The abandoned car sat like a metal coffin on the cracked asphalt, its faded blue paint peeling under the Georgian heat. Beth pressed her back against the rear bumper, her heart hammering as the distant moans grew louder. Thunder rumbled overhead, and she could see Daryl's silhouette tense beside her in the dim light.
"Get in," Daryl hissed, yanking open the trunk.
Beth didn't argue. She scrambled into the cramped space, her knees tucked to her chest as Daryl squeezed in beside her. The trunk slammed shut, plunging them into suffocating darkness just as the first walker stumbled past the car.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the metal interior in stark white flashes. Through the brief moments of light, Beth could see Daryl's tense profile, his crossbow clutched across his chest. The storm had drawn them out, dozens of walkers shambling past their hiding spot in a grotesque parade.
"How many you think?" Beth whispered, her voice barely audible above the rain drumming on the car's roof.
"Too many," Daryl muttered. Another flash of lightning revealed his eyes, alert and calculating even in their confined space.
They lay in silence for a while, listening to the shuffle of rotting feet and the occasional bump against the car's exterior. Beth tried to steady her breathing, but the walls felt like they were closing in. She'd never been good with small spaces.
"Daryl?" she said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"You ever think about what you'd be doing if none of this happened?"
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "Probably be in some jail cell by now."
"That's not true."
"You don't know me, girl."
Beth shifted slightly, careful not to jostle him. "I know enough. You saved me back at the prison. You saved all of us, more times than I can count."
"That don't make me good."
Lightning flashed again, and in that brief moment, Beth saw something vulnerable in his expression, something he tried to hide behind his gruff exterior.
"My daddy always said people aren't born good or bad," she said softly. "They become what they choose to become through their actions. And your actions... they've been good, Daryl. Even when you don't think so."
"Your father was a good man."
"He was. But he wasn't perfect." Beth's voice grew thoughtful. "He made mistakes. Had his demons. But he chose to be better than what he was before. Just like you did."
Daryl shifted uncomfortably. "Ain't the same thing."
"Isn't it?" Beth pressed gently. "You could've left me back there. Could've told Rick I was dead and gone your own way. Nobody would've blamed you."
"That what you think of me?"
"No. That's exactly my point." She paused as another walker scraped against the car. "You stayed because that's who you are. Not who you think you are, but who you really are."
The rain began to lighten, and the sounds of the horde gradually faded. They lay in the darkness, processing her words.
"What about you?" Daryl asked finally. "What would you be doing?"
Beth smiled in the darkness. "Teaching, I think. Little kids. I always liked that idea of helping them learn, grow into good people."
"You still could."
"Maybe. If we find somewhere safe. If there are still kids left to teach."
"There are. And there will be safe places again. Gotta believe that."
His certainty surprised her. "You really think so?"
"Gotta. Otherwise, what's the point of all this?"
The storm passed, leaving only the gentle patter of leftover raindrops. Eventually, exhaustion overtook them both, and they drifted into an uneasy sleep.
xxx
The morning sun hit Beth's face like a slap, forcing her to squint and raise her hand against the glare. Her body ached from the cramped night in the trunk, and for a moment, she forgot where she was. Then she saw Daryl's boots beside the open trunk and remembered.
"Mornin'," she said, accepting his hand as he helped her out.
Daryl was already scanning the horizon, crossbow ready. He stood and stretched, scanning their surroundings with automatic vigilance. The road was empty except for a few scattered walker remains from the previous night's horde.
Beth stretched, wincing at the knots in her back. "What time d'you think it is?"
Daryl looked up at the sky, studying the sun's position with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent most of his life outdoors. His father had never bought him a watch, but Merle had taught him to read the sky before he'd taught him to read words.
"Probably around eight," he said.
"One of these days, you gotta teach me how to tell time just by looking at the sun."
Daryl huffed, shouldering his crossbow. "Yeah, one of these days, kid."
They searched the car methodically—glove compartment, under seats, trunk. A few stale crackers, an empty water bottle, and a child's stuffed rabbit that made Beth's chest tighten. She tucked the rabbit into her backpack without explanation.
