Daryl's Angel (10th Anniversary Edition)

Chapter 68: A Quiet Night

In the morning, I'm groggy and more than a little sore, my body protesting the hard floor I chose as my bed. The Claimers are already moving, gathering their weapons and gear and heading to the door.

Len is gone. Dried blood stains the garage floor.

I turn away, gulping back nausea, and I feel Daryl's hand between my shoulderblades as I dry heave. I wave my hand at him.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm—" I take a deep breath in through my nose, out my mouth. "I...I don't know, my stomach isn't as strong lately."

He nods. I succeed in holding it down and we get up, gathering our things and following the group outside. Daryl looks over the ledge as he leaves, but he stops me.

"Don't," he says.

I nod. I can already guess what's down there. For a second, Daryl hesitates, picking up a blood-stained blanket left abandoned outside. He lifts it, staring down at Len's body, but after a second he drops it and keeps moving.

I follow, wrapping my arms around my stomach, and I chance a look back. Len's body looks like a mound of bloodied fabric and meat, an arrow sticking out of his eye. I jerk my head away and pick up the pace, catching up with Daryl.

Another day of walking ahead.

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As per the new normal, Joe falls back to walk with Daryl, letting the other five men walk ahead as we cross a field. He has a flask with him and, when he pops it open, I smell something almost sweet beneath an earthier, headier scent.

He takes a swig, then hands it to Daryl. "White Lightning," he says. "Easiest thing to make with the least amount of supplies. I'd start slow if I was you. Your stomach's probably emptier than you think."

I swallow a bit, wetting my lips at the thought. I hope we stop to eat soon, maybe cook up the rabbit. It's starting to feel like my stomach is eating itself.

Daryl takes a long swig, nodding as he hands the flask back. "I ain't been lit at dawn since before everything fell apart."

"Fell apart," Joe repeats, taking another drink before tucking the flask away. "I never looked at it like that. Seems to me like things are finally starting to fall together. At least for guys like us. Living like this, surviving. We've been doing this from the start, right?"

It worries me, how easily Joe talks about "us" and "we" with Daryl. I know Daryl's made his feelings clear, but I can't help but worry that he could be swayed to stay here. After all, these men are like him—survivalists, hunters, trappers, men who know their way around a crossbow.

I just don't want to think about what that would mean for me, for us, if he wanted to stay.

We come back up to a set of train tracks. There's some kind of sign posted right near the crossing, facing the other way. The men glance at it, smirking or glaring before moving on down the tracks.

Daryl and I stop as we step onto the tracks, the sign finally in view. It's actually two signs, one with a message, the other with a map.

"Sanctuary for all. Community for all. Those who arrive, survive," the top sign reads. Below it, there's a map of all the train lines, all leading to a single black star in the centre labelled "Terminus." It seems too good to be true.

"You seen this before?" Daryl asks.

"Oh, yeah," Joe says. "I'll tell you what it is. It's a lie. Ain't no sanctuary for all. Ain't gonna welcome guys like you and me with open arms."

He moves past us, continuing after his men, but Daryl keeps staring at the sign. I do too. I wonder how many of these there are, if they've been posted up by all the crossings, advertisements for survival.