"What are we going to do?" Beth whispered, her voice barely audible.
Daryl's eyes flicked to her, and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don't do anything stupid, his expression said clearly. Beth's heart hammered against her ribs as she stared at the moonshine jar on the table, trying to keep her breathing steady.
"I want you both to turn toward me," the voice said, calm and controlled. "You with the crossbow—put that thing down. Slowly."
Beth and Daryl turned in unison, and she watched as Daryl carefully lowered his crossbow to the floor, his movements deliberate and non-threatening. As they faced their captor, Beth got her first clear look at him.
The man was lean and wiry, with an unkempt beard and dark hair that hung to his neck. His blue polo shirt was faded and dirty, paired with cargo pants and worn boots. But it was his eyes that made Beth's skin crawl. It was sharp, calculating, like he was seeing right through them. The pistol in his hands was held with the confidence of someone who knew how to use it.
"Who are you people?" he asked.
Beth swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. She glanced at Daryl, seeing the tension in his shoulders, and made a decision.
"My name's Beth," she said, her voice only slightly unsteady. She caught Daryl's eye, hoping he could read the message there: Trust me. "And this here is Daryl. Look, we're good people. We don't mean you any harm."
The words came out with a slight stutter, but she forced herself to maintain eye contact. The man studied them both for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. Beth could feel sweat beading on her forehead despite the cool air.
Finally, he spoke again. "I have three questions. I want you both to answer truthfully." His voice carried the weight of authority, like someone used to being obeyed. "First: How many shamblers have you killed? Second: How many people have you killed? Third: What happened to your last group?"
Beth blinked. "Shamblers? You mean the... those dead walking outside? We call them walkers."
The man nodded curtly.
Beth took a shaky breath. "Okay. Um, probably around fifty walkers, but I don't really keep count. For people..." She hesitated, thinking of the prison attack. "I shot at some people who attacked our community. They were with this man called the Governor. I don't know if any of them actually died from my shots, but I was shooting to kill." The admission tasted bitter in her mouth. "And for the third question—that same man, the Governor, he attacked our home. Our group got scattered in the chaos. Me and Daryl are the only ones who ended up together."
The man's attention shifted to Daryl, a silent command to answer.
Daryl's jaw worked for a moment before he spoke. "Walkers? Lost count after the first hundred. People?" His voice went flat. "More than I'd like." Daryl's voice was flat, emotionless. "Some deserved it. Some didn't have a choice. All of 'em were trying to hurt people I cared about." He met the stranger's gaze steadily. "Same story as her about our group. Prison got overrun. Don't know who made it out alive."
The man nodded slowly, then holstered his weapon. "Sorry about holding you both at gunpoint. Had to ask those questions."
"Marcus, right?" Daryl said, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
Marcus nodded.
"Would've done the same thing," Daryl continued. "My last group used the same two questions—well, not the one about groups. But the killing questions, yeah. Good way to know who you're dealing with."
"I suspected as much," Marcus replied.
"How?"
Marcus tilted his head slightly. "Your body language. The way you answered—quick, direct, no hesitation. Most people stumble over the 'how many people' question, try to justify it or make excuses. You just stated facts. That tells me you've had to make those calls before, and you've made peace with them. Also, the way you moved when I first spoke—you didn't panic, didn't try to run. You assessed the situation and complied strategically." He gestured toward Daryl. "Plus, the questions I asked didn't surprise you. You knew what I was looking for."
Marcus walked over to where his bag sat near the sink and retrieved the ID from the floor, tucking it back inside. Beth noticed his movements were economical, and purposeful.
"Are you going somewhere?" she asked.
"CDC," Marcus said without looking at her.
"Why?"
Marcus straightened, his expression closing off. "None of your business."
Beth felt heat rise in her cheeks. She was tired of being dismissed, tired of being treated like a child. "I was just asking—"
"CDC's gone," Daryl interrupted.
Marcus's attention snapped to him. "How?"
