop the words if I wanted to. "I wonder if, soon, I'll be paying my respects to S—"
"Shut up." Daryl suddenly jerks to his feet and stalks around to stand right in front of me. His eyes are no longer pale; they are aflame. His jaw is set, his knuckles clenched white on the crossbow strap around his chest. He crowds in close, and I'm abruptly level with his chin. The smell of sweat and dirt and anger overwhelms me. I'm so thrown for a loop that all I can do is stare up at him with wide eyes.
"Ya hear me? Just shut up. Stop talkin like that little girl is already dead cuz she ain't," he snarls. His fury surprises me. "We're gonna find her, and she's gonna be just fine. And she's gonna need ya when she gets back so…don't you go checkin out again."
He gnaws on the side of his lip, like he's chewing back more words, but he just stands there and stares at me. Challenges me. Don't you go checkin out again. I wince at his words. I didn't mean to, didn't mean to detach again, but it's hard. It's hard because…
"I'm scared."
The whispered admission falls from my tongue like a stone. It's out in the open and…I realize it's true. I am scared. I'm fucking terrified, have been since Sophia screamed out on that highway. I just couldn't admit it, even to myself. Blood rushes to my face, and I'm suddenly embarrassed. Embarrassed by my weakness. Because I'm supposed to be strong. Ninja Audrey with all the right answers, protecting everyone. But I'm failing; I keep failing and people keep dying or going missing and I can't stop any of it.
I squeeze my eyes shut before the tears can come. The darkness helps; I can ignore things in the dark, focus on the sound of my breathing, the uneven beat of my heart.
From somewhere in the darkness, Daryl sighs. "Being scared…ain't nothin to be ashamed about, kid. Yer human. We all are. We do the best we can. And…" he trails off.
I open my eyes. "And what?" I hate how fragile my voice sounds.
Daryl purses his lips and takes a step back. He holds out his hand, pulling me carefully to my feet. His calluses catch on mine and something tingles beneath my skin. "And…we fight," he finishes quietly. He presses the hatchet he carries into my hand. "We fight to live and we fight for our own and we don't stop cuz the world ain't fair."
In this moment, Daryl sounds a lot like my sensei; he even sounds like Adam Keene, the boy I knew oh so very long ago. I trusted those two then…and I trust Daryl now. His words settle over me like a balm, soothing, calming, fortifying.
"The world never stops moving," I mutter absentmindedly, repeating Adam's words a decade later, trying to re-instill them in my bones. "Not for anything. And neither should we."
Daryl smirks, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "There's the stubborn kid I know." His arm knocks against mine, his version of an awkward pat on the shoulder. Somehow, it feels so much better. "Now, come on. Looks like the others are waiting for us." He moves to step around me, but I stop him with a hand on his wrist.
"Think you might need this," I say. My mouth falters along the ghost of a grin as I press the hatchet back into his palm. "After all, you're such a shit shot. Need all the help you can get."
Rolling his eyes, Daryl takes it back from me and, after a second's hesitation, hits me in the back of the thigh with it. It doesn't hurt, he barely tapped me, and I find myself laughing again. It doesn't feel so wrong this time.
"Let's go find Sophia," I tell him, something like hope replacing the pain in my veins, shoving away the growing darkness in my heart.
Daryl grunts and readjusts his crossbow. "After you," he gestures. I curtsey—just to be a smartass—and make my way back to the others, a new resolution set in my blood.
Sophia's not dead. We're going to find her.
And she's going to be fine.
Daryl's surprised when Walsh puts him in charge of the search party, though maybe he shouldn't be. With Walsh and Grimes both stayin behind to search the surrounding woods more carefully, Daryl's the only competent motherfucker left. Well except for the kid, at least in regards to weaponry. Concernin trackin, she's probably worse off than any of the other city folk.
He suddenly has the thought that one day, if they ever get their feet back under them, he'll teach her how to properly track. It's practical and…friends do that sorta thing right?
