A/N: Hello! Finally, we're at the end of season two. Let me know what you all think, please! :)

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I

The boy's gone. He's missin', he ain't in the barn. He's just gone, Maze. We got a ghost in the woodlands, and I hear Daryl's words echoing in my brain when I'm fumbling with my gun, shaking fingers struggling not to drop the bullets I hastily grab from the duffel bag in my tent. When I bolt for the barn again, I imagine thirty men storming for the farm, still picturing an old mob from a cheesy film all clutching pitchforks or possibly pipe-bombs because Randall had spoken of their range of weapons - he had spoken of their savagery too. I already knew about that. At the barn doors, I find the group gathering like headless chickens trying desperately to cluck, huddling together and glancing fearfully at the woods surrounding us. I still see that countdown from the CDC, ticking away in my head. Rick emerges from the barn, jaw grinding and hands clenching into fists from sheer frustration, and all he sees are the scared eyes of his friends and family. I glance across the fields towards our growing graveyard, and I know Dale is beneath all that dirt, and I apologise to him because I know if I find that boy in the forest I will shoot him. I would rather pray for Dale's forgiveness than allow Randall to rally his thirty men and slaughter my friends, because if I had to bury them all, then I'd dig myself a grave and put a bullet in my brain too. It is something I push safely away from my foremost thoughts, but still I'm intensely aware of how fragile I am, how my hands are shaking and my throat is strangely dry - I don't want to admit it to anybody, how afraid I really am of Randall being missing and how, in the moments where we stand waiting for Rick's orders, he could be bringing them all to this farm. I didn't think myself capable of going through what I did, not again. Burying Daryl was not something I could do. I'd rather die with him than do that.

I'd lost an awful lot in my short life. I couldn't lose him too. I just couldn't.

"Daryl, you're the best at trackin', you think you could find him?" Rick asks seriously, staring Daryl right in the eye.

Daryl, still clutching his crossbow, nods at him. "Yeah. I reckon I could. Boy won't be runnin' that fast, not on his leg. He'll leave footprints. We'll follow them."

"And if we find him?" Andrea asks dryly.

She doesn't get an answer, because we hear a rustling and when we all turn towards the forest, we see Shane stumbling from the trees, blood smeared across his face before he roars, "Rick!"

"What happened?" Lori cries, and Carl clutches her waist.

"He's armed!" Shane replies. "He's got my gun! I'm fine, but the little bastard just snuck up on me and clocked me in the face!"

I glance at Daryl, who tightens his grip on his crossbow and squints in the dim sunlight to watch Shane carefully. Daryl's eyes drift towards mine while Rick barks orders at everybody, telling T-Dog and Hershel to take Lori and the rest of them into the house, and in between the shouting, we hold a small, wordless conversation - I suppose, if it had been anybody but Shane coming from the forest, we might not wonder about anything he'd said. What Daryl says without words is what I'm thinking too - Shane is either lying or he'd left something out about Randall. Shane is strong. He is battered and bruised, but still strong. Randall is skinny and lanky with wrists thin enough to crunch just by squeezing them. He hit Shane, dazed him enough to dart away before he could grab him and wrestle him to the ground. Daryl raises an eyebrow, asking how this skinny boy managed something like that. Daryl just never liked Shane that much, and didn't trust him either, and I remember his words about him with startling clarity: He's like - like a rabbit, you know? When they sense somethin's wrong. Their eyes dart around, trying to find what it is that's makin' 'em feel like they do, thinkin' about how to get away, but usually that's when an arrow goes straight through 'em and they ain't thinkin' anythin' anymore. Shane's eyes dart around too, like he's sensed something and he's wondering how he can escape too and I see him glance at Daryl's crossbow for the briefest moment.

I wonder if he's waiting for that arrow.

Rick rallies us towards him, and pats my shoulder when I pass, heading into the forest without hesitation. Daryl is close behind, crossbow carefully poised and eyes roaming around for anything - from a piece of Randall's clothing caught on a branch or a stray footprint in the dirt. Shane tells he us he saw him head for the trees, and Daryl watches the leaves as we storm through the woods, looking around. I see his eyebrows furrow, fingertips brushing the dirt, but he doesn't see anything and that makes him frustrated - or rather, confused, because Daryl could always find something assuming Randall didn't know how to cover his tracks, and we could only assume that he didn't. Daryl said everything left something behind, there was always something.

If there wasn't anything, not even a small something, then they hadn't been there. It was as simple as that.

"We just chase him down, that's it," Shane says loudly.

"Kid weighs a buck-twenty-five soaking wet," Daryl mutters distractedly. He drags his gaze from the ground and stares very seriously at Shane, who looks away first. I always admire how ballsy Daryl can be. "Tryin' to tell us he got the jump on you?"

