Into the Sun: A Walking Dead Flashfiction

Credit: Blake Tyers/AMC

Into the Sun

 

 

The blazing fire pops and crackles, the sound echoing in the near-silence. Daryl turns the speared squirrel over the open flame as he sips scalding coffee from a tin mug.

 

The crickets own this night, their soothing song filling the air. If Daryl closes his eyes, he can almost drift off to sleep, just like he and Merle sometimes did as kids. There were times they needed to hide away, so they made a game of it, like they were camping in the wild.

 

Daryl snorts. Funny how shit becomes real.

 

Even before the zombies, he was no stranger to the dark-meat tang of squirrel. When there wasn’t enough money to go around, he and Merle learned to catch and skin the critters for dinner. Over the open flame, in a stew, or fried up like chicken—they noshed on many a squirrel.

 

Daryl gazes into the undulating flames. Despite stealing away to this little-used corner of the prison yard—a place where one could relax a bit because it was inside the fence—he feels tense and ornery. So much is going on, and he knows there’s no way to be on top of his game without focus.

 

Daryl’s not sure where Merle is right now, or if he’s still alive, but he’s here in spirit and has much to say in typical smart-mouth style.

 

“What you so tense for, brother?”

 

“Nuthin’,” Daryl mutters, glaring across the fire at Merle’s apparition. “Ain’t you got enough of your own problems?”

 

“Ah, it’s gotta be a skirt’s got you all twisted up.” Merle’s soft, leering laugh sticks in Daryl’s chest like a lump of too-tough squirrel.

 

“A skirt? What’re you on about? Jus’ go away, man. This ain’t no time for that.”

 

Merle throws his head back, his raucous laughter filling the air. “Is that what you think? You’re dumber’n I thought then—and people always think you’re the smart brother.”

 

Daryl waves a hand in the air. “Screw you, man.” As Merle fades into the cool mist, Daryl sips his coffee, wishing it were something with more kick that he could blame the hallucination on.

 

Deep down, he knows apparition-Merle isn’t far from the truth. He is twisted up inside. It makes him lash out. It’s why he’s a lone wolf. Caring about people always gets him hurt, and in these times, he thinks it’s even riskier—stupid even.

 

Closing his eyes, he recalls the velvety Cherokee Rose petals caressing the roughness of his fingers as he placed the flower on Carol’s empty grave. The remembered compression in his chest, a band so tight he could scarcely draw breath, is an unwelcome sign of his attachment to the once-fragile, abused woman turned bad-ass.

 

Earlier, he went into the bowels of the prison, fisting the handle of Carol’s own knife, expecting to find her turned and gibbering for human flesh. Tears stung his eyes as he hovered outside the metal door. With a yell that originated in his tattered soul, he flung the door open, bringing the knife above his head in a deadly arc.

 

And there sat Carol, curled in a ball, weak as a kitten. Human. Unspoiled.

 

He leaned down and scooped her up. Joy filled Daryl for the first time he could truly recall when her slight weight rested in his arms. The group had lost so many, but here was a flicker of hope in a dark, dark world.

 

Daryl turns the squirrel again, part of it charred while he was having girly daydreams. He spits on the grass and curses. He can’t afford to get sweet on Carol.

 

But you already have, brother… Merle’s stupid voice echoes in Daryl’s head.

 

“Hell, no. Uh uh.” He shakes his head like a dog with an itchy ear.

 

After eating his fill and plugging some walkers along the perimeter fence, he heads into the cellblock.

 

A shadow morphs from one corner, and he brings the crossbow up to his shoulder.

 

Carol.

 

“Shit! I coulda shot ya. What the hell are you doing here in the dark?”

 

Carol moves forward slowly and looks up at him. “Thank you.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Finding me.”

 

“I was there to flay your undead ass open.”

 

Carol’s lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. “Then thank you for hunting me down.”

 

She places a hand on Daryl’s bare upper arm, and he jumps at the soft feel of her skin. It reminds him of rose petals.

 

“Yeah, whatever.” Daryl turns to leave.

 

“I saw the grave, what you left there.”

 

“What makes you think I left it?”

 

Carol steps in close behind him and rests her cheek against his shoulder blade. “Didn’t you?”

 

Daryl whirls on her, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder and grabbing her upper arms. “You living in some little fantasy world now?” He walks forward, propelling them across the room until Carol’s back hits the wall.

 

Carol stares up at him with those grayish-blue eyes, cool and impassive with some other emotion he can’t read mixed in. “No. Are you?”

 

“What all’s that s’posed to mean?” Daryl’s manacle-like fingers dig into Carol’s pale, slender arms, but she never flinches.

 

“There’s something between us. Has been for a while.” Bravely, she lifts her chin and continues to meet his eyes.

 

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, slitted eyes looking everywhere but at her now.

 

“Look at me, Daryl.” When he continues to shake his head, she repeats herself. “Look at me.”

 

He does, but it hurts like looking into the sun. Carol’s been his sun for a while now, providing warmth and well-being, but also capable of burning him. When you feel, you can be destroyed. Besides, Daryl never went for the romance shit. His idea of a good time was picking up some tail in a bar who was all action, no talk, and would be gone before he woke in the morning.

 

“I see you, Daryl. I see you.”

 

“What do you see, woman?” He spins her around and presses her chest against the wall, moving in close behind her. His lips graze her ear, his harsh whisper searing her skin. “There’s no romance happening here! No candles and music! I’m more likely to take you against this wall, sink my teeth into the back of your sweet little neck. Bend you to my will.”

 

Daryl closes his eyes, part of him ashamed, part of him spitting mad and slowly releases his grip on Carol.

 

And this woman, who is his only real weakness in this new reality, turns his world on its ear once again.

 

She saunters past him calmly and turns to look over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow when she reaches the door. “Sure wish you would. I don’t remember asking for romance.”

 

 

*I don’t own The Walking Dead.  Just playing around in their sandbox.  No copyright infringement intended.  This flashfiction was written for A Cherokee Rose Bloghop.