He picks at his cuticles cuz he doesn't know the answer.
A few yards away, Grimes is kissin his wife and the rest of the group is splittin off. The couple starts arguin bout who's takin Grimes' gun and, before Daryl even knows it, he's steppin up, pullin the gun he had found in that yellow tent out of his waistband.
"Here," he mumbles, holdin out the small revolver. Lori blinks at him, shocked, and he averts his eyes with a shrug. "Got a spare. Take it, if ya want it." There's a moment of hesitation, but the woman takes it with a quiet thank you. Daryl shrugs again and starts for the woods.
He doesn't miss Audrey turnin her head to hide a smile though, and somethin in his head taunts that now he's just bein nice to impress her. Daryl tells himself it's cuz he doesn't want to lose her friendship over somethin so simple as him bein a dick, but somehow that feels like a lie; he just doesn't know why it does.
They continue along the creek bed for some time, fanning out farther and farther. It's slow and fuckin frustratin. Daryl knows he could cover more ground on his own but every time he half turns to tell everyone he's goin on ahead, Audrey's right there, fumblin slightly, wincin quietly, but forgin on all the same. And every time he looks back—every goddamn time—he'll catch her green eyes and she'll smile, and he resigns himself to this slow march, slowin down even further when Audrey sounds like she's havin a hard time breathin.
"You…you don't have to wait for me," she pants at one point. Daryl is leanin against a tree, tryin to look like he's inspectin somethin along the ground and not doin exactly what she's accusin him of. "I'll be fine. Keep going."
Daryl purses his lips. "Just bein thorough," he grunts.
Audrey rolls her eyes. "You're coddling me. And I don't need it. Finding Sophia is what's most important right now." She reaches out, touches his forearm gently. Daryl feels a shock zap under his skin, and somethin in him says Static, just static, a little too quickly. "Seriously. I know we're slowing you down, me most of all. Go out ahead a bit; see what you can find."
"Walsh said to stick together."
"And when have we ever really done what Shane wants?" Audrey laughs. The afternoon sun filters through the trees, glints off her teeth, the sweat trailin down her neck. Daryl can see how tired she is, knows any pain med he gave her has long since worn off. But she's still tryin, still trudgin along for that little girl. He remembers the way she pleaded with him to go out and look for Sophia, and he remembers the press of her bones as she hugged him. The kid was desperate then, but she's determined now. Maybe he should have a little more faith in her.
Chewing on his lower lip, he lets his gaze skip over her face—the motley of bruises and split skin—but nods all the same. "Yeah, okay. I'll head out a little, look for a trail."
Someone suddenly clears their throat. Daryl looks up to see the Chinaman shiftin from foot to foot, fidgeting with the black hatchet in his hands. "What is it Glenn?" Audrey asks. Her tone—gentle and almost nervous—makes Daryl cut a quick glance at her. Is she still fightin with the chink? The hunter tries to remember the last time he's seen them talk.
"I uh…I just don't think," the young man stutters. "I just don't think we should split up anymore."
Daryl scowls, skin pricklin. "I can take care of myself."
Chinaman actually levels him with a small glare before looking away. "Not really you I'm worried about," he mutters. The hunter snorts cuz, hey, least the chink's honest. Besides him, however, Daryl feels Audrey tense. He hears her throat click as she swallows, about to respond, but Grimes' wife beats her to it.
"I'm with Glenn on this," she says. Her blue eyes don't settle on anything in particular, sweeping around them with worry clear as day in their color. "We should stick together. Especially after that gunshot."
That gunshot. Daryl feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Bout thirty minutes ago, they heard it crack through the woods, distant but sharp. It was only the one though, and the echo faded too quickly for them to track the direction. Everyone's been on their toes since then, and honestly Daryl's still a little uneasy himself. And if he's stuck a little closer to Audrey in recent minutes, he's keepin that knowledge to himself.
"It was just one gunshot," Andrea says. "Rick and Shane probably just took down a walker."