Rick splits us into two teams, but whether that's to separate Daryl and Shane or not, I can't quite tell. I follow Daryl and Glenn, but I glance behind at Rick with slight hesitation. I don't want to walk away from them, but my eyes meet Rick's and he nods. I watch Shane instead, and he's staring hard at his supposed friend, blood crusting along his skin and his eyes cold. It's sort of like - well, when Shane doesn't know somebody's looking at him, he shows what he's really feeling and it looks - angry, or something. It's hard to say what it is, exactly, because he figures out pretty fast that somebody's watching and when he realises it's me, he gives me a shaky smile and pats my shoulder like Rick did, but his is harder. It isn't encouraging. It's forceful.

It's forget what you saw.

Slowly, I stumble after Glenn and Daryl who've gotten a few feet ahead, but I glance behind warily. I keep glancing behind even when a faint fog rolls across the forest and it's impossible to see Rick or Shane from this far, because they disappear into that darkness together and I ask myself if either of them will emerge again - it's a brief thought, one I quickly shake away when running after Daryl and Glenn. In the forest, we can't even find the house or a fence to guide us along, but Daryl seems to know exactly where he is and where we're going, meaning Glenn and I blindly follow behind him. Glenn's nervous, bumping into Daryl's arm twice and accidentally smashing into me when he doesn't watch where he's going, too busy looking behind to realise we're not walking anymore. He almost drops the flashlight when Daryl asks him for it, smiling apologetically and even blushing a little. Daryl rolls his eyes and snatches it from him, running it along the leaves and looking for something we can't see. Glenn sees something, perhaps a branch or a particular leaf, because he suddenly says, "We're back to square one."

"How the Hell can you tell?" I grumble irritably.

"If you're gonna do a thing, might as well do it right," Daryl mutters. "There's two tracks right here. Shane must've followed him a lot longer than he said." He trails the flashlight along the bark of a tree, and something scarlet smeared across the bark glints from the light. "There's fresh blood on this tree."

"Looks like Shane left out a lot of things," I quip quietly.

Daryl hums in agreement, but Glenn glances between us doubtfully. "W-Why would he lie? He's got nothing to gain from Randall being out there-..."

"There's more tracks enough here," Daryl interrupts, scrunching his brows together. "It's like they're walking in tandem." When Glenn bumps against his arm again, Daryl gives him a small, meaningless glare. He turns towards the ground again and mutters, mostly to himself, "There's a little dust right up here."

"What do you mean?" Glenn asks anxiously.

"I mean somethin' went down," he answers.

"This is gettin' weird," Glenn sighs.

"Hello trouble!" Daryl bends down to grab something from the dirt, a long rope that I realise was around Randall's wrists. Glenn holds it high in one hand, and it dangles like a dead snake, swinging slowly. Before he can even open his mouth, Daryl is hauling us both towards trees after a twig snaps somewhere in the distance, and we all hide the best we can - I hear Glenn's shaky breaths and a spot a bead of sweat trickling along his temple, brown eyes darting around. I glance between the trees and glimpse an awkward, stumbling silhouette. It could be Randall, given the limp from his leg, and Daryl whistles softly before tossing a gun to Glenn.

"He isn't runnin', Daryl," I hiss.

Daryl sucks in his cheeks, before letting it all out in a slow sigh, then chewing his lower lip in consideration. "Could be he's lost. Tired or somethin'."

I snort and shake my head. "If it was me and I was lost in a forest where I know I got people tryin' to track me down, I'd still be runnin'."

"We'll find out," Glenn grumbles. "He's coming straight towards us."

We listen to the light crinkling of the leaves, and we stand poised to catch him, but Glenn freezes at the sight of Randall's pearly gaze. I see Glenn's eyes swirling, and I bet inwardly he's shouting at himself, do something! Only he doesn't, so I do. I take Randall by his shirt to hold him, because his cold skin and snapping teeth gets dangerously close to Glenn's throat, but the dead boy swings around and takes my arm in his grip - it gets tighter when he realises he's holding something warm and that's struggling against him, his white eyes swirling towards me instead. I struggle to get my left hand high enough to shoot him where it'll count, because if I hit his chest or anything lower then I'll be wasting bullets and he'll be too busy biting into my flesh to care if I'm shooting him or not. He opens his mouth, pale blue lips stretching into a smile and about to take a large chunk of my wrist when an arrow slices through his left eyeball and his grip tightens for a split second before he collapses. I stand with my arm still held out as if he hasn't fallen, but I turn my head towards Daryl with my mouth hanging open.

It was a very, very narrow shot that he had. If he had gone slightly left, I'd be the one with an arrow sitting in my socket.

"You knew you'd make that shot, right?" I ask slowly.

He lowers the crossbow, and I see a a small amount of hesitation flit across his features before he nods. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" I repeat. "That doesn't sound like you knew-..."

