All That Remains

Chapter Five

Here we are again, this time with chapter five. Thanks for all the follows, favorites and reviews as always. Feedback is a wonderful motivator, so leave me a review and let me know how you like it! And to Carrot Top, my lovely beta: Thank you!

Daryl's bedroom door opened with a squeak and Merle filed out followed by Officer Benson, both looking confused and frustrated. Merle opened his mouth to say something else when he spotted Daryl standing in the middle of the empty living room. His eyes lit up immediately with warm recognition.

"Hey, hey Darylina!" Merle said with what was supposed to be a joking smack to Daryl's ribs. Daryl jumped back at the contact to his bruised ribs and had to bite his cheek to keep from yelling at Merle for it. Doing that would give away the injury. Who knew what Merle's reaction would be if he had real, physical evidence that what he'd always suspected was true – that Will didn't spare the rod, or belt, or whatever was lying around handy enough to beat the tar out of his boys with.

Merle and Will had beat each other down to the point of serious injury. Daryl knew that because he had witnessed it himself, crouching before the keyhole in his room or from the corner of the same room. Daryl supposed that Merle thought of himself as the strong brother and Daryl the weak one – and maybe he was right in a way. Was Daryl weak because he took the beatings and kept it to himself while Merle almost boasted about it, claiming it was part of what had made him so tough? Whether it was or not, letting Merle in on that particular horror didn't sound very smart. Sure, Daryl's hatred of Will burned so hot it could probably boil someone or something alive – but he didn't wish him dead. Not that he thought Merle would turn literally murderous, but when he was using that stupid crystal shit there wasn't too much Daryl would put past him. So he swallowed the painful yelp he almost let loose in silence.

Merle eyes turned cloudy as he watched Daryl's reaction, although it lasted only a fraction of a second. Daryl watched as Merle took in the dried blood in his hairline, piecing things together. Had he been someone else's brother he might have said something, but Merle was Merle and so he said nothing; just gritted his teeth until the darkness behind his eyes disappeared.

Daryl noticed a new hollowness to Merle's cheeks and how pale he had become over the last few days. Guess that's what happens when you're in jail and can't get any dope. Nevertheless, that trademark mischievous grin had found its way onto Merle's face again in spite of the events of the week. "What the hell happened here?" Merle asked, gesturing around him at the empty house and debris strewn floors. "I don't even wanna guess."

"Really don't know for sure," answered Daryl carefully, peering over at Officer Benson and hoping Merle would understand what he shouldn't say. Moonshine. All their furniture – the only somewhat valuable things they had left – was gone so Will could play at making moonshine. He probably wouldn't even sell it. He'd drink it all and then complain when it was gone.

Merle gave a dark little chuckle, seeming to understand – at least in part. "Without me this whole place falls apart, huh?" His tone and expression were genial, but the tiniest hint of spite hid behind his words.

All Daryl could do was stare at him. Daryl wanted Merle to be back, needed Merle to be back, but no way was Merle's police escort the makings of a new friendship. He wasn't coming home.

Officer Benson cleared his throat, "C'mon, Merle. It's time to go. We can make you another I.D. at the station. Don't know why I didn't think of it before." Benson had been in the house before – multiple occasions actually – and had seen firsthand the kind of life the Dixon boys were subject to. If Daryl didn't know any better, he would have thought Benson brought Merle by purposely to see him one last time.

"What's goin' on?" Daryl finally asked, shaking his head in confusion. "Why are you here? I thought you were goin' away."

"I am. Just not where ya think," Merle answered cryptically. "Benson here thinks I'm a stand-up guy!" He looked so pleased with himself. That shit eating grin had appeared on his face again. "Made me a deal with Uncle Sam. Goin' to the Army 'stead of jail. Pretty sweet deal, dontcha think?"

Daryl chewed his thumb, a nervous habit he'd had so long he couldn't trace its origins, staring at the place where the rough floorboards met with the disintegrating kitchen linoleum. An ugly pattern of browns and rusts against splintering hardwood "I guess," he mumbled and kicked at some broken shards of glass on the floor.