Lori actually snaps at the blonde for being patronizin, says Grimes and Walsh would never have risked the noise for one walker, especially with Carl around.
"What if it was a signal?" Sophia's mother whimpers quietly from the side. "What if they were trying to signal us for help? O—or that they found Sophia!" She's sittin on a fallen log, has her arms wrapped around herself, cuppin her elbows. Daryl abruptly remembers that is Ma used to hold herself the same way, small and defensive, makin herself as invisible as possible. He remembers that—sometimes—Audrey stands like that too. He hates to wonder what the similarities imply.
At his right, Audrey shakes her head from side to side, and she's so close that Daryl feels the phantom brush of her hair on the jut of his shoulder. "No," she says. "They still wouldn't risk it. If they found Sophia, they would just go back to the RV and wait for us. Why draw attention?"
She doesn't address Carol's first situation—that maybe they were calling for help. But Daryl can see the rest of the group contemplating it, watches as Lori's face darkens with worry. They're all thinkin themselves in circles, and they ain't got time for it.
"Look," he grunts out. Five pairs of eyes swing to him, and he hates it but someone's gotta start talkin some sense. "There's nothin we can do bout it anyway. We can't run around these woods chasing echoes."
"So, what do we do?" Lori asks. Daryl wants to snap at her, still angry about all the times she's sneered down her nose at him, but something in her tone draws him up short. It's almost like…she's genuinely asking him, askin his opinion. He's so thrown for a loop that he answers without any snark.
"Keep beatin the bush for Sophia. Make our way back to the highway. Same as we have been."
He waits for the inevitable argument, the sharp comments, but no one says anythin. The girl's mother shudders out a breath, wipes at her eyes, but gets to her feet all the same. She's the first to start walkin and, one by one, the others follow; Lori even nods at him as she passes. Daryl stares after the lot of them in shock.
Takin a step around him, Audrey hip checks him. He sways slightly with the force of it. "Don't look so surprised, Dixon," she says. She's grinnin up at him for some reason, her bright eyes a stark contrast to the dark bruises fannin out across her cheek and nose. "Your face might get stuck like that."
Daryl glares at her halfheartedly; her grin doesn't even flicker. "Shaddup," he mutters under his breath. "Just expected more of a fight."
Shruggin, the kid picks her way over a log, her sword rattlin against her spine. "There's nothing to fight about," she says. "You're right, and they all know it." She pauses at the top of a slight rise and looks over her shoulder. A bead of sweat slides down the curve of her jaw. "You coming?" she asks, cock of an eyebrow, twitch of the mouth, teasing. Daryl blinks out of his stupor, tries to shake off her words—no one's ever said he's been right before—and trudges after her. The tips of his ears are burning and his heart stutters in his chest when he brushes past her, skin tingling where they've touched. Audrey won't stop smilin, and Daryl feels a little lost, disoriented, feet unsure beneath him.
It's not a feelin he particularly likes, not ones he's familiar with, so he can't be blamed when he snaps at the girl's mother and the blonde who have stopped a little bit ahead, snifflin and talkin bout prayin.
"I'll tell ya what yer prayin is worth," he growls as he stalks up to them. They take a step back and that's what Daryl's used to, what he knows and expects. "Not a damn thing. It's a waste of time. Cause we're gonna locate that little girl, and she's gonna be just fine."
The two women gape at him, scandalized, and he turns away with a scowl. "Shit. Am I the only one zen around here? Good lord."
Somewhere behind him, he hears the kid laugh, quiet and a little breathless. He stumbles only slightly at the sound—at the pleased feelin that settles low in his chest because of it—before leadin the group on through the trees.
Somethin in him feels guilty about the smile twitchin in the corners of is mouth, about the lightness flutterin in his chest, when they still haven't found that little girl. But Daryl just tells himself they have hours before sundown, and the little girl was small, slight, she couldn't have gotten very far. He tells himself they'll find her within the next hour and has almost been convinced by his own words.