"I got 'im, didn't I?" he barks, bending down to roll the dead boy onto his back. He plucks the arrow from Randall's skull with a sickening squelch, wiping blood and who-knows-what onto his pants.

"Oh yeah, you definitely got him," I mutter, bending down beside him. I smile at him and say, "Thank you, Daryl."

He ducks his head, seeming shy - I shamelessly delight in seeing a very deep scarlet spreading along his cheeks, knowing I caused that. It gives me a weird giddy sensation, and I want to do it again, although only then do I realise Glenn is still behind us. He bends down too, and gulps when he looks at the gooey liquid leaking from Randall's empty socket. The dead boy's skin glows eerily blue from the glow of Daryl's flashlight, and the hunter himself bends down to twist his head at all angles. He studies him carefully, even touching his cold skin. I shudder, from the chill and the fog and the dead boy.

"Got his neck broke," Daryl mutters in his gravelly voice. "He's got no bites."

"Yeah, none you can see," Glenn replies.

"No, I'm tellin' you, he died from this," Daryl insists, shining the flashlight at Randall's bruised neck.

"How is that possible?"

Daryl holds my gaze for a handful of seconds before he turns and heads towards the house, and Glenn bolts after him. I stare down at Randall a little bit longer. He still seems young, even in death, baby skin turning blue. In the distance I hear Daryl hollering for me - or rather, hissing, because a Biter could always be lurking where we can't see them. I bend down and close Randall's eyes before rushing after Daryl and Glenn. They wait for me and together we walk towards the house, and I worry about Rick. I worry about him being in a forest with somebody who supposedly gets jumped by dead boys with broken necks. I see the fog rolling from the forest and hope Rick isn't lost in it, because I glimpse the graveyard across the farm and worry Maggie will be finding another empty jar to place on the freshly dug dirt of a new grave - or possibly two jars, because I just get that feeling in my gut.

The group in the house guide us into the warmth and Hershel brings me a blanket because my skin is colder than Randall's was, and Daryl calmly tells them what we found, hovering by my shoulder. Andrea stands with her arms crossed, hugging herself, when she asks hopefully, "Well, that's good, isn't it? If he's not in the woods, then we don't have anything to worry about."

Daryl stares at the darkness of the forest, the trees dancing in the breeze. "Nah, it don't mean nothin'. We got stuff to worry 'bout. It just ain't that boy anymore."

II

I hear a shot from where I sit at the porch, a pure echo that rings across the farmhouse and rattles me - I sit bolt straight, my spine rigid and eyes prickling for another shot, but nothing follows. The screen doors swings, its hinges screeching, and the group huddles around, staring at the empty fields and waiting for something. I was balancing my bottom on the wooden railing of the porch, but Daryl helps me climb off and pulls me towards him, and although he seems calm, I get a glimpse of something foreign glinting in his eyes - it's fear, something he rarely shows. I know he feels it. He's just better at hiding it. We watch the fields and wait, but we don't know what we're waiting for. The farm during the day is comforting. At night, it's an endless sprawl of nothingness. Even the crickets seem to cry out warnings to us. I expect Tony and Dave's Biter bodies to barrel through in a pick-up, Dave driving and Tony sleazily hollering, well, well, well, where's the co-o-oze?

Instead of this, we see faint stumbling figures by the barn. Mere dots at first, but they're not thirty men - they're more than thirty, more than a hundred, and they're all dead. Their gargling groans drown out the crickets' warnings. They drown out everything.

"Kill the lights," Hershel whispers.

"They might be like the herd on the highway, they might pass us," Glenn hisses hopefully. "Should we just go inside?"

Daryl licks his lips and holds his crossbow closer to his chest. "Unless there's a tunnel downstairs that I don't know about, a herd that size will rip the house down."

The countdown in my head blares again, Vi's indifferent voice booming, countdown initiated.

Lori appears behind us, frantic and babbling, "Carl's gone, he's gone! He was upstairs, I can't find him anymore! He's supposed to be upstairs, I'm not leaving without my boy!"

"We're not, we're gonna look again, we're gonna find him!" Carol tells her, taking her hand and leading her indoors. Daryl paces a little bit, a burst of adrenaline spiking through him, his boots pounding against the porch. Andrea grabs the bag of guns and doles them out between us all. I feel the cool metal of a rifle against my clammy palms and swallow a rising lump in my throat, looking out at all those figures still stumbling towards the house. Hershel isn't willing to run. He's not willing to even consider it, giving Daryl a cool glare and grabbing a gun.

"We have guns, we have cars," he tells Daryl.

"Kill as many as we can," Andrea agrees. "Use the cars to drive the rest of them off the farm."

"You serious?" Daryl asks.

"This is my farm," Hershel growls. "I'll die here.

