Bridges :: Daryl Dixon

[SEVEN] SAFE ARRIVAL

The morning sun glared through the edges of the make-shift shades of the deserted Audi rear passenger window, earning a slight ache to eyes. Somehow managing to pry them open, I rubbed them with my fists and allowed them to adjust to the brightness.
Groaning, I sat up quietly and slowly. I inched closer to the window, peeling the old, dirty, and black t-shirt that I used as a curtain, checking to see that there weren't any walkers about. I repeated the same on the other side with my jacket as the sun-shield, and once I knew the coast was clear, I opened the door and stepped into the cool winter breeze.
My vision went fuzzy for a few moments, still adjusting as I reached my arms above my head and embraced the sensation of a good stretch.

Throwing on my jacket, I looked around, noticing that a majority of us were awake and packing.
Dale and Daryl were in and out of the RV, stashing what had been found the day before while T-dog sat quietly near one of the cars. He looked pale and unwell. His eyes held a dull and dark colour, the bags underneath them evident.
Carol was by a neighbouring car, stacking cans and rashions of food onto the front windscreen.
My heart ached as I approached, placing on hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at me with a similar look in her face as T-dog. Yet, rather than pale from sickness; she was pale from exhaustion both mentally and physically. She was broken.

I had no words for her. I wished that I had. But I knew in that moment that no words could make more of a difference. Sometimes, it was better to say nothing at all, and this was that moment.

I turned to look back at the RV, Daryl being the first person I saw.
"Hey?" I called as I walked up to him. He turned and looked at me, a questioning look in his face, and a near grunt of acknowledgement followed.
"Have you seen Marcus?" I asked, concern growing quickly.
He nodded his head toward a car, implying that he was still asleep. I rolled my eyes, internally groaning at Marcus's laziness. I made my way over to the car, knocking on the window. When I got no reply, i knocked again. This time, the door opened, and a half-asleep Marcus crawled out.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty." I sarcastically greeted him. Ruffling his hair as he rubbed his eyes.
"What time is it?" He grumbled.
I raised my eyebrow. "It's morning, which means wake up, princess. We have work to do and a journey to make."

Marcus groaned as he flung his jacket around his shoulders. He shivered lightly from the cold before pulling me into a side hug.
"Here's to another day of hell." He joked, following me back to the others.

•••••••••••••••••

We all sat in silence, and the only sound to be heard was the loud hum of the car's engine and the loud grumbles of Daryl's bike. I sat in the passenger seat of the RV while Marcus, Carol, and T-dog sat silently in the back. Daryl rode his bike a few metres ahead, guiding us to the farm.

I never understood Daryl's choice of transportation. The key to surviving the apocalyptic world, especially to this calliper, was stealth. Daryl's bike wasn't exactly that. It was the complete and polar opposite. It was loud and obnoxious. - Any walker within a 100-mile radius would be able to hear it.
Rick would tell the group not to shoot guns unless it was absolutely necessary, and Daryl would come along with a bike as loud as a jet plane and completely discourage any advice about being stealthy.

The redneck was stubborn, that I could tell. His way, or the highway. He was opinionated without even saying anything. He managed to get under my skin without even trying to. Yet, despite it all, he was loyal. If you had Daryl's approval, you'd have it for life.

Daryl didn't peg me for the role-model type. Because i had a feeling that Daryl's role models while growing up were nothing to admire or who to inspire to be. I caught the vibe that Daryl's walls were built strong enough to withstand a missile.

He was an unreadable book, which made him all the more fascinating.

Breaking me out of my thoughts, Dale spoke.
"You okay over there, Crimson?" He asked. Empathy riddled in his voice.
I smiled at the man. "CC." I corrected. "Please call me CC, Dale."
"Right!" He acknowledged.  "CC.."
"To answer your question, yes. I'm okay. I just want to make sure Carl is okay." My smile faltered.

Dale looked at me sympathetically. "I'm sure he will be fine." He smiled. "From what you have told me, Hershel and his people seem like good enough folk."
"From what I could tell, yeah." I nodded, looking back out the window.

We were minutes out from the farm, and anxiety was beginning to overwhelm me.
What if Shane and Otis failed?
What if Hershel didn't truly know what he was doing?
What if we were just too late?

•••••••••••

We arrived at the farm, the others admiring it as I sprinted from the car to the porch. I was quickly greeted by Rick and Lori, battered and exhausted.
"How is he?" I rushed as the others approached.
"He will be okay, thanks to Hershel and his people." Lori smiled lightly.

Relief washed over me, I felt like I could finally breathe.
"And Shane." Rick added. "Can't forget about Shane."
"And you." Lori turned to look at me.

I smiled, embracing the woman. When we released, I placed a hand on Rick's upper arm in a comforting manner as I walked past him and inside the house. It was this moment that I decided to look around and take in my surroundings. It was decorated, almost pre-war. The picture frames were dust collectors but hung perfectly straight in the centre of each wall. Family photos were standing upright on the fireplaces mantle with candles and other souvenirs to decorate. The couch and living chairs sat on an angle, facing the fireplace and a coffee table laid perfectly in the middle.

Poking my head through the archway, I noticed the kitchen. A large, colonial style kitchen. It was dusty and certainly had seen better days but in a perfect world, and when life was normal - this would have been anyone's dream kitchen. The large quality of cupboards, the beautiful and large counter island in the centre of the room, and the small accents on the cupboard doors really gave it the colonial feel.

I continued on toward the staircase that led to the bedrooms - stopping at the door beside the first step. I knocked lightly 3 times and opened the door to peek my head inside. There laid Carl, relaxed, awake, and most importantly alive. He was pale, and his eyes showed a dark shade of grey underneath. His eyes, however, lit up when he saw me enter the room.

"CC!" He exclaimed as loud as his weak voice could manage.
"Hey bud!" I smiled, taking a seat next to the bed. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay." He nodded. "A little weak, and I'm sore, but Hershel said that's normal."
"He's right." I nodded. "You went through one hell of a trauma, kiddo. You're going to have a pretty cool looking scar to prove it."
"Cool." He smiled with his chin up high.
"Watch the ladies' swarm  around you now!" I joke, lightly shaking his foot.

Carl's face screwed up slightly, almost repulsed by the thought. I laughed at his innocence before getting up and leaving the boy to rest.

I exited the farmhouse, back to the group that gathered outside of the house. I pulled Marcus into a side hug, my arm around his waist, and his around my shoulder as Rick and Shane spoke.

We had a base, a solid foundation for the time being. We could make a real go at finding Sophia here, which motivated me more. Those unable were safe enough to stay and do things around the farm while those who were able could scout the woods, high and low.

After all, how far could a twelve year old go on her own?