"Dr. Jenner. Blew the whole place up with us inside. Almost killed us."
Marcus absorbed this information with barely a flicker of emotion. "I'll still go. See what's left."
"You leaving now?" Beth asked, not bothering to hide her disappointment. She didn't know why, but something about Marcus made her feel safer. Maybe it was the confidence he carried, or the way Daryl seemed to respect him despite their brief acquaintance.
"Yes. Don't have time to waste." Marcus moved to the kitchen drawers and began taking some of the canned goods, but Beth noticed he left plenty behind. "These were already here when I arrived," he said, as if reading her thoughts.
He headed toward the kitchen door but paused on the threshold. "Word of advice about your scattered group. If they're alive, they might have seen the Terminus signs. They are probably heading there now."
"What's Terminus?" Beth asked.
"Self-proclaimed sanctuary. Their signs are all over the train tracks, promising safety for all who arrive." Marcus's expression darkened. "Be careful if you decide to follow those signs."
"Why?" Beth pressed.
Beth felt a spark of hope. If there was a sanctuary, maybe the others had found it. Maybe they were safe.
But Marcus wasn't finished. "Be vigilant about Terminus. No one in their right mind would advertise a sanctuary to everyone. Think about it: you put up signs everywhere telling people you have food, shelter, safety? You're either incredibly naive, incredibly well-armed, or you're not what you claim to be. Real safe places keep quiet. They don't send out invitations to every desperate person within a hundred miles. That's how you get overrun, robbed, or worse."
Beth felt her hope curdle into unease. When he put it that way, it did sound too good to be true.
"I think anyone who survived this long should know better than to trust something that sounds too good to be true." Marcus adjusted his pack. "But people are desperate. Desperate people make poor choices."
With that, he was gone, leaving Beth and Daryl alone in the sudden silence of the kitchen. They looked at each other, both processing what had just happened.
"What do you think?" Beth asked quietly.
Daryl picked up his crossbow, checking it over. "Think he's right about Terminus. Sounds too convenient."
"But if the others are there..."
"Then we'll figure it out when we get there." Daryl looked at her with something that might have been reassurance. "But we go in careful. Real careful."
Beth nodded, though her stomach was churning with worry. They'd finally found a lead on their missing family, but it came with a warning that made her skin crawl. Still, it was better than wandering aimlessly through the woods.
She looked around the empty shack, already missing the brief sense of safety it had provided. Tomorrow, they'd start looking for the train tracks, start following the signs to Terminus.
Beth just hoped Marcus was wrong about what they'd find there.
xxx
Beth settled into the rickety kitchen chair across from Daryl, the mason jar of moonshine sitting between them. The silence felt heavy after Marcus's departure, filled with unspoken questions and the lingering tension of their brief encounter.
"You know," Beth said, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, "I remember watching movies before all this. CIA agents were always spies in them, doing secret government stuff." She looked up at Daryl. "You think Marcus is one of those CIA agents?"
Daryl leaned back in his chair, studying the moonshine jar. "Guy sure acted like he knew what he was doing. Had that... I don't know, that look. Like he was always watching, always thinking three steps ahead. Maybe he is what we think he is. Maybe he ain't. Don't matter much now."
"Do you think we'll see him again?"
"CDC's gone we told him that. Who knows if he'll check out Terminus." Daryl shrugged. "Might never cross paths again. World's a big place, even with most of it dead."
Beth nodded, though she found herself hoping they would meet Marcus again. Something about him had felt... reliable. Dangerous, maybe, but reliable.
"Come on," Daryl said, standing and moving toward the canned goods Marcus had left behind. "Let's eat."
They opened cans of peaches and green beans, eating straight from the containers with spoons Marcus had left in the drawer. The peaches were sweet and syrupy, a luxury Beth had almost forgotten existed. They shared one of the warm colas, the fizz long gone but the sweetness still welcome.