Daryl looks at me, judging whether I'm willing or not. I make it easy for him. "I was gettin' rusty anyway."

He shrugs his shoulders and mutters, "Alright. Tonight's as good a night as any."

The first time I shoot a sniper rifle is on Hershel's porch, and I figure I'm not that bad at it - although the recoil makes it bounce hard against my shoulder, probably bruising the skin beneath my shirt. I crouch at the railing to balance the rifle, inwardly counting the closest Biters. The thing is, before the Walkers, before all of this, I'd never shot a gun. I'd never even thought about it. I didn't like guns much, and I couldn't tell you a thing about them, either, but if it shoots and I hit Biters, then I don't give a damn about anything else. I've got a good shot. A handful of headshots, and maybe a few misses. Whenever a bullet hits anywhere but the brain of a Biter, I curse myself. I aim again. Most of the time, I don't miss twice. At a long range, Biters aren't always that difficult to shoot unless they're running for somebody - if they're wandering, they're slow and dumb. They bump against each other. You shoot one, and the one behind it trips over the body. Fish in a barrel.

I didn't like thinking about how hard it'd be to shoot somebody living. I just keep shooting.

Daryl gets on Merle's old motorcycle in the hopes of leading them away, and the Biters stumble after the growling engine with hunger burning in their white eyes. I aim for one of them standing by the fence, who could easily reach for Daryl's arm and rip him off, and he's too busy glancing behind to ensure they're all following to see him. He's an ugly Biter too, missing half his face and with rotting skin melting from his arms. I hit him through the temple when he turns sideways to shuffle towards Daryl. Daryl crushes his skull beneath the motorcycle and keeps driving. It makes me smile.

"Didn't take you for a sniper," Hershel grumbles beside me, glancing downwards before taking out two Biters himself with one bullet.

"I could say the same for you, Hershel," I tease. "Besides, it takes practice. Lord knows I've had plenty."

He frowns at that, but turns his focus on shooting another Biter instead. I spot a blaze burning down by the fence and realise it's the barn on fire right after Hershel does, surprising me when he curses profusely beneath his breath and shoots another Biter in frustration - personally speaking, I can't say I'm all that sad to see the barn burning when it's brought nothing but misery. I press my left eye against the scope and shoot one Biter stumbling away from the fire, probably towards the house. If they get close to the fence, I get itchy - I count one, two, three to steady my aim before a bullet slices through the forehead of a female Biter, and she falls against the field. I aim for another, but it falls too. Then another falls. It's all Andrea, and I must say I'm impressed by her aim. She's gotten much better. I'm just glad she wasn't that good the day Daryl came stumbling out of the forest or she wouldn't be in that truck, she'd be beneath the dirt they're driving across in wild circles, and I'd have put her there.

A Biter on fire stumbles from the barn, but I don't shoot it. Its flesh falls away in the flames, its skull peeking through. It collapses by itself, and it doesn't get up again.

When the fence falls from the weight of the Biters, I don't get to count one, two, three before I aim. I either take the shot or that Biter gets a step closer to the house, to my friends driving around and struggling to shoot them, and instead of counting to steady my aim, I count falling bodies. I get to ten and aim for another Biter getting dangerously close to Daryl, her skinless fingers trying to catch his arm - he's looking the other way, obviously aiming for another Biter, and when I pull the trigger all I hear is click. I do it again even though I know I'm all out of ammo, and I hear nothing but click, click, click.

I grab a gun from the bag Andrea left behind, checking it for bullets when Hershel runs from the porch and I hear him shooting again - crying out at the Biters, blaming them for his barn burning and his home being held hostage like this, and I struggle to bolt after him. Behind us, I hear Lori screaming and turn towards her. She's motioning for us to follow her, screeching, "Maisie, Hershel, we gotta go!"

"They're still comin', Hershel. We don't have the ammo for this," I shout. He hears me, I know he does. He turns towards me and surprises me by aiming his gun at me, and I scrunch my eyes tightly at the sudden pop that crackles right by my ear - there's a squirt of blood that soaks my arm and I realise a Biter had been that close to biting me when it collapses by my feet.

"I had the ammo for that, and I have the ammo for this," he roars, aiming for a row of Biters stumbling towards us. "I ain't leavin' this house, Maisie! I'll die here!"

"Then I'll die with you, because I ain't leavin' you behind, Hershel!"

"This shouldn't be happening to you," he hisses, but I hear him. "This shouldn't be happening at all! This is my home!"

I tug his arm, but he shoves me away and shoots again. I'm afraid of staying put, when there are more Biters than I've ever seen in one place stumbling towards us. I hear their gargles, their groans. I find my hands are shaking, sweat making it hard to hold the gun properly, and still I plead with Hershel, "I know what it's like to lose your home, Hershel, I do - you know that I do, but this was always goin' to be temporary - but what is permanent are your daughters, Hershel, they matter more than a damn farm! You want to die here? Fine! But do it knowin' you're leavin' them behind for a bunch of wood and land!"