Then, the screamin starts.
The shrieks echo through the leaves, vibrate in the dirt beneath their feet. It takes Daryl a moment to recognize the blonde's voice, and when he turns he realizes he can't see her. As he starts to run, cursing, Daryl thinks the worst of it will be another bitten member, another person lost. The thought hits him low in the chest, like a punch, but he's been rollin with those all his life so he just keeps runnin, crossbow at the ready. He has no time to be thrown, to stumble, but he can't keep his eyes from searchin out Audrey, lurchin at his side, harsh pantin breaths replacin the laugh in her mouth. He has half a moment to worry about her—memories of another dead blonde and Audrey's dead green eyes, flat voice—before they all burst into a clearin.
The next few moments don't seem real. Then again, the world hasn't seemed real in months. It just keeps gettin shittier and shittier and Daryl really shouldn't be surprised anymore.
"There's been an accident. Carl's been shot."
The instant the girl on the horse—bloody bat in hand, walker at her feet—fumbles out those words, Audrey inhales so sharply it sounds like a scream. Daryl feels her half collapse against his shoulder, nails diggin into the fabric at his back, and she shakes so hard it rattles his teeth. The world slows down for just a moment, drags through molasses, everythin frame by frame, before it slingshots back into motion, things happenin in rapid succession.
Lori gets on the horse.
Daryl shouts after her, chaotic thoughts of their group whittlin down to nothin.
The girl kicks the horse into motion, and they're gone. Just like that. The name "Greene" trails behind them, curled around vague directions to a farm and the sound of hoof beats.
The others call after them, frantic shouts, high pitched with fear and confusion.
To his right, Audrey lists into a tree, knees givin out, her green eyes wide in her pale face.
It all happens so fuckin fast, like heartbeats, like gunshots, rapid-fire, and Daryl thinks of course.
He thought the worst of it could be a fuckin bite.
But the goddamn world just loves to prove him wrong.
Every. .
The setting sun is hot against my lower back, sweat damp in the waistband of my shorts, snaking trails through the dirt on my arms, chest, and legs. Parts of my skin feel blistered and tender, my knees are sore and bruised, but it is such a distant feeling, like a bug buzzing in the back of my head. I ignore it. I ignore everything. Nothing exists outside the paintbrush in my hand and the white paint drying in sticky patches on the windshield in front of me.
"Looks good."
I glance over my shoulder for a moment and shrug. "It's not the Sistine Chapel, but it will do."
Andrea hums and shifts to lean her hip against the bumper. The car sways and my 'c' comes out crooked. "Need any help?" she asks.
"No, I'm fine." I dip the brush again and curve my wrist, making a lopsided 'o.' My throat constricts, lungs hitching around a shallow breath, but I ignore it, shake it off. The 'm' is only a little shaky when I put the brush to glass again; the 'e' is meticulously straight.
Behind me, Andrea laughs quietly, the sound dry and more than a little bitter. I wish she'd leave, but she doesn't, just nudges the car again. "Fine," she parrots. There's something quietly acidic in her tone, like the word was corrosive coming up. I hear her shift in the gravel, kicking at loose stones, an empty can. "Yeah, aren't we all."
My spine tightens under her words, beneath the images in my head of blue eyes and golden hair and an easy smile. I focus on finishing the word 'every' and ignore the way each exhale rattles past my teeth, uneven and trembling. Andrea continues to fidget, the sun continues to set, and always the cicadas hum in the distance.
"Listen," Andrea says just as I'm rounding out a 'd.' "Audrey, I…I want to apologize. For before…that Dale and Shane thing. I was out of line."
It takes me a moment to remember what she's referring to—a heated argument beside the RV, Andrea's tongue sharp, her words serrated: "She stayed behind too. Why don't you put her on suicide watch?" I had been so upset that she called me out, so ready to fight. I can barely recall the memory now; it seems so long ago. God. It was only yesterday.