When they finished eating, Beth looked at the moonshine jar and felt a familiar determination settle in her chest. She'd come this far for a drink, and she wasn't leaving without one.
"We should play a game," she said suddenly.
Daryl raised an eyebrow. "A game?"
"I Never. You know, where you say something you've never done, and if the other person has done it, they drink." Beth gestured to the moonshine. "Each turn, we drink from that."
Daryl's expression was reluctant. "Beth..."
"Come on. It'll be fun. And it's not like we're going anywhere tonight." She gave him her most persuasive smile. "Besides, you said my first drink wouldn't be peach schnapps. Well, this is definitely better than peach schnapps."
Daryl looked at the moonshine, then back at her. Something in his face softened. "Alright. But we're not getting stupid drunk."
"Deal." Beth unscrewed the jar and took a tentative sniff. The alcohol burned her nostrils, but she didn't care. "I'll go first."
She thought for a moment, then smiled. "I never... been drunk and done something I regret the next day."
Daryl snorted and reached for the jar. "That's cheating. You ain't never been drunk, period." He took a swig, his face barely changing despite the harsh liquor. "My turn. I never... been on vacation."
Beth blinked. "What about camping?"
"Nah. That ain't vacation. That's just something I had to learn." There was something flat in his voice, something that suggested camping hadn't been a choice for him.
Beth took the jar and drank, the moonshine burning down her throat and making her eyes water. She coughed, but felt a warm spreading in her chest. "Okay, my turn. I never... been to jail."
The words were out before she really thought about them, and she immediately knew she'd made a mistake. Daryl's whole body went rigid, and his eyes flashed with something dangerous.
"Is that how you see me?" he asked, his voice low and deadly. "Some ex-con redneck?"
"Daryl, I didn't mean—"
"No, that's exactly what you meant." He grabbed the jar and took a long drink, then another. "Poor little Beth, stuck with the criminal."
"That's not—"
"What's next? You gonna ask if I ever beat up some kid for his lunch money? If I ever knocked over a gas station?" Daryl's voice was getting louder, more aggressive. He stood up suddenly, knocking his chair backward.
"Daryl, please—"
"You want to know what I did? You want to know what kind of man you're traveling with?" He took another drink, then another. The moonshine was clearly hitting him hard and fast. "I robbed shit. Stole cars. Got into fights. That make you feel better about yourself?"
Beth watched in horror as Daryl continued drinking, his movements becoming more erratic. He was spiraling, and she didn't know how to stop it.
"You need to stay quiet," she whispered urgently as he began shouting obscenities. "There could be walkers—"
But Daryl was past listening. In a moment of drunken fury, he unzipped his pants and urinated on the floor right there in the kitchen.
"Daryl!" Beth gasped, but he was already moving toward the door.
"Come on, princess," he slurred, grabbing his crossbow. "Time for your lesson."
Before Beth could protest, he was dragging her outside into the dark woods. She could hear a walker moaning somewhere nearby, and her heart began to race.
Outside, there was a walker tied to a tree—probably left over from whoever had been using this place before Marcus. Daryl raised his crossbow and fired, the bolt hitting the walker in the chest and pinning it to the tree trunk. The walker snarled and clawed at the air, still very much alive.
"Your turn," Daryl said, shoving the crossbow at her. "Kill it."
Beth looked at the trapped walker, then at the crossbow. Something about the whole situation felt wrong, felt cruel. "No."
"What?"
"I said no." Beth drew her knife instead and walked up to the walker. With one quick motion, she drove the blade into its skull, ending its suffering. The body went limp.
"That's not how you do it!" Daryl shouted.
"It's dead, isn't it?" Beth shot back, her own anger finally rising. "What's the difference?"
"The difference is you're still a lost little girl who don't know nothing about the real world! You just want to have your first drink like some dumb college girl!"
Beth felt like she'd been slapped. "And you just want to pretend like you don't care about anybody! Like you're some lone wolf who doesn't need anyone!"