He backs away slowly, but he doesn't stop shooting. I shoot too, walking backwards with him and feeling my breath getting short - it's the same thing that happened in the bar, my chest getting tight and my throat dry. I hear hyena laughter, so loud that I actually look around for it, for a firing squad taking aim. I convince myself, in all of this chaos, that I'm at Fineshrine again - I even forget that it's Hershel shooting and not a stranger, because I flinch at every cracking shot before I trip over the body of a Biter. I crawl away from it in surprise and it lifts its head, a gunshot showing somebody had shot it but only skimmed its left ear, which swings when it cranes its neck to see me. Cold hands grab at my ankle, tugging me towards its snapping teeth. I scramble for my gun, which fell from my hands, and before I can even aim its head is blown clean off.

Hands swoop beneath my arms and haul me to my feet, and in my ear that rings from the echo of the bullet, I hear Rick repeating, "I got you, it's alright, I got you Maisie - c'mon now Maze, you gotta stand up for me, we gotta go!"

He shoots a Biter about to take a bite from Hershel's shoulder and says the same thing to the old man, who turns to stare at him with tears in his eyes. I wrap my arms around Rick and hold him tight, whispering, "I'm so glad you're alive, Rick-..."

He smiles and replies, "I'm glad you're alive too, Maze, but we won't be much longer if we don't go now! Hershel, come on! Have you seen Lori?"

"It's like a plague," Hershel groans. "They just keep comin'..."

"Lori!" Rick repeats, almost roaring. "Have you seen Lori?!"

"She was on the porch earlier, I-I think she ran with Patricia and the other women-..." I tell him in a rushed babble, because he's already hauling us away from the Biters. "Have you seen Daryl?"

"It's my farm," Hershel whispers, watching the Biters stumble towards his house.

"I haven't seen him," Rick says, and he's quick to tighten his grip on my arm when I turn towards the farm again, "Maisie - Maisie, no, you run out there lookin' for him and it's suicide, alright? We'll find him, I promise, we will - but we gotta go now, you understand?"

I don't want to understand. I want to scream at him, scream at the Biters for spoiling it all, throw a tantrum - but I do understand. He knows I do. It isn't the first time I've had to abandon a home, even though I tried hard not to call the farm 'home' because there it was, in front of us all, collapsing beneath the weight of a hundred dead bodies blindly bashing against it. Without even touching him, they crush Hershel too. After we clamber into the car and Rick revs the engine, I take his hand and hold it tight, almost crushing his bones. I watch him, the tears trailing along his cheek as he cries for what he's lost, and I wonder what I've lost too. I don't see Daryl, don't hear the hum of his motorcycle or get a glimpse of a crossbow glinting in the sea of corpses trailing after the car.

"A panic attack," Hershel whispers.

I glance at him in surprise. "What?"

"That's what you had at the bar, and it was what you were having there too," he repeats tiredly. "It's called a panic attack. I used to get 'em when I was a boy and my father - my father came home."

"How'd you stop havin' them?"

"He beat me black and blue with a belt until I got numb to it, I guess," he murmurs softly. "I just - I thought you should know about them."

I nod slowly and turn away, staring into the dark depths of the forest. We stay silent for a while, and Rick occasionally asks if we're alright. I think he does it to reassure himself more than us, but when he asks, Hershel doesn't even nod - he does nothing, until we've been driving about fifteen minutes and he turns towards me and quietly whispers, "You said it was always going to be temporary. Did you really believe that? Did you...Did you expect this?"

Rick's eyes glint when he glances behind to watch us. I lick my lips and look at Hershel, still holding his hand. I want to be gentle with him. I want to tell him, no, sir, I didn't. Only I'm a lousy liar when it comes to somebody I care about, and I care about Hershel enough that it makes me not want to lie to him either. So I squeeze his hand and say, "Yeah."

III

There's something about not-knowing. It was the same with Sophia. She was in that barn, and we didn't know about it. We trudged through mud and blood and Biters to find her, when all along she was in that barn, milky-white pearls glimpsing us through slits in the wood, probably wondering what all the fuss was about and wishing she could gnaw on her own mother's arm - if Carol had known that she was in the barn, if we had known - but we didn't. Daryl got shot for her. I almost died in dirty pond water after being pulled in fighting off a Biter. I had cried for her. I still cried for her, some nights. It was an ache in my chest for her that I never thought would fade away, and I'd probably keep on crying for her. That was the difference, though: I knew what had happened to Sophia, but not what had happened to Daryl. We ramble onward through dirt roads dotted with the odd Biter or two, 'til we find that old familiar highway and I clamber from the car to sit on the bonnet of another one, bitterly glaring at the ground. I figure if he made it, he'll think like Rick and drive for the highway. I also figure if he didn't make it, then I should've died on that farm too. I'm thinking dark thoughts when I hear sneakers scuffing the gravel and then a huff from Carl who stands beside me on my right, and he just scowls and crosses his arms over his chest. I reckon he's thinking dark thoughts too because of how he occasionally glances upwards to glare at Rick. He realises I'm watching him, and scowls even more.