"Hey!" said Merle sharply with a finger pointed at Daryl's chest. "I came back to tell ya where I was goin' so it wouldn't look like I just left! Now yer actin' like some bitch havin' mood swings. Cut that shit out!"

Daryl simply nodded. No reason to argue with Merle this time. This would be the last Daryl would see of Merle for a while. He didn't know how all that military shit worked, but he knew Merle would be gone – just gone – like he would have been anyway. It didn't matter where he was going, Daryl's protector would not be here. The skill of fending for himself would need to be honed in Merle's absence. Maybe he'd get so tough he wouldn't even need Merle when he returned.

"Well, kick some ass, I guess" Daryl said awkwardly. He didn't really want to say the actual word 'goodbye'. Neither one of them was the type for that sort of thing.

"Stay clear the ol' man," Merle told Daryl, turning to leave with Officer Benson, who nodded curtly.

It was with those words and the way his brow furrowed as if he were struggling internally with something that Daryl knew that Merle knew. Knew, but somehow the "badass" that was Merle was unable to even ask Daryl what was wrong – to question his bloody brow and sensitive ribs – like it would break some important code amongst men or some bullshit like that.

Angry as he was at this, "Mm-hmm," was Daryl's only response. He didn't see the point in starting a fight that obviously neither one of them were ready to have. Merle rapped twice on the door frame and then he was out the door and Daryl stood alone in the vacant room. He heard two car doors slamming shut and knew Merle was gone for good. No way to stop him.

A distant rumbling signaled an impending storm, wind whipping the tree branches around with impressive force. Daryl stood silently, noticing again how broken down the house had become over the years. It was strange how the complete lack of things could cause Daryl to feel so confined, suffocated even. Every beating he had ever taken came back at him now. Three times in the kitchen, once in the bathroom, too many to count where he now stood in the living room. There were so many more and the memory of them clawed at him, threatening to overtake him. Evidence of these beatings seemed to burn unbidden at the thought. His back bore the brunt of Will's anger, showcasing a variety of jagged scars, from the tiniest and shallowest to more broad lashes where his skin buckled. Daryl felt like sinking into the floor and crying, something he hadn't allowed himself to do for some time.

For some reason he peered through stinging eyes over his shoulder and was met with the picture of the barn done all in shades of brown.

Jo. The farm. What kind of life would he be living if that was where he were being brought up? If he'd had Jo for a momma instead of his own? Even Hershel would probably have been a better daddy, despite his clear misuse of drink, just like his own father. Merle would laugh, but Daryl could see himself being perfectly content living life quietly – safely – on a farm like Jo's. Life here would never get better, only worse. He'd end up like Merle or worse, maybe end up a beer-bellied good-for-nothing like Will. But if Daryl could change all that – could do something to change his lot in life – Jesus, he'd do it. He'd give anything to get away from this endless disappointment that was his life.

The thought of a different, possibly even happy existence, overcame the feelings he'd had a moment ago of sinking into the floor and giving in. Things were going to start looking up for him and he knew just where to begin.

He knew exactly where Will kept a pack ready for hunting trips. It would have everything he needed just in case he got lost again. If Daryl remembered right, the pack even had a bit of food in it, some homemade jerky of Uncle Jess'. This was a mission and Daryl had a clear objective. There would be no rambling around in the woods with no purpose like last time.

Daryl considered himself lucky for once, marching purposefully down the worn path he knew so well. He'd found the county map in the same closet as the pack, shoved far back on a shelf. Will had had his back turned, radio on and sitting on the ground tinkering with the still in the shed, when Daryl had snuck around the back towards the trees. He'd not heard Daryl nor Merle and Officer Benson come and go. A little pile of beer cans just outside the shed door was all that Daryl needed to see to understand why. That red-eyed dog had done just as Will said: it was sound asleep, chained up to the dog house Merle had made out of plywood beneath the plum tree. The small red fruit lay unwanted and rotting all around the slumbering mutt. Hornets buzzed greedily around them, sucking up as much of the sticky sweet juice as their little insect bodies could carry.