Soon they were walking through the Georgian woods, no destination in mind except "away from here." The trees pressed close on either side, their branches creating a canopy that filtered the morning light into dancing patterns on the forest floor. Beth's feet were already sore in her worn boots, and she had to take two steps for every one of Daryl's longer strides.
"Daryl," she called, slightly out of breath. "Can you slow down a little?"
But Daryl was already focused on something else, his head cocked like a hunting dog picking up a scent. He'd spotted movement in the underbrush, a flash of brown fur that meant meat, meant not going hungry today. He raised his crossbow and moved off the path, following the rabbit's trail.
"Daryl!" Beth called again, but he was already disappearing between the trees.
She hurried after him, branches snagging at her clothes and hair. By the time she caught up, she heard the distinctive thunk of his crossbow firing.
"Fuck," she heard him mutter. "Missed the goddamn squirrel."
Beth emerged from the brush to find Daryl standing over a fallen log, his bolt buried in the wood where a squirrel had been moments before. The animal was nowhere to be seen.
"We should make camp here," Daryl said, surveying the small clearing. It was defensible, with good sightlines and water nearby.
He immediately began setting up a perimeter, stringing wire between trees and hanging cans that would rattle if anything tried to approach. Beth watched him work, marveling at how quickly he transformed the space into something that felt almost safe.
"Stay here while I hunt," he said, checking his crossbow.
"I can help," Beth offered. "I'm getting better with the knife, and I'm quiet—"
"You'll just scare them off."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Beth felt her face flush with anger and embarrassment. "What the hell is wrong with you? I'm only trying to help!"
Daryl paused in his preparations, something flickering across his face. But instead of apologizing, he just shouldered his crossbow again. "Make a fire. You know how to make a fire?"
Beth glared at him. "Yeah, I know how to make one."
"I'll be quick." And then he was gone, melting into the woods like smoke.
Beth stood alone in the clearing, anger burning in her chest. She bent to gather sticks, muttering under her breath. "What does he think of me? That I don't know how to make a fire? Starting a fire isn't that hard—I just need two sticks."
She looked around until she found what she needed: a straight piece of hardwood for the spindle and a flat piece of softwood for the board. "If I remember correctly, I just have to rub these two sticks together to create friction, then heat, which would then produce an ember that I can use to start the fire."
Beth smiled at her own logic. "How hard can it be?"
Twenty minutes later, her smile had long since faded. Her hands were raw from gripping the spindle, her arms ached from the constant motion, and all she had to show for her efforts was a few wisps of smoke that disappeared as quickly as they came. Sweat dripped down her face despite the cool morning air.
When Daryl returned, carrying a large dead snake, Beth barely glanced at him. She was too focused on her task, too stubborn to admit defeat. The sticks rubbed together frantically, and for a moment, actual smoke began to rise. But then her tired arms faltered, and it was gone.
"Let me do it," Daryl said quietly.
Beth wanted to snap at him, to tell him she could do it herself. But she was exhausted, and the look on his face wasn't mocking, it was patient. She nodded and sat back on her heels.
Daryl crouched beside her fire pit and immediately saw the problem. "You forgot something important," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "When making a fire, you gotta gather tinder first—dried leaves, moss, anything that'll catch easy when the ember forms."
Beth watched as he gathered a handful of dried grass and leaves, arranging them in a small nest. "The ember's just the start," he explained. "You gotta give it something to eat."
He took the spindle from her, his hands sure and steady. "Pressure and speed," he said, demonstrating the motion. "But not too much pressure, or you'll wear yourself out before you get anywhere."
Beth listened intently, her earlier embarrassment forgotten. This was survival, and pride was a luxury she couldn't afford.
"See how I'm holding it?" Daryl's hands moved with practiced efficiency. "Keep the angle consistent. And when you feel the heat building, when you see real smoke, that's when you know you're close."
The tinder began to smolder, and Daryl carefully transferred the glowing ember to his nest of dried grass. He blew gently, and the grass caught fire. Soon, they had a proper flame.
