Hello fabulous readers! This is a super short chapter. I'm getting closer to my final revisions on the next chapter, but it's proving trickier than I'd anticipated and falling much flatter than I've been envisioning and hoping. I'm working on it though! I wanted to get this little piece out first and thought maybe doing so might invigorate my work on the next one. I apologize for tease. Love to all of you and big thanks to DarylDixon'sLover, Str1der2015, Guest, Fritzo, & Hasick for the generosity of feedback!

There's a bass sound of heavy shifting and metallic creaking as Simon pops open the hood of the red 80's Toyota two-door to duck his head inside. Through searching the back of a Suburban, which, just like all the other cars in this rusting pile-up, had long ago already been stripped of the five essentials: food, water, weapons, fuel, and meds, Daryl straightens and looks to the kid. "What're you doin'?" Seeing as the kid hadn't once been behind the wheel before a week ago, Daryl can't think he'd be much with an engine, even if there did happen to be gas to fuel it.

Simon lifts his head just fractionally from his purpose. "Workin' on getting th' water thing — the, you know, uh, tub — out."

Daryl limps closer, eyeing him with reserved curiosity. "Th' coolant reserve?"

"Right."

"How come?"

"'Cuz we've got no water. And don't know how long it'll be till we get some."

Coolly, Daryl eyes Simon and then the engine, back and forth with negligible movement but for his eyes, shifting in tempered appraisement of the scene. "Your plan's… " Daryl's tongue tests the back of his teeth, "t' drink the engine coolant?"

Simon keeps at his task. "I get it'll taste bad, an' carry toxins. But it's water."

"Naw," Daryl negates, "it ain't."

"Yeah. I've seen my dad put in water plenty of times."

"Water, yeah," Daryl nods, eyeing Simon, who's never more betrayed himself as a kid than now, "mixed with motor coolant. That's antifreeze. Poison. 'll kill you a helluva lot faster than water deprivation. Would be one ugly mess. Trust me."

Simon stands back from the engine; he swallows. "Oh."

"'Oh.'"

"… I did'n know."

"'s all right," the older one tells him, watching as the resolve drains from the typically stalwart countenance of his young companion. The archer's brow creases, shadowing his stern and drawn expression, sorry to see the kid's spirits further dampened. "Hey," he ventures, endeavoring to bolster with the crooked edge of a smile, "there's water out there." He eyes him with assured directness, "Right?" Thankful to be urged to swallow the bite of a miscalculated plan, Simon meets his eyes, then nods his affirmation. Then too does Daryl. "We're gonna find it. That simple." He jerks his head toward the road, "Le's move, there's nuthin' here."

Simon slams shut the hood with finality, then stoops to once more pull on his pack. Nearby, Beth stands waiting, resting the weight of her pack on the trunk of a car as she leans back against it. She'd judged before they even reached the cluster of vehicles there'd be nothing for them left to find. With the trunks and passenger doors left open as they were, the signs were all there — testaments the scene had been scavenged more than once already. With each sweep searches dig deeper and broader till there's nothing left of purpose at all. Still she had looked, doing her part as the others did theirs, finding no sense of being crestfallen when their efforts failed to yield anything of use. Now Beth waits. Waits for their path to continue past this point. Waits to start again and for the next occasion to stop. Waits for something to urge her from herself or back toward herself. She waits, because this moment has no call for action.

Moving slowly, Daryl coughs and spits, and brushes his hand across hers as they forsake this might-have-been quarry of nothing. As though by cue, Beth stands, feeling the heft of her pack settle again against her, bringing the weight to her shoulders and hips. She steadies herself against it, and then resumes their progress.

They've been walking for hours; where, she could not say. She has not been noting. Landmarks mean nothing with no destination. They mean nothing when there's no home to be lead to. They've been walking since late morning, and she's drifted through all of it. The miles, the scenery, the physical exertion, the quiet, the decay, the false starts and near misses, it's all the same. Since the herd first drove them from the farm, every moment on the road has been the same. Not identical, but in essence all alike: never-ending searching; keeping moving just to be moving. But moving is not living. Even the dead can walk. The dead, the living, and Beth. And so she does, landing one footfall after the other, progressing one step forward after another, stopping when needed, resting when needed, drinking and relieving herself when needed, changing course, diverting obstacles, and dispatching walkers as needed. She does it, because it's what they do. Through the heat, through the cold, on highways, through woods, down byways and country roads. The others move, so she moves. A noise sounds, so she looks. A walker nears, so she fights. She'll stop when they stop. But the truth is, there is no stopping, not really.

Her eyes are open, but not to the specifics around her. With this many miles traveled, specifics unique unto themselves have long ceased to exist. The world to her now is reduced and simplified: Sky. Road. Woods. Towns. Maybe changeable and varied, but ever the same. All always the same. As are the dead. As is the pervasive threat of danger. There is the world, fundamentally the same at one mile marker as at any other; there is danger; there is breathing; and there is family.

Beth follows in pace with hers, down one more backroad, expecting little else at the end of it than sore feet, an aching back, and more of the same as what they'd passed to get there.

…

Beth's back hurts, her legs hurt, her feet hurt. She is tired. The wealth of energy she was feeling nearly two weeks ago when they'd made their plans to venture out now seems noticeably deficient. But retreated further into herself, to some inner store of reserve energy, she follows and she maintains, letting her legs do the walking while the rest of her trails mindlessly after. She's reached a sort of plateau in her thirst and exhaustion, and if she doesn't have to think, doesn't have to overexert herself, she can continue forward under automated propulsion, never really seeing what she passes or considering her path.