The map had been a huge win, but the hunting pack had everything else he needed. There was a flashlight, canteen, several strips of Uncle Jess's homemade jerky, a silver tarp, a ragged powder blue shirt of Merle's, some rope, a box of matches with only two matches left, and best of all: a half pack of stale cigarettes. Merle had stuffed one in his mouth and lit it before he could decline while they were on a hunting trip last year. Said it was about time that Daryl had one. Even Daryl had to admit that when everyone around him was smoking, it was hard not to be curious about it. He now only smoked when he found a cigarette, which wasn't often, or when a generous streak hit Merle just right. Dixon men guarded their smokes like a national treasure.

He placed a cigarette between his lips, pulled a match out from the pack, lit it and inhaled. The sudden rush of nicotine to his system caused Daryl's head to spin. It had been a good while since he'd had a smoke. He couldn't help but sputter a bit and was relieved that no one was around to see him struggle with it.

Daryl allowed a hint of a smile to cross his face at the sense of freedom he now felt. In just a few hours he would be at Jo's farm – doing what he didn't know yet – and would be more at peace he just knew. Maybe he'd just be a runaway and never go back home. Daryl didn't want to get that far ahead of himself and resolved to think only about the immediate plan: get to the farm.

He slung the brown canvas pack to the ground beside a clump of umbrella-like may apples, took one last draw on his smoke before casting it away, and carefully extracted the map from a side pocket. It was worn with so much use that several small holes had appeared where the map had been folded over and over. Starr's Millpond was just to the north of his house, so it was easy to figure out his location in a roundabout way. Daryl drug his fore finger along the tattered paper, settling himself Indian style on the dirt and tried to guess as best he could how far a walk it was to the farm. He grumbled to himself when he realized that the creek he had followed almost directly to Jo's was nowhere to be found on the map. Of course, it couldn't have been that simple for him – nothing ever was.

Closing his eyes, Daryl tried to remember which way he had gone to get lost last time. Did he veer too far to the left or to the right? Had there been any recognizable landmarks?

Daryl opened his eyes and looked pointedly at the matching red marks on the inside of his arms with a frown, remembering his failed attempt to scale a tree to scout out his location on his most recent trip into the woods. No, there had been no landmarks besides the creek. But hadn't the stream led him in the direction of the farm more or less?

He exhaled heavily through his nose, turning the map away from him. Maybe the map was just him overthinking. Maybe this whole thing was just stupid. Merle's favorite saying drifted to the forefront of Daryl's mind, "Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you but me, little brother."

No. Jo cared. And this was the only way to escape, to get out. He wasn't going to chicken out now just because the map didn't have a big flashing red arrow that pointed to the farm's exact location. Merle's ghost – or whatever it was – would not deter him from getting this done.

After a few more moments of studying the map, Daryl came to the conclusion that the farm was no more than five miles southwest of where he was now. Another cigarette was lit, the map folded carefully away, the pack pulled back up on his shoulder. Daryl was off to the farm like it was some predetermined journey he was always meant to take.

Thank god for the flashlight. Dark had fallen fast with the downcast clouds that had been lingering all day. Somehow it had managed not to rain yet, and for that Daryl was doubly thankful.

He'd found the stream before the sun set and followed it the same way he'd done before. It was just the way of nature he supposed, but Daryl couldn't help thinking that the way the water narrowed down into nothing – disappeared underground – was a little eerie. Merle – being superstitious as he was – would have said it meant something. Probably would have said it was a sign that Daryl should turn around and go back home. Daryl had to scoff at that. If Merle had known what he was up to, he would have used anything to convince Daryl this was a dumb idea. But Merle wasn't here to do that and Daryl was glad of it.

The sounds of the forest in the twilight and then the dark were a great comfort to him. Daryl knew Merle liked to listen to the radio, heavy metal bands and shit like that, but nothing sounded more peaceful to him than the constant quiet noises of the woods. Tree frogs croaking, the whip-poor-will's unmistakable cry and the occasional scurrying away of some small frightened creature was some of the best music Daryl had ever heard.

It had to have been a good thirty minutes or so since Daryl had parted ways with the underwater stream. He had chosen to veer off to the left slightly – if his memory served him right, that's what he had done before. He shone his flashlight across the trees looking for the telltale elderberry bushes that would mean he had almost made it. Two iridescent green orbs floated nearby and Daryl did his best to tread quietly forward and not scare what was probably a deer. This was its home, not his. The forest was a special place for him and he treated it with as much reverence as he knew how.