"Practice," he said, sitting back. "That's all it takes."
"Thanks," Beth said, and meant it. "For teaching me. Not just... you know."
Daryl nodded and began preparing the snake, skinning it with quick, efficient movements. They cooked it over the fire, and despite her initial revulsion, Beth found herself eating gratefully. Protein was protein, and hunger was a great motivator.
After they'd eaten, Beth wiped her hands on her jeans and looked at Daryl. "I want a drink."
He tossed her a water bottle. "Here."
"Not water," she said. "Alcohol. I want a drink."
Daryl's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "Beth..."
"My daddy never let me drink. Said I was too young, that it would lead to bad things. But I'm old enough to kill walkers, old enough to watch people die, old enough to sleep in a trunk to avoid being eaten alive. I think I'm old enough for a damn drink."
When Daryl didn't respond, anger flared in her chest again. She grabbed her knife and stood up. "Fine. I'll find my own."
"Beth, wait—"
But she was already walking away, her jaw set in determination. She'd had enough of being treated like a child, enough of being told what she could and couldn't do. If she wanted a drink, she'd find one herself.
The forest seemed to close in around her as she walked, branches reaching out like grasping fingers. She'd been walking for maybe ten minutes when she heard it—the familiar moan of walkers. Her blood turned to ice.
Three of them emerged from behind a fallen tree, their dead eyes fixing on her immediately. Beth's hand went to her knife, but she was outnumbered and out in the open. Her father's lessons about staying calm flooded back to her.
She spotted a cluster of rocks near a thick bush and made her choice. Moving slowly, she picked up a stone and hurled it into the brush. The walkers turned toward the sound, drawn by the noise. Beth used the distraction to slip behind a large oak tree, holding her breath as they shuffled past.
"Beth!"
Daryl's voice made her jump. He appeared through the trees, crossbow raised, scanning for threats. When he saw her pressed against the tree, relief flickered across his face.
"Come on," he said. "We're going back."
"No." Beth stepped out from behind the tree, her chin raised defiantly. "I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, I saw that."
"I handled it! I didn't need you to rescue me!"
Daryl looked at her for a long moment, and she thought she saw something like respect in his eyes. "You did handle it," he said finally.
But Beth was still angry, still feeling like he saw her as nothing more than a burden. Without thinking, she raised her middle finger at him.
Daryl's eyebrows rose slightly, rather amused but he didn't comment. "You still want that drink?"
"Yes."
They walked in silence until they reached a golf course, its manicured greens now overgrown with weeds. A country club sat at the far end, its windows dark and inviting. Beth looked at the building and felt a spark of hope.
"There," she said, pointing. "Country clubs always have bars."
Daryl nodded, and they made their way across the golf course. Walkers emerged from the tree line, but they were slow and easy to avoid. Soon they were inside the club, and Beth's hopes were immediately dampened by what she saw.
Three bodies hung from the ceiling by their necks, swaying slightly in the breeze from the open door. More bodies littered the floor, each with a bullet wound to the head. The smell of death was overwhelming.
"Mass suicide," Daryl said quietly. "Probably when things got bad."
Beth covered her nose with her sleeve and began searching for the bar. Behind her, she could hear Daryl collecting cash and jewelry from the bodies. In any other world, she might have found it ghoulish. Now, she understood that everything had value if you could find someone to trade with.
The walkers from outside were trying to get in, their bodies pressing against the glass doors. Beth and Daryl moved deeper into the building, away from the main entrance.
Finally, Beth found what she was looking for: a bottle of something clear and unmarked. She grabbed it, feeling a surge of triumph. But as she turned to show Daryl, a walker lunged at her from the shadows.
Instinct took over. Beth smashed the bottle against the walker's head, the glass shattering and cutting her hand. But the walker kept coming, and she had to draw her knife and drive it into its skull. The body crumpled to the floor.
"Thanks for the help," she said sarcastically, seeing Daryl watching from across the room.
"You said you could take care of yourself," he replied. "You did."
