Those Who Thrive

Beth’s heart beat a little quicker at Daryl’s words. It felt good to be in a place that had potential, a place that could be theirs for at least one night. She stepped back as Daryl moved to secure the doors, her fingers lightly grazing the rough wood of the barn wall. It was solid under her hand, sturdy and unyielding. She took a deep breath, inhaling the musk of aged hay and the faint sweetness of memories that lingered here.

Finding the ladder next to Daryl, she helped hoist it into the barn. The sound of its wood scraping against the walls echoed softly, bouncing around the empty space. They had done it. They were making a home, even if it was just temporary, and that thought brought a flicker of warmth amid the cold.

She would watch him ascend the ladder with fluid ease, his movements confident -- he was comfortable in his own skin, in command of the space around him. She admired that. As Daryl reached the loft, she followed his lead, climbing after him cautiously. The rungs felt worn under her hands, but they held her weight without issue. Each step got her a little closer to the unknown above. She stepped onto the wooden floor of the loft; what was left of the daylight poured in sporadically through cracks in the walls, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air like tiny stars.

❝ Looks like someone was here before us. ❞ She observed, glancing over at Daryl. They might just get a good night’s rest, maybe even feel safe for a few hours.

She began looking around, her fingers trailing along the weathered fabric, curiosity piqued by the sight of the scattered books. She picked one up, dust swirling around as she did, and opened the cover, the pages yellowed with age. A few sentences caught her eye, words of adventure and bravery amidst a world that was, perhaps, never as daunting as what they faced now. She smiled, an unexpected bloom of warmth spreading through her chest.

❝ If we needed, I bet we could stay here for a few days. ❞ She didn’t or wouldn’t stop looking for the others, but they also had to take care of themselves along the way. They were in this together, and together they could take on whatever lay ahead -- one day at a time.

Daryl allowed himself to sit down next to the bedroll and propped his crossbow against one of the haystacks. He leaned back against the bale behind him, and closed his eyes. Being high up gave an extra sense of security, but it was never enough for him to completely let his guard down.

“I’ll keep first watch,” he informed Beth. “Get some rest.”

He could feel the tightness in his chest, a familiar ache that had haunted him since Lucille’s death. The bitter memories clawed at him like hungry shadows. Everything about her was a bloody reminder of the past, how he’d lost her & the pieces of himself along with her. The way she managed to hold those remnants, even in this broken form, hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Her eyes, so vibrant yet dulled by the weariness of survival, seemed to pierce right through him. He wanted to reach out, hold her close, but thought better of it. She was a stranger wrapped in the skin of the woman he loved. A specter birthed from nightmares & echoing regrets.

He surveyed the flickering lights around them as if they might offer a distraction. The neon buzz hummed in his ears, sharp & disjointed. His gaze fell back to her fingers, thin & querying against the glass, & an inexplicable surge of protectiveness filled the void in his gut. The suffocating weight of her fear still lingered despite her smile, one that felt more like a shroud than a greeting.

❝ Being hunted. ❞ He repeated, the words tasting sour on his tongue. A low growl rumbled at the back of his throat. What kind of bastards would hunt her down again ? The thought ignited a dark flame within him, flaring brighter than the dull ache of longing.

He leaned in closer, though half the distance between them felt like miles. Was this the moment he was supposed to play the knight ? Save her from the demons lurking in the shadows ? But who the hell was he kidding ? He’d fought battles, lost friends, & buried parts of himself that should’ve stayed buried, all for what ? To end up face-to-face with the ghost of his wife, now a reminder of a world shredded into chaos ?

❝ Those fuckers won’t get anywhere near you, ❞ he said, voice low & resolute, stirring the air thick with the smell of stale beer. Lucille, alive & wounded, was his priority. ❝ Tell me where they are. I’ll take care of this. I won’t let you go back, ❞ he continued, barely containing the growl in his voice. ❝ Not ever again. ❞ The conviction radiated from him, fueled by the desperate desire to shield her from harm, to pull her back from the edge of whatever abyss loomed behind her eyes.