"What're you lookin' at?" he grumbles.

He looks at me from beneath his lashes, like he's afraid I'll scold him. I don't. Instead, I snort. "A moody little kid lookin' for a fight because he's feelin' angry, apparently."

"Yeah, well, I got a right!" he snaps. "Dad won't even go back to the farm for Mom!"

"How do you know she's there?" I ask him calmly, inwardly amused by how Carl throws his hands in the air like it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard.

"Where else would she be if she isn't there, huh?"

I shrug. "You're right, she must be at the farm then."

He glares. "It's not funny."

"Do I look like I'm laughin'? Listen, your Mom isn't at the farm, Carl."

"How would you know that?"

"Because she's got you," I tell him seriously, looking him straight in the eye. "And she's got your Dad, and she was lookin' for you both before we left anyway. She's not stupid, Carl. She's smart, and she's a survivor, and most of all she's your Mom. You don't know what mothers will do for their babies. She made it off that farm, I'm tellin' you."

His scowl gets a little less intense, and he straightens. After shifting around a little, he hesitantly asks, "Are you - Are you worried about Daryl?"

"Yeah, I am," I nod. "Terrified, actually."

"If it makes you feel better, I think he made it too," he says quietly.

I smile at him. "You do?"

He nods, looking a little braver. "Yeah. He's not, like - a Mom or anythin', not like my Mom, but he's pretty good at survivin'. I think if anybody made it, he did."

I laugh and put my arm around his shoulder, bringing him closer to me even though he tries staying mad and squirming - but he lets me hug him, and I think he's comforted it by it. "Well, you sure are right about the Mom thing - but thank you, Carl."

A hand touches his shoulder, and for a moment I get ready to fight another Biter, but then I realise it's Rick holding a finger in front of his mouth to make us stay silent. We follow his gaze, looking at a Biter stumbling towards us. He's alone, wandering the highway, gurgling softly to himself. Rick pushes us against the car before he can spot us, and I feel Hershel behind me, holding his gun. We walk around our car, keeping low and looking at him through the dusty windows, but he doesn't see us and wanders away.

"I don't know how much longer we can stay here," Hershel hisses.

"I'm not leavin' without Mom," Carl tells his father firmly.

"I'm not leavin' without Daryl either," I add.

"So we're just gonna walk away?" Rick whispers furiously at Hershel. "Not knowin' if my wife - Daryl - your girls - are still out there? How can we live with that?"

"You've already got one concern, just one," Hershel replies. "Keeping him alive. Nature may be throwin' us a curveball, but that law is still true."

"I could wait here," I offer. "I'll be fine by myself, we could meet somewhere we all know later on when everybody arrives." I say when everybody arrives, because I can't bring myself to say if anybody arrives.

"No, no, we ain't splittin' up," Rick hisses firmly, shaking his head. Rick turns to his son, bending down to his level. "Carl, it's not safe here. I'm sorry. We'll-..."

He's cut off by a humming that has my heart thumping, quickly bursting from our hiding spot at the car, climbing onto a bonnet and holding my hands over my eyes. I see a silhouette - two of them - on Merle's old motorcycle and a sudden sob bursts from my mouth without my permission. I quickly climb down, darting around the car and rushing towards the sound, ignoring Rick's hissed warnings of be careful, Maisie! When he climbs off the motorcycle, I damn near tackle him, crushing him in a hug. He lifts me, burying his face into the crook of my neck and spinning me around once, making me laugh at the butterflies fluttering in my tummy. I see Carol behind him, and a car driving towards us, and I can't stop my crying because it isn't Fineshrine after all.

"You're alright," I whisper hoarsely, pressing myself against his skin. I hold his face in my hands, checking he's really alright, that he isn't cut or hurt or anything. I feel how warm his skin is and realise he's blushing, tensing at all this touching - Daryl never got much affection in his life, and when he does get it, he never knows what to do with it. "God, Daryl, I thought you-..."

"I thought you had too," he interrupts before I can say the words I was already struggling with. "I saw the house burnin', all those Biters-..."

"I froze," I tell him in a whisper. "I just froze up - Hershel said I had a panic attack or somethin'. I've had one before, I just didn't know what it was and I almost got bit - Rick saved my life."