Not even pausing or turning to face her, I shrug again and say, "It's okay. You were right to be pissed. I stayed behind too. Shane was…being a little unfair."
The older woman scoffs. "A little? He was playing favorites, and you know it."
I purse my lips at her tone, her words, and concentrate on the 'a' I'm making. "That isn't exactly how I'd put it. I've never been one of Shane's favorites."
Andrea makes a sound of derision. "No, really," I say. "Maybe I was in the very beginning, but lately I've been too stubborn and…a lot of other things to earn Shane's good graces. To earn anyone's really. I'm not exactly who I used to be." The thought should bother me, and in a vague way it does but I have too many other things to worry about, too many other pains to keep me occupied.
"Yeah well…neither am I," Andrea mutters. There's the sound of shifting gravel again and the gentle swaying of the car beneath my knees. I keep my eyes steadfastly forward and try not to twitch as Andrea enters my peripherals. After a moment's pause, she lays her fingers against my right arm where it's propped against the hood, trying to keep my balance despite the way my wrist burns in protest. Her fingers catch on my cast slightly as she says, "You should get some rest. God knows the next time we'll get any more right?"
I hum something noncommittal, and it seems to be enough for Andrea. She starts to slip away, back to the RV, but my mouth falls open before she gets very far. "Andrea."
The blonde pauses, glances over her shoulder. She has an eyebrow raised expectantly, and the expression makes her look so like Amy that I ache with it. "I'm sorry too," I say. My voice is rougher than I intended, throat tight under the onslaught of too many emotions warring under my skin. "For calling you a bitch this morning."
It's such a little thing; I don't even know why I'm remembering it, why I've even mentioned it aloud. And truth be told, I'm not all that sorry. I stand by what I said. But my skin feels small, and my lungs hitch around every breath, and I still have the words Carl's been shot rattling around in my brain like buckshot. I just don't want the last thing I ever said to her to somehow be those ugly words.
But Andrea smiles all the same, small and quiet, and says, "Don't be. You were right."
She really does slip away after that, and I'm left kneeling on the hot hood of an old, yellow car, paint sluggishly trailing down my wrist. I stare after her for a moment and remember that I used to like Andrea back at the quarry, back when she was still Amy's older sister. She was smart and kind and Amy always sounded so proud when she talked about her, sung praises about Andy the lawyer, the shinning star of the family.
But the quarry is a long way behind us. And Amy is dead and gone. And we're not the same people anymore.
Something in me wants to feel guilty; a voice whispers in the back of my head that Andrea is Amy's sister and that I should try for the sake of my dead friend. But I push the thought away because Amy is dead and Sophia is missing and Carl's been shot. I don't have the energy or the time make nice with all the people I should. An image flickers to the forefront of my mind, just for an instant: Glenn, sliding behind the wheel of that station wagon with T-Dog listlessly slumped in the passenger seat, the dust kicking up behind them as they drove off towards the unknown Green farm. That small, guilty part of me threatens to grow larger, but I don't let it. Clenching my first until white paint oozes through my fingers, until my knuckles ache, I turn back to my handy work and decide to go over the letters one more time.
By the time the paint is tacky but mostly dry, the sun has finally slipped below the horizon. The highway is eerie in the bruised twilight, shadows smudged and dancing, the sky an ominous purple. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I feel twitchy still kneeling on the car's hood. Exposed. The RV is a small distance away and Dale, Andrea, and Carol are already inside. The little voice at the back of my mind says it's time to go inside.
The gravel crunches dully under my feet as I slide off the hood. My knees wobble, blood rushes to my toes, and it's all pins and needles. My hip collides with the side of the car, and the sheathe of my tanto rattles loudly against the metal, noise jangling down the deserted highway.
I grimace at the echoes, eyes clicking back and forth, watching for movement. But the shadows are just shadows, the ghosts just ghosts. I clench my fists nervously—wrist aching—and feel paint tacky along my fingers. Throat a little dry, I reach for the rag I've hung on the rearview mirror when an empty can skitters across the asphalt behind me.