Negan reached for the bat, fingers warming against the cold metal. The weight of it brought a strange comfort -- a promise wrapped in violence. He’d use it if he had to. Never again would he let someone take from him what he valued most. Not after losing Lucille once already. ❝ Better yet, you’re coming with me. I’ve got a place, it’s safe & I have the numbers. If any of them bastards come there looking for you ? Well… they’re gonna have a real fucking bad day. ❞ He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He might not have been man enough to protect her the way he should have before, but he damn sure could & would now.

“Okay,” she said, then finally went for the glass. She downed its contents, willing herself to recall the burn of half-decent whiskey that trailed down her throat. For Negan’s sake, she had to forget that yearning hunger for human meat.

She searched his face for hints of hesitation or regret, only to find nothing of the sort. The mistake of trusting the wrong person cost her a few times. Not that she sensed that behind her decision to follow Negan. Rather, it was whoever followed him that she’d be leery of. People were twisted and warped in unimaginable ways, and she wasn’t referring to the undead.

Distant gunfire cracked through the air. Lucille abruptly jerked her head to the side and rose from her seat. Her eyes widened with panic. Tires screeched and squealed, followed by more bullets fired. While none of the projectiles smashed into the bar, the sound would attract walkers in no time. And it wasn’t the undead she feared, but the possibility of her hunters finding her location.

Beth hesitated, eyes flicking between the tracks & Daryl’s calm expression. The tension in the air hung thick like fog, wrapping around her instincts, urging caution. She could see the determination behind his steady gaze, & a small flame of confidence ignited within her at the thought of having a plan.

❝ Yeah, ❞ she nodded slowly, her voice low. ❝ Let’s see where it goes. ❞

She led the way, stepping carefully on the uneven ground as they moved away from the stream. The forest closed in around them, sounds of the trickling water fading into a distant memory. Each step echoed in her mind, louder in the quiet than it seemed out here.

Daryl’s presence was a constant at her back, solid & reassuring, but even so, she felt the weight of the woods pressing down. The light filtering through the branches above lost its golden warmth. Shadows lengthened, twisting into dark shapes that danced just beyond the reach of clarity. She inhaled deeply, catching the rich scent of damp earth, mixed with the faint trace of pine. It settled in her lungs, reminding her of simpler times back at the farm, before everything changed.

The path twisted deeper into the thicket, & with each footfall, Beth could feel her heartbeat quicken. She focused on the tracks, trying to decipher who — or what — had passed this way. Her mind raced with possibilities, the sharp edge of trepidation slicing through her nerves. It could be a survivor or something else entirely.

Not far ahead she spotted a clearing. Sunlight barely penetrated the canopy, but a faint glimmer caught her eye — a structure half-hidden among the rustling leaves, its shape shifting with the shadows. Curiosity mingled with caution as Beth glanced back at Daryl, who stood at the edge of the thicket, his expression unreadable.

❝ Over there. ❞ She whispered, pointing with a trembling finger. The air felt thicker here, weighed down by the stillness. She took a breath, trying to steady the unease coiling tight in her stomach.

Goosebumps prickled on her skin; an unshakeable feeling crawled up her spine. The building was probably empty, long abandoned, but memories of empty homes & lingering dangers flooded her mind.

The closer they got, the clearer it became: a barn, though its weathered wood had succumbed to time & neglect. Moss curled around the beams, & the roof sagged like a tired old man. It didn’t fit well with the trees, standing out like a lost traveler. But it was a structure — a possible solace from the encroaching night.

With a gentle nudge of his elbow, Daryl led Beth to the barn. Before entering its interior, they did a quick search around the structure. There were no vehicles or equipment. The owners must've taken everything they could when they up and left. Whether it was due to the outbreak, or reasons predating the former, the aged barn was left to the elements.