At those words, Daryl finds the Sheriff standing close to us and lets go me of long enough to shake Rick's hand and bump chests in a macho ritual of sorts, before he mutters a gruff thanks that Rick humbly shrugs off. I hug Carol and she kisses my cheek, wiping away tears. We're laughing and holding each other tight, spinning in slow circles. I don't think I've ever been this happy in my life to be stranded on a highway with Biters nearby, without shelter or food, but all I keep thinking is as long as I have them, I'm fine. If I'm not fine now, I will be, because of them. Maggie and Glenn emerge from their car, and I surprise them both by hugging them both at the same time - Glenn laughs and looks at her, saying, "I told you she grows on you eventually." I thump his shoulder, and he winces. "Emphasis on the eventually part."

IV

We count our losses in quiet contemplation; Beth cries softly for Jimmy and Patricia, and T-Dog gets real quiet when he realises he was the last to see Andrea, and Shane - well, I suppose Lori mourns for him, but she doesn't show it with Rick around. I just see how her gaze drifts off to distant places in her mind that I can't see, and I notice how tightly she clutches Carl against her when we pile into cars. I feel clingy when it comes to Daryl. I'm afraid of being apart from him, and he feels the same, always watching for another herd that might tear us away from one another. Beth grips her Daddy's arm tight and Maggie doesn't glance away from Glenn for more than a minute, and even then she feels that's too long because she latches onto him after a brief moment of him straying away in order to speak with Rick. When it comes to separating into cars, everybody feels clingy. I stand by the motorcycle, and Rick walks along deciding who gets into what car and who leads - he tells Daryl to lead the line, patting his shoulder when he passes. I climb on, clutching his waist, and even when we're rumbling along roads I've never seen, I glance behind and count the cars. I worry if I don't, they'll disappear.

When Rick slows, I tell Daryl, who nods and pulls in at the side of a road. We're all afraid. Afraid of everything, of letting anybody stray far from the rest, of how we're without shelter, of how little gas we've got and how Rick looks worried. When Daryl brings up Randall, Rick looks plain mad.

"His neck was broken, Rick," Daryl explains solemnly. "He weren't bit by nothin'."

"How is that possible?" Beth asks, sweet eyes wide and watching everybody, waiting for an answer.

"Rick, what the Hell happened?" Lori frowns.

"Shane killed Randall," Daryl states. "Just like he always wanted to."

"And then the herd got him?" Lori asks, her voice wavering.

"We're all infected," Rick whispers.

He takes a step backwards, distancing himself from us after all his words about sticking together, but he doesn't seem to realise he's doing it. A bead of sweat trails along his brow. I watch it trickle and blend into his skin. I hear his words without really understanding them. Infected. That was what that voice straining through the static had said, back when we still had radio and this whole thing was just a strange virus, and I remember the warnings that had scared us all. Increasing reports of the infection spreading also increase many inaccurate rumours... however, the CDC has begun working on a cure that is expected to be released within the next few days following very positive results. That was a lie, and it hits me then, what Rick is saying. There wasn't a cure because there wasn't anything to fight against - it was not a cancer, not a foreign disease spreading. It was always in us, lying dormant, this disease of a different sort entirely.

We're all terminal.

"At the CDC, Jenner told me," Rick explains quietly. Apologetically. Like he caused it all and he's sorry for it, but he can't cure it either. "Whatever it is, we all carry it."

Daryl holds in his anger, but his lips tremble like he wants to scream or shout. He's good at smothering it, better than Merle was, that's for sure. Only he circles Rick like a vulture waiting to strike, tightening his grip on his crossbow and glaring at him. Carol steps forward, surprising us all with her fierce stare. "And you never said anything?" she accuses Rick, practically spitting at him.

"Would it have made a difference?"

"You knew this whole time," Glenn whispers.

"How could I have known for sure? You saw how crazy that ma-..."

"That is not your call!" Glenn hisses. "Okay, when I found out about the Walkers in the barn, I told for the good of everyone!"

"Well, I thought it best if people didn't know," Rick replies, and I see a spark of anger. With his skin still stained with the blood of Biters, it makes me wary of him. I don't think he'd hurt me, not for a second. I'm just naturally nervous of such anger burning in somebody, because it's bound to explode eventually. It reminds me of Daryl trying to reign in his temper, because Rick's jaw grinds and he stares at the ground instead of at their accusing stares. I suppose he isn't quite good at getting himself entirely collected, because he spins around and marches off.

Without him, Daryl takes charge. He orders Glenn and Maggie to find wood for a fire, tells me to gather everybody in this small walled-off area, and for the rest of the night he tries watching everybody while tending to the fire. Embers float in the cold air, and I sit shivering - Maggie brings me a coat, a large one I can bury myself in, and I repeatedly thank her. I sit at Daryl's left, and Carol at his right, and when she leans forward she whispers, "We're not safe with him. Keeping something like that from us."