Despite her irritation, Beth felt a small glow of pride. She had handled it.
They continued through the building, past graffiti that read "Welcome to the Dogtrot" and more evidence of the club's final, desperate hours. In what had once been a pro shop, they found something that made Beth's stomach turn: the upper half of a woman's body, deliberately posed on mannequin legs, with a sign reading "Rich Bitch" pinned to her chest.
"Can you help me take this down?" Beth asked, unable to look at the grotesque display.
Daryl shrugged. "She's dead. Doesn't matter now."
But when he saw how much it bothered her, he grabbed a sheet and threw it over the body. "There."
xxx
Beth found a clean shirt and cardigan in the shop and changed into them, grateful to be out of her blood-stained clothes. They continued their search, but their time was running out. A grandfather clock somewhere in the building began to chime, and the sound drew every walker in the area.
"Run," Daryl said.
They sprinted through the halls, but the building was a maze, and they quickly found themselves trapped in a locker room. Daryl's crossbow took down the first few walkers, but when one grabbed the weapon, he switched to a golf club and his knife.
Beth watched in horrified fascination as Daryl fought. He was efficient, deadly, but when he reached the last walker, something changed. Instead of killing it quickly, he began beating it with the golf club, over and over, his face twisted with rage.
Blood splattered across Beth's new white cardigan, but she didn't move. She'd seen Daryl angry before, but this was different. This was years of frustration and pain being taken out on a walker.
When it was over, Daryl stood panting over the destroyed body. Beth quietly removed her blood-stained cardigan and followed him to the bar.
The bar was everything she'd hoped for—rows of bottles, gleaming glasses, the promise of escape. But as she searched, all she could find was a half-empty bottle of peach schnapps.
"Is this any good?" she asked, holding up the bottle.
Daryl glanced at it. "No."
But Beth was past caring. She needed this, needed something to dull the edges of this new world. She looked for a clean glass, but everything was covered in dust and debris. Suddenly, the weight of everything crashed down on her.
She began to cry, great gasping sobs that she couldn't control. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Her first drink was supposed to be special, maybe with a boy she liked, maybe at a party with friends. Not alone in a blood-soaked country club with a man who barely tolerated her presence.
"Fuck this," Daryl said suddenly. He strode over and smashed the bottle on the floor. "Your first drink ain't gonna be some bullshit peach schnapps."
Beth stared at him through her tears. "Then what?"
"Come on. I know a place."
xxx
The shack looked like it had been abandoned for years, its wooden walls weathered gray and the roof sagging in places. But when Daryl pushed open the door, Beth was surprised to find it relatively clean inside.
"Found this place when I was scouting with Michonne," Daryl explained, moving toward the kitchen. "Figured it might come in handy."
Beth followed him, taking in the sparse furnishings. It was humble, but it felt more like a home than anywhere she'd been since the prison. In the kitchen, Daryl began opening drawers and cabinets, revealing a surprising cache of supplies.
"Canned goods, cola..." He pulled out a mason jar filled with clear liquid. "Moonshine."
"There's no dust," Beth observed, running her finger along the counter.
Daryl nodded grimly. "Someone's been here recently. Put all these here."
He set the moonshine on the kitchen table, and Beth moved to examine a chair positioned near the sink. There was a bag underneath it, and curiosity got the better of her. Inside, she found a small ID card with an unfamiliar logo stamped on the front—three lines forming a triangle with a circle in the center.
"Daryl, what's this logo?" she asked, holding up the ID.
Daryl took it from her, his expression growing serious as he recognized the symbol. "That's the CIA logo."
"CIA?"
"Central Intelligence Agency. Government spooks." He opened the ID, revealing a photo of a man in his early forties with sharp eyes and a stern expression. The name read "Marcus" but before he could read the surname, a voice cut through the silence.
"Close the ID and put it down."
Both Beth and Daryl froze. The voice was calm, controlled, and coming from somewhere behind them. Beth's hand instinctively moved toward her knife, but she didn't turn around.
"Nice and slow," the voice continued. "And keep your hands where I can see them."