The crossbow remained loaded when he and Beth carefully pulled the doors open. Daryl expected resistance; maybe the owners would've locked up before leaving. But he was also ready for a nasty surprise in the form of walkers. His mind flashed to Beth's former home, where her family kept their barn full of them, including deceased loved ones. Including Sofia, Carol's daughter. Neither turned out to be the case, because inside the barn was the skeleton of what used to shelter crops, livestock, and general storage. Hay was scattered across the floor, while the stalls were void of anything living or dead.

The smell of aged wood, hay, and dirt filled Daryl's nostrils, as the inspection continued. He'd anticipated the unmistakable reek of animal shit, but seeing how old this place was, that odor was likely absorbed by time. A ladder was propped against the back wall. Daryl instructed Beth to watch the door while he climbed up to the loft using the ladder.

Muscles ached, and the cold air made tiny goosebumps along his exposed skin, but he pushed forward. He saw old bales of hay stacked along the wall. An empty bedroll was on the floor, with a small stack of books and pens by the head rest. Still not allowing himself to lower his defenses, Daryl poked through the hay, to make sure nothing was hiding in them. Whether it was walkers or pests, the last thing he wanted to deal with was something gnawing on him.

She emerged from the underbrush, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a woven bag slung over her shoulder. Beth’s eyes, once bright and full of hope, now held a hardness that hadn’t been there before. She’d grown up fast in the past few months. She didn’t look up right away, instead taking her time to scan the thicket behind her. ❝ Didn’t find much. ❞ She muttered. The Georgia twang in her voice had been sanded down by months of hunger and vigilance.

She finally met his gaze. ❝ Deer trail, maybe. ❞ She held up her prize: two eggs, cupped delicately in her battered palms. ❝ Chicken coop. Didn’t see no chickens, though. I found a stream about half a mile east. We can fill up the canteens there before nightfall. ❞

Taking a moment she placed the eggs into a soft pouch inside the woven bag. She was smarter than people gave her credit for. It was different now, she was different now, sharp and hard-edged, shaped by weeks of cold and nights spent pressed back-to-back for warmth.

Beth crouched beside him, helping to organize their things. They worked in silence for a moment, a routine they’d perfected over weeks of survival. Beth rolled their sleeping bags while Daryl checked their weapons. They’d learned each other’s movements, anticipated needs without words. It was the closest thing to trust either of them had felt in a long time.

❝ If we’re lucky we might find some where to stay tonight before the cold sets in. ❞ She knew it was going to be hard to find a spot that isn’t abandoned or crawling with walkers, but the nights were growing colder and the days turned to nights faster than they used to.

Beth’s fingers brushed against the worn fabric of their makeshift gear, adjusting it on her shoulder.

“We’re gettin’ that water first,” he said. While the deer trail interested him, their priority was shelter. There was no sense in wondering if and when they would be reunited with their companions. As of now, they could only rely on each other.

Once everything was secured, Daryl had Beth lead the way to the stream. They cautiously trekked through the woods with their eyes and ears ever alert. Every sound that didn’t come from beneath their feet caused them to instantly draw their weapons. After careful scrutiny of their surroundings, they’d continue on until they arrived at their destination. It wasn’t paranoia, but being rational. Walkers didn’t care about making noise. All they cared about was food, no matter what condition their rotting bodies were in. Nothing would stop their relentless hunger for the living.  

Water was bottled and stored. Daryl couldn’t resist drinking more than usual from the source before recollecting himself. Neither he nor Beth knew when they would come upon water again so easily.

“C’mon,” he said as he worked his way around the stream, eyes scanning the ground momentarily. He hated wandering aimlessly. If he went anywhere, it was with purpose. Especially now when they needed shelter.

Daryl abruptly stopped. His gaze settled upon a particular set of tracks which led away from the stream. His calloused fingertips brushed against Beth’s arm as he motioned for her to follow. Crouching down, he squinted his eyes, and investigated the hollows of the markings. Using the back of his hand, he brushed away the dirt, sticks, and leaves until he revealed the surface of a gravel road.