"He saved my life today," I mutter through chattering teeth. "I feel pretty darn safe with him."

She ignores me, obviously a bit irritated that I don't immediately agree with her. She watches Daryl instead and asks, "Why do you need him? He's just gonna pull you down."

"Naw," Daryl grumbles in his gravelly voice, shaking his head. "Rick's done alright by me."

"You're his henchman," she huffs. "And I'm a burden. You deserve better."

"What do you want?"

"A man of honour."

I glare, and Daryl tells her with utter certainty, "Rick's got honour."

"I say we should take our chances," Maggie mutters.

"Don't be foolish - without food, no gas, no ammo," Hershel dismisses instantly.

"I can't believe I'm hearin' this," I hiss. "After all that man has done for you? He - He sacrificed himself for your father, Maggie, when he went into the town to bring him home for you. He tried findin' Sophia, Carol. He did everythin' he could, everythin'. What does it matter what Jenner said? It doesn't make a damn difference whether we're all infected or not - we'll die anyway. We're not immortal. We weren't before, and we aren't now. Just hope somebody shoots you in the head before you become a Biter, which is all I'll ever ask for. No wonder Rick didn't tell anybody, when you're all ready to stab a man in the back for somethin' trivial-..."

"It's not like that, Maisie," Maggie mumbles, cheeks burning. "This is not trivial! It's huge, it's our lives-..."

"Lives that Rick saved - again and again!" I growl angrily.

In my anger, I don't hear anything until Beth whispers, "What was that?"

Daryl stands, and we all sit like statues. "Could be anythin'. Could be a raccoon, could be a possum, a Walker..."

"We need to leave," Carol says shakily. I roll my eyes, glaring at the embers of the fire flickering between us all. "What are we waiting for?"

"Which way?" Glenn asks nervously.

"It came from over there," Maggie nods, nudging Glenn towards an opening in the woodlands surrounding us.

"Last thing we need is for everybody to go wanderin' off in the dark," Rick growls, emerging from behind the wall. It's hard to see him without any light, but I can tell he's scowling. Carl got his scowl from his father, that's for sure. "We don't have the vehicles, no one's travellin' on foot."

"Don't panic," Hershel hisses to his daughters.

"I'm not," Maggie growls. "I'm not stayin' here and waitin' for another herd to walk through - we need to move now!"

"No one is goin' anywhere!" Rick snarls. He steps closer, and his skin glows in the firelight, casting an eerie shadow where the blood still stains his skin. I see this anger in his eyes. It makes me glance at Daryl, who nods reassuringly at me, because he's not afraid of Rick and he trusts him. I do too. I just know what anger does to somebody. Even somebody like Rick.

"Do something!" Carol hisses.

"What are you doin', Carol?" I snort. Her head snaps towards me, eyes hurt, but I figure she has to hear it. "You can't keep dependin' on everybody else to do somethin', why don't you try?"

"I'm keepin' this group together," Rick cries out in frustration. "Alive! I've been doin' that all along, no matter what! I didn't ask for this! I killed my best friend for you people, for Christ's sake!" I hold my breath, staring at him. He never said he killed Shane. He realises his words and shifts his weight, eyes darting around at each of us, and I think he's like a rabbit. I shake that thought away, and focus on the man I trust instead. He continues, "You saw what he was like. How he pushed me, how he compromised us, how he threatened us! He staged the whole Randall thing, led me out to put a bullet in my back, he gave me no choice! He was my friend, but he came after me!"

Carl starts crying, and his mother clutches him against her chest. Daryl stands behind me, but I sense him. Sense his quiet thinking, how he holds his tongue and thinks about Rick's words, and I worry the rest of them won't do the same. Rick hisses, "My hands are clean!"

In my mind, I see Dave slouching in his seat, still at the bar and pouring himself a drink. He laughs and shakes his head before he says, ain't nobody's hands clean in what's left of this world. Tony laughs with him.

"Maybe you people are better off without me," Rick states. "Go ahead. I say there's a place for us, but maybe - maybe it's just another pipe dream. Maybe I'm foolin' myself again! Why don't you go and find out yourself! Send me a postcard! Go on, there's the door! If you can do better, let's see how far you get! No takers? Fine. But get one thing straight - if you're stayin', then this isn't a democracy anymore."

He leaves us lost in his words. The ghosts of Dave and Tony laugh louder, and I see Jenner too, with Jacqui beside him again, Jim pale and panting. They laugh at us all too. Why didn't you tell us where that farm was? Dave asks. Tony nods, I just wanted some fine, hot cooze and all I got was a bullet in the head - hey, that'd make a good shirt, wouldn't it Dave? Jenner murmurs thoughtfully, after all these years, our instinct is the same as that of our ancestors - survival. In all of this, the indifferent voice of Vi booms the loudest: Countdown complete.