Since the abandoned cars, they'd walked another hour more, following the road past fields and neglected farmland until Daryl called a break. Under the weight of his pack, his layers of clothes and heavy blankets, and from the labor he's exerted over the course of these past two days, he is flushed and sweating and in need of rest. He hasn't taken a painkiller, over the counter or otherwise, in days, but the pain is real. His leg, his hip, his shoulder — every single one of his injuries is impacted by the walking and the weight of his pack. Sweating, overheated in the cold, he watched as Beth too struggled, her pace slowing, her pallor waning, the visible tresses of her hair beneath her knit cap sticking to her brow with sweat. Perspiration's left clean trails down all their faces, tracing through dirt and dried smear-stains of blood. They're all three a grim mess, still bearing the traces of Daryl's backseat surgeries where tears or sweat have not washed them clean.

When Daryl'd called it, no one pretended to be sorry for it. No one made a case for pressing on a little further. No one held onto their packs a moment longer. There on the cracked sun-faded asphalt where they stood, they dropped them, and Daryl slumped at the side of the road, leaning against the split rail fence.

Beth and Simon twist and stretch their backs, bending and arching them with the freedom of lightness and movement. Beth wipes at her face and Simon unclips his near-empty canteen and hers from their packs. "Here," he taps her with the stainless steel bottle. She drinks, and so does he. Daryl's got his eyes shut, taking a breather before he either takes a drink or checks his dressings.

"There's water there, I bet," Simon guesses, squinting as he nods his head sideways toward the farm just beyond them. "Hey," he looks to Beth, "lemme get that gallon jug." He's already leaning over her pack though to untether it himself. He takes it and the cane blade from his own pack, flips it handily in his palm, then makes for the fence to hop it. Beth watches, then clips his and her canteens to her belt and stoops to pull loose her pruning saw. "Naw," he shakes his head. Still Beth unties her weapon. "Beth," he stops her, "I got it. I c'n do a water run. Sit tight." He takes her bottle and his, and picks Daryl's up as well. He'd clip them to his holster belt save for the hollow clanking the trio of them would make, alerting the world to his every step. Instead, he carries them and the empty water gallon all in one hand, holding his long blade in his right.

…

Beth had watched as Simon tramped through the overgrown field, following his progress until he disappeared from sight. He wasn't gone long. Not so long that it was felt. When he returned, there was fresh blood splatter on his cheek and coat, but more visible was the grin spread clear across his face. He labored some with the weight so awkwardly dispersed and carried, but for that weight, which they have waited on and traveled such distances for, he would have born it much longer.

They drank the water fast, a full canteen each. Now, with their canteens refilled and the gallon still about a quarter full, they sit, quietly resting by the side of the road. Daryl and Simon both wolfed down their modest portions of that morning's roasted squirrel; Beth, though, works at it in tiny torn-off strips and pieces. She chews, in small, gradual bites, feeling no urgency in it, deriving no pleasure from it. It is comfort enough to be motionless, whether she takes comfort in it or not.

Cluuuuunnk-uh.

Beth's eyes barely lift to the heavy echoing metallic thud.

Cluunnk-hhh. Simon's chucking stones at a road sign overgrown with climbing vines. Cliiiuunkh. Another strikes the board. Daryl lies on his back, his head on his pack, left knee up, akimbo in the air. He neither flinches nor stirs when the pebbles strike their target. He'd been waiting on this respite, and a few falling rocks aren't enough to move him.

"Think I c'n throw e'nough to clear the vines off?" Simon looks from Daryl to Beth then, when neither reacts, back to the sign. "So far I've got," and Simon reads aloud what little he is able, never minding he has no audience, "'somethin' —AIR— somethin'.'" He takes a drink then chucks another rock. Thuunkkk. A vine shifts and drops off. "Got an 'R'." He squints to make it out, "Or, an 'N'." He swipes up another couple of stones from the side of the road, "Been some time since takin' one of those vision tests. "Any takers?" With light ease, he tosses his next throwing rock upwards out of his palm a couple of times before hurling it at the post. Cluuuuunnk-uh. The last of the vines shift and fall away. "Hmph," he relishes, "got it. 'Fairburn.' Nothin' but another road, 'nother Southern town…"

Beth's head lifts; she looks, and then she rises. Simon watches as she pulls on her pack and starts walking. "Beth? What's up?" She just walks, one foot in front of the other. "Daryl, looks like we're movin'."

Daryl squints out from beneath his arm where it rests crossed over his brow. When he spots her walking his arm drops and he calls to her. "Greene—" Beth's pace does not slow. "Shit." Nimbly as he can, Daryl scrambles to his feet, takes up the bow, pulls on his pack, and followed by Simon who takes up what's left of their gallon of water, exerts lengthy, aggravated steps to catch up. "Beth—" Beth keeps going, moving with purpose, driven by an unknown cause. Her expression as she travels forward is steely and inscrutable aside from her focussed determination.

Any predictions (or any other thoughts)? I will TRY not to be too long until the next update! As always, thank you for your readership :)

Updated A/N(!): I forgot to mention: The idea of trying to drink water from a car engine has been this little thing I've had in my head since when I started this story in the S4 midseason break. When S5 ep 10 "Them" came along and they were all so thirsty, I felt a little stress over the possibility that this idea, once posted (as it turns out, YEARS later), would read as a crib off of that. A silly concern, I realize, but one I referenced in chpt 63's A/N, which in chapters isn't that long ago, but in actual time was some time ago. Anyway, it just goes to show 1.) (as if any of us long-timers needed a reminder) just how long this story has been around and 2.) that having the time to review early ideas can be helpful. When this idea first came to me, I think I really thought it was a somewhat viable drinking option, and that like Simon I forgot about the anti-freeze and thought it was simple engine greywater. Good thing I didn't unwittingly poison our group!