“Someone hid this,” he stated to Beth. “Didn’t want nobody findin’ it. They covered it up and stepped all over it, thinking it'll get looked over.”

Could be a trap. Could also lead to shelter. They didn’t have much time until the sun set. Daryl’s line of sight roughly followed the rest of the track until it disappeared into the tree lines.

He turned to Beth, not realizing how close they stood until now. Her proximity didn’t bother him. She became one of the few people whose presence didn’t bother him in the slightest. It took a lot for him to trust anyone, let alone in this day and age.

Negan watched her. The urge to put a hand on her shoulder was strong — the old Negan would have made a grab for a joke, or at least slid a drink down the bar her way, but that felt like another universe, someone else’s body. The bat was adequate company for the time being. He kept his fingers around it, tried to focus on the way the handle bit into his palm when he squeezed; it was easier to deal in pain than in confusion. ❝ Shit, ❞ he said, & it was half a bark & half a laugh. ❝ You were always stubborn as hell. ❞ The thought that she never once looked for him stung — it stung like hell. Then again, maybe that had been for the best considering the path he crossed after her death.

Negan felt something slide into him — felt a sour pulse in his guts, right below the scar of where he’d buried her. He was supposed to make it easier for her, always had been. Now, all he wanted was to shoulder the hurt for her, but it just kept passing right back. He’d tried to torch the house to lay her memory to rest, but here she was, still smoldering, still finding ways to keep herself alive.

❝ They had a hint of the cure. Or rumored it, anyway. But I just stuck to the old routines. Strangles, bludgeonings. Baseball. I went city to city, just to see if blinking made it all go away. It never did. ❞ He shifted on his stool, elbows on the bar. The surface was sticky & dark with dried liquor, & for a second Negan let himself imagine the old world: Friday lights, cheap beer, cracked laughter. He felt an ache for it, none of which made it to his face.

Negan took a deep breath through his nose. He pressed his tongue into the gap where his molar used to be, worrying the hole with a violence he reserved for his own flaws. The world really did know how to find the worst reason to keep people around.

What does he say to love of his life — to the one he thought he’d never see again, knowing she hated being alive ? Negan’s gloved hand raised hesitantly. He reached for the bottle, sloshed out a swallow more than strictly necessary into Lucille’s glass, & pushed it her way. The gesture was the closest thing either of them would ever get to an apology.

❝ You want to know the real bastard of it all ? ❞ Negan’s voice was low, bone-dry. ❝ It’s that some days I think you had the right idea. Better to punch your own ticket than let someone write you into a science experiment. ❞ He took a pull straight from the bottle, whisky souring his tongue, burning a soft trail over the cliffs inside his throat. ❝ Not that it matters now. There’ll be another fuckin’ flavor of hell tomorrow. ❞

For a second Negan wondered if she was about to ask him to kill her for good this time, & the idea ignited a socket of panic somewhere under his ribcage. He steadied his right hand by wrapping it around the bat, pressing down until the wire pressed into his skin. He had not prayed in many years, not since her, & even now he could only manage the wish that she would not ask him for that.

❝ I don’t think there’s anyone alive these days that isn’t broken & fucked up in some way or another. ❞

Her fingers drummed along the glass. It was difficult to feel temperature. It was one of the few things she struggled with since her revival. She drank because it was out of habit, not because it did much for her. The flashbacks were also a bitch: the memories of what she was capable of doing, what she did when she was a walking corpse, the taste of human flesh. It was the only thing that made her feel alive, to truly feel much of anything--

She pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers momentarily.

“I’m so glad you’re still alive,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “I really am, Negan.”

She swallowed hard, forcing the harsh, tainted memories of what she once was (still was) away. Withdrawing her hand from the glass, she offered Negan a smile. It wasn’t one that reached her eyes. Rather, it was a bitter one.