Daryl was coming upon the edge of the woods. He switched off the flashlight and continued until he was just barely inside the tree line, breathing a sigh of relief at what lay in front of him.

He'd made it. Although he's missed the elderberry bushes, he still made it and was standing much closer to the barn than the house this time. Daryl took a moment to let it sink in, looking at all the little things he'd been too scared to notice last time. There were lots of neat little flower beds around the outside of the house, illuminated by the lights from inside. An old dinner bell stood tall not far from the spot – he remembered embarrassingly – where he'd almost gotten sick. This was an old farm and he could picture some lady of the house from long ago ringing it to call the men in from the fields for lunch or supper.

The light illuminating the many flowers went out suddenly, casting the farm into darkness. Daryl realized with a start that it would be too late to make any attempt at speaking with Jo tonight. Hell, he still didn't have a clue as to explain what he was doing there again. He'd need some time to think of something or way to tell the truth without really telling it.

A low whinnying escaped the great old barn to his right. It would be a nice dry spot to get some shut eye and think of something to tell Jo in the morning. Daryl was sure that Hershel wouldn't remember the strange boy who stared out half petrified of him from inside his own house. Being drunk and then blacking out across the porch planks couldn't have held Hershel's memory intact from that night, so Daryl would have a fresh canvas to work off of as far as Mr. Greene was concerned. He hoped mostly for Jo's sake that he wasn't the type of man that Will was. Daryl couldn't care to imagine Jo living in the same fear and misery his own momma had. Will and Connie Dixon were the great example of a couple that shouldn't be together and Daryl wished hard that it wasn't the same for Jo and Hershel. He didn't know Jo very well – okay, he didn't really know her at all – but he could tell she was a lady that deserved the best the world could offer.

He entered the little enclosure on the side of the barn that housed a tractor and inhaled deeply. It smelled of oil and cool, damp earth packed down from years of tread. Maybe if the sky didn't look so intent on fulfilling the promise of rain it'd had all day this would be a good place to stay. Being in the barn seemed to be a better idea as well if Daryl wanted to remain unseen until he had found a good reason to reveal himself.

Daryl walked through the enclosure, turned a corner and found a ladder that led up to what he thought to be the hay loft. Upon reaching the top, he found the hay loft to be much bigger than he'd originally thought. It was an entire second level of the barn with a multitude of suitable places to settle in for the night. He spotted twenty or so rectangle shaped hay bales on his left in a corner and he immediately set about work making himself a bed out of them. Daryl scooted four bales together and took out Merle's old shirt from his pack, laying it down in a bundle at one end as a makeshift pillow.

This bed would do much better than whatever was left to him at home. Daryl would have been on the floor back there. He laid down carefully on the hay, not wanting to poke himself too hard with the stray pieces that stuck out. Staring up at the barn ceiling, he inhaled deeply again. This time he smelled hay and molasses and something like dirt or dust that he figured was the horses down below, their subtle clicking of hooves and short, heavy exhales of breath giving them away.

The rumbling of thunder that had been lingering all day returned again with some force and then Daryl heard the rain begin to fall in a steady rhythm, pinging against the tin roof of the barn. It was soothing, all these noises and smells that were new but felt so familiar. It was as if someone wrapped him up in a warm blanket after a big meal.

Daryl felt his eyes fall closed and his body unwind and it was one of the best feelings he'd had in a long, long time. Being able to feel his muscles fully relax as he drifted off to sleep was never something he was afforded, even when Merle was home. He always slept with a tension in his body, ready to spring up and flee at any moment. Daryl tried to will his body into staying awake to prolong his enjoyment, this peace, but his body was exhausted. He ignored the stinging, burning in his lungs from smoking cigarettes on top of injured ribs and let the rain lull him to sleep.

As if someone had called his name, Daryl awoke with a start. His eyes snapped open to the glaring early morning sun in his face along with the wrong end of a double-barrel shotgun.

The dark haired man Daryl knew to be Hershel Greene was pointing the gun at his nose, wearing a sour expression.

"Son, you better have a real good reason for being in my barn."