"Easy," Daryl's voice mutters. He's standing a car length away, tired and grubby in the wan half-light. He's got something in both hands, long and thin looking, but I can't exactly make out what they are as he approaches.
Blood rushing through my ears, I uncurl my fingers from the hilt at my hip. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Daryl?" The damn thing is hitching in my chest, unsteady and nervous.
The hunter is close enough now that I can see him roll his eyes. "Sure. Next time I'll just holler down the highway." He moves his hand up to his mouth, and I finally can see what he's holding. A bubble of laughter escapes me before I can stop it, annoyance giving way to disbelief and probably some slight hysteria.
"What?" Daryl mumbles around his mouthful. He sounds a little defensive but there's an amused glint to his eye.
"You have a squirrel kabob," I say like it's ridiculous because it is. The long, thin shapes in his hands had been branches, stripped down and bare, and squirrels were skewered on them lengthwise. The branches even had some leaves and a berry or two stuck on the ends, a poor but still welcome imitation of grilled what should be grilled onions and bell betters. Still, while they were small, wiry things, the smell of cooked meat made my stomach grumble. Now that I think about it, I've had nothing but snacks and a small portion of beans and fruit since we left the CDC.
Daryl cocks an eyebrow at me, chewing slowly. "So ya don't want one then? Fine. More for me." He tilts his head to take a bite from the untouched kabob in his left hand, but I stumble forward to stop him.
"No, wait! I didn't say that."
I reach out, and Daryl smirks as he hands me my squirrel on a stick. "Careful," he warns. For a moment, his fingers wrap around mine, steadying the stick in my palm. My stomach flutters for an instant, intense and boiling, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. God, I must be really starving. "It's still hot."
And it blessedly is. The meat is gamey, and the only seasoning is the ash from the fire it was cooked on. But it's warm and filling, and I take two full bites recklessly, tongue burning as I swallow. My eyes water, and I know Daryl must see, but he doesn't say anything. I don't miss his smirk, though, before he takes another bite.
"Thank you," I rasp when I've already finished a third of my roasted squirrel. Daryl shrugs and leans against the front bumper of the car I'm still propped up against.
"Ain't nothin. Saw these two along the guard rail near my bike."
I hum as I chew and suddenly wonder if I should share this with the others: Dale, Andera, Carol especially. I look down at my half gnawed squirrel. It's not much, wasn't much to begin with, but it's still warm, still better than a stale bag of chips. Guilt starts to pull at me again, but then Daryl is brushing by me suddenly, the skim of his arm against mine jarring and distracting.
"Where are you going?" I ask, pivoting on my bad ankle.
As it turns out, not very far. Daryl slips just behind me, between the front tire and the driver's side door. He stares at my writing on the windshield—SOPHIA STAY HERE
WE WILL COME BACK EVERY DAY—as he chews. "Looks good," he says, Andrea's words repeated in his rough voice. His fingers trail along the few stray drip lines where I had used too much paint.
I shrug even though he can't see it. "It's nothing," I say, parroting his own words back at him. "Besides, you're the one who came up with the idea."
"Well someone had to use some common sense."
One hand occupied and one mostly out of commission, I settle for butting my head against the back of Daryl's shoulder. "Be nice," I scold him. I can almost feel how hard he rolls his eyes at me. He doesn't say anything in response though, and the two of us lapse into silence.
Night continues to fall along the highway. The cicadas sing their humming tune. It's only when Daryl clears his throat, and the sound actually jostles me, that I realize my forehead is still pressed to his shoulder. I blink my eyes open sluggishly—and when had they closed?—before taking a step back.
"Sorry," I mutter. It's a lot darker now, suddenly, the shadows now deep and black. I hear a quiet murmur from the RV, just barely able to make out the individual voices of Dale and Carol. "We should probably head in." After Glenn and T-Dog left, we had all decided to sleep in the RV tonight. Daryl will probably take watch though; I can't successfully picture him being in such close quarters with so many people.