“I’m being hunted,” she informed him. “I don’t want you to get hurt again because of me. Ever since the bunch of us escaped the labs, those scientists have sent their men to round us up again by any means necessary.”

Now her fingers pressed into the counter of the bar. Brows furrowed, she whispered harshly, “I won’t go back, and I won’t…”

Negan’s boots were loud as hell on the threadbare carpet, but he made no attempt to quiet them. The bar’s interior was preserved in a haze of brown — old varnish, old stains, the sullen bouquet of sour booze & ancient cigarette ash. The windows were blocked out with battered plywood, & the only light fermented from the exit signs & the red glow of dusk at a few chinked seams. Most men in the new world walked with shoulders slumped, eyes glued to the horizon or the gun in their fist. Negan stood like he’d already won the argument, like the air was contractually obligated to go into his lungs.

He stopped ten feet from her, silhouetted in the neon shroud. His face turns pale like he’s just had every bit of wind knocked out of him & replaced with the chill from just outside the door. His knuckles were thick & scarred, a ring of dried blood caked under the white of his thumbnail. His eyes watered from the inside. ❝ You said not to leave you. ❞ Negan echoed, voice gone flat as the whisky dregs in the glass between them. ❝ But you didn’t stick around to let me say goodbye. ❞

He’s dreaming — there’s no other explanation as to why she’s standing in from of him alive as if nothing ever happened to her. He pinched himself & vividly felt the pain from it. No, it couldn’t be a dream. There was nothing left of the world they’d known except what lived, rent-free, between his temples. He thought back to that painful night & shook his head. No, he wanted her locked away where time couldn’t touch her. Instead, there was her voice, clattering at him again, but not gentle, not half-asleep in bed. She spoke like a person scraping the last sinew off a bone, dry & hollow. It hit him somewhere he thought was already cauterized shut.

He shrugged his shoulders higher, tried to smirk but it snagged at the corner of his mouth. ❝ You look good. ❞ He tried, because it was it was all he could manage at the moment. He found himself keeping track of her breathing as she leaned forward into the weird twilight.

❝ How are you alive ? ❞ He finally managed to choke out the words as he sat his barbed bat on the bar counter between them.

Her eyes fell to the nasty weapon on the counter top. It reeked of decay and rust. It was a thing of brutality. The barbed wires reminded her of the many needles the doctors injected into her for “the cure” to work.

“I shouldn’t be,” Lucille informed Negan as she reached over and gently placed an index finger upon one of the single strands not stained with blood. Green eyes briefly flashed at him, but they swiftly darkened with bitterness. “I should be dead. I didn’t want you to see me like this. Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Her gaze fell to the dirt covered carpet. “The worst thing about this shit driven world isn’t the dead. It’s the people. The living. They brought me back, Negan. I should’ve stayed dead, but these…”

She took her hand away from the bat and drew it to her chest, where she folded her arms together. Head bowed, she continued speaking, much in the manner like she did when she informed him of her cancer diagnosis.

“They were these off the grid assholes. They weren’t with the CDC. They wanted to play God with corpses. They collected bodies like mine, and conducted experiments on us by using a ‘cure’ they developed. Didn’t work most of the time. Some of us came back to life, but others came back as just the same: infected. Those ones were put down. We were treated like animals. Studied. Caged. Abused.”

She stopped crying long ago thinking about it. It wasn’t as if she were the only person assaulted. Those so-called doctors were no more than sick fucks who got their rocks off by screwing the “cured infected.” If it wasn’t for the escape, she would’ve attempted to kill herself.

She finally looked at Negan, where she nodded with approval. “You gained some muscle. And the bat you’re carrying? I’m assuming you’re not just taking baseball lessons for fun. You’re looking pretty good yourself.”

It’d been too long since she felt like her old self. It belonged in a world that no longer existed. That part of her was from a life that died when she had cancer, when the world was thrust into chaos.

“I’m broken, Negan.”