"Finish yer dinner first, kid." He prods at my arm, and I drowsily bring the squirrel back up to my mouth. A yawn cracks my jaw half way through my third bite.
Daryl finishes his meal first, tearing off the last piece of meat with a sharp yank of his teeth. He flips the bare stick away from him with a casual twist of the wrist, and it clatters away into the night. I cast the hunter a sidelong glance as I slowly chew, taking in the sharpness of his cheekbones and the hungry look in his eye. Without thinking I extend the rest of my squirrel at him.
"Want the last few bites?" There's a leg and some meat around the chest left. It's just started to go cold at the center.
Daryl shakes his head and there's the beginnings of a scowl upturning his lips. The effect is slightly ruined by a yawn he isn't able to suppress either. "Ya need it more," he grunts.
"You're bigger than I am," I reason.
"And yer healin. Yer body needs it more," he says firmly. He narrows his eyes as me and adjusts the strap of his crossbow that's digging into his chest. "Just finish the damn squirrel, kid. Stop being such a stubborn jackass."
I stick my tongue out at him but acquiesce. I finish within a few bites, licking the excess grease from my fingers when I'm done. I look up to find Daryl staring at me with an odd, unreadable expression on his face.
"What?"
Daryl starts as if I've shouted at him and looks away, off into the woods. "Nothin. Ya done?"
I nod and toss my own stick away. Somehow, it collides with the can Daryl kicked earlier, and the noise is sharp, loud, seizing.
Like a gunshot.
My stomach churns suddenly—squirrel and nerves and dark thoughts tangling below my sternum—making me sick. My ears ring. To my left, the waxing moon rises. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots. Dry mouthed, I wet my lips and, instead of grease, I taste blood.
"Do you think Carl is dead?"
The words leave my mouth like buckshot from a shotgun: painful and stinging and tearing a hole right through me. All day I've been avoiding the thought but now, here in the dark, it latches onto my mind with a vengeance. Daryl doesn't respond immediately. I don't think he can, and I can't look at him now. Turning my head, I stare down the highway, eyes weaving in and out of cars, tracking ghosts. I fill the silence when the pressure in my chest threatens to burst.
"You know, I can't remember the last thing I said to him." Daryl shifts, uneasy, on the gravel beside me. "I mean it was just this morning, just a few hours ago and I can't…"
The image of him—Carl, young and blue eyed and whole—makes my knees give like they've been cut out from under me. Shuddering, I press the heels of my palms against my eyes. Colors flash—reds and blues and greens—and I'm smearing sudden, hot tears hoping Daryl won't see. "Fuck. Sorry. I'm sorry." I'm shaking my head, taking a step back, bumping into shadows in the dark. "I told myself I wouldn't do this anymore. I'm so fucking tired of crying."
And I am. I'm so tired of not being able to save those closest to me. I feel so useless. So fucking weak. For all that Sensei taught me, for all the lessons I've learned over the years—hard lessons, brutal and sharp—I am still no stronger than that five year old Mitch backhanded across the living room, no stronger than the crying little girl that Adam Keene picked up off the floor. The realization is like a blow to the back of the head.
"I like you better cryin than crazy," Daryl suddenly mutters in the darkness. I open my eyes, wet and sore, to see the hunter start at his own words. "Not…that I like ya cryin," he grunts. "I mean it's just better than…ya ain't crazy either, kid, I didn't mean…" He struggles with the words so earnestly I almost want to laugh. The misery is too heavy on my chest now though, and I settle for shaking my head.
"Don't hurt yourself, Daryl," I tell him, and he shuts his mouth with an audible click. Before he can get offended, however, I say, "I understand what you're trying to say and…thank you. You're a good friend."
The words sound stupid coming out of my mouth, too blunt and childish, but something in me needs to say them, and something else in me says Daryl needs to hear them. The hunter remains silent, and in the dark I can't see he eyes, but I think I can see a pale red tint to the curve of his ear.
"It wasn't your fault," Daryl responds gruffly, and I'm confused until he continues. "The boy, Grimes' boy. It wasn't your fault. He had both his dad and Walsh to look after him. You were five miles away and trying to find that little girl."
"Who is still lost." My voice is quiet and fragile. Sophia's face floats, disembodied, in my thoughts. Daryl's voice is as steeled as my sword when he grits back, "That ain't no fault of yours either. The girl was in the middle of the group, the horde came out of nowhere, and we were far down the road. Ya can't be responsible for everyone, kid."
He's right. I know he's right. But I still can't shake this guilt that's pressing down on my shoulders, spine creaking under the weight. I wonder for a moment at the fate of Atlas, forced to bear the world along his back for all eternity. I am not a Titan, however. One of these days, the weight is going to crush me, and there will be no pieces left to put back together, Humpty Dumpty, just send all the king's horses and men home. It's now only a waiting game to see when that day will come. Staring up at the pale moon above us, distant and indifferent, I wonder if dawn will break me.
But I'll worry about that at dawn. For now…
"Let's go inside. The others are probably worrying."
Daryl doesn't seemed convinced by my faux concern, but it's not like he enjoys this conversation any, so he grunts something noncommittal and takes a step towards the RV. I fall into step behind him, and we've just reached the door when Daryl pauses and looks back at me over his shoulder.
"If you had been there," he says quietly, voice pitched so low I can barely hear him. "With either the girl or the boy, ya would have saved them."
He says the words firmly and with such conviction that I can do nothing but stare at him, mouth falling into a soft 'o.' Daryl doesn't wait for me to find my voice, just opens the door and climbs the RV steps. The sun set almost twenty minutes ago now, but my skin feels oddly warm all of the sudden. I scrub harshly at my cheeks trying to chase away the sensation.
"Audrey?"
Dale stands in the doorway, that worried look stamped across his face. He's taken his hat off though, no need for it in the RV or in the dark, and he looks strange without it. Older. Frailer. I think about little girls with bird bones, lost in the woods, and little boys with paper thin skin, bleedingbleedingdying under the unforgiving Georgia sun.
"Is something wrong, Audrey?" Dale prompts again.
I try to smile, but it's a limp gesture, twitching along the edges like a dying thing. "Just…been a long day, Dale," I tell him. I am suddenly all too aware of the exhaustion weighing in my bones like lead, all the little injuries that have sapped me of my strength. The older man makes this pitying noise before he ushers me into the RV, hands gentle as he guides me into the kitchen booth across from Andrea. The blonde looks up from the dissembled gun on the table—had she made her peace with Dale then?—and nods at me but doesn't say anything. In the back of the RV, a vague shape in the dark, Carol is crying. The soft sobs—interspersed with Sophia's name—fill the small space we inhabit like poison. Guilt sits like a bad taste in the back of my throat, and I see the same tight look in Daryl's eyes as he leans against the kitchen sink. Andrea goes back to her gun, metal clacking as she cleans dark, little pieces in the wan moonlight. Dale leaves the RV to take watch, and the swaying off his footsteps on the roof makes me drowsy, my cheek rocking gently against the kitchen window.
I fall asleep somewhere between Andrea loading her gun and Daryl settling along the floor, head pillowed on his hands. No matter how reluctant I am, my eyes end up drifting closed anyway, my body pushed past its limits, shutting down.
Carol continues to cry in the dark—Sophia, Sophia, my baby girl—and I sleep uneasy, dreaming of blood.
A/N: Welp. There ya go folks.
Again, I'm sorry I abandoned this story for so long. I'm really trying to be better.
Anyway, not that I deserve any, but if you have comments or questions (or just wanna yell at me) feel free to drop me a PM or come message me on tumblr. :)
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Reviews are appreciated but knowingly undeserved.