"Maybe I don't!"
"That's bullshit and you know it!" Beth was shouting now, months of frustration pouring out. "You cared about my daddy! You cared about the prison! You care about finding the others!"
Daryl's face crumpled, and suddenly he wasn't the hardened survivor anymore. He was just a broken man carrying too much weight.
"I could have saved him," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I had a shot at the Governor, but I didn't take it. If I'd just... if I'd kept looking for him with Michonne instead of giving up..." His shoulders shook. "Hershel would still be alive."
Beth's anger evaporated instantly. She stepped behind Daryl and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as he sobbed. He felt smaller than she'd ever imagined, vulnerable in a way that made her heart ache.
"It's not your fault," she whispered into his shoulder. "Daddy wouldn't want you to blame yourself."
They stood there for a long time, holding each other while Daryl cried out months of grief and guilt. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were red but clearer.
"Come on," Beth said gently. "Let's go back inside."
They sat on the floor of the small living room, passing the moonshine between them. The alcohol had mellowed them both, creating a bubble of honesty in the dark house.
"Tell me about your family," Beth said. "Before."
Daryl was quiet for a long moment. "Nothing much to tell. My old man was a drunk and a bastard. Used to beat on me and Merle when he was around, which wasn't often. Merle raised me more than anyone."
"What about your mom?"
"Died when I was little. House fire. She was passed out drunk, didn't wake up." Daryl's voice was matter-of-fact, but Beth could hear the old pain underneath.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well. We all got our shit to deal with." Daryl took a drink. "What about you? What was it like, growing up on the farm?"
Beth smiled, the moonshine making her feel warm and nostalgic. "Good. Really good. Daddy was strict, but fair. Maggie and I always knew we were loved. We had chores, went to church, had family dinners every Sunday." She paused. "I know it probably sounds boring to you."
"Sounds nice."
"It was. But I always felt like I was living in a bubble, you know? Like there was this whole world out there I'd never see." She laughed softly. "Be careful what you wish for, right?"
They talked for hours, sharing stories and memories. Beth told him about her first horse, about singing in the church choir, about the boy she'd had a crush on in high school. Daryl talked about hunting with Merle, about the few good times they'd had together.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in their own memories.
"You know what I think?" Beth said eventually, the alcohol making her philosophical. "I think you're gonna be the last man standing when this is all over. You're gonna survive all of us."
Daryl looked at her sharply. "Don't say that."
"It's true. You're the strongest person I know. You're gonna outlast everybody." She reached over and touched his hand. "You're gonna miss me so much when I'm gone."
"Beth, stop."
"I'm not being morbid. I'm being realistic. People like me, we don't last in this world. But people like you? You're built for this."
Daryl was quiet for a long moment. "You asked me what I did before," he said finally. "Truth is, I didn't do anything. I just followed Merle around, did whatever he said. I was nothing before all this."
"That's not true."
"It is. I was just... drifting. No purpose, no plans. Just surviving day to day." He gestured around the shabby house. "Places like this, that's where I come from. That's what I am."
Beth looked around at the grimy walls, the broken furniture, the general air of hopelessness that clung to the place. She thought about Daryl's story, about a little boy growing up in violence and neglect, learning to survive but never learning to live.
"You know what?" she said suddenly. "We should burn it down."
"What?"
"This place. It's full of bad memories, bad energy. You don't need to carry that anymore." She stood up, swaying slightly. "We should burn it all down and leave it behind."
Daryl looked at her, then at the house around them. Slowly, a smile spread across his face—the first real smile she'd seen from him when they're together.
"We're gonna need more alcohol for that."
They spent the next hour dousing the house with moonshine, splashing it on the walls and furniture like they were blessing the place for destruction. Beth felt giddy with the alcohol and the symbolism of it all. This wasn't just about burning down a house—it was about Daryl finally letting go of his past.
When they'd emptied the last jar, Daryl handed her a book of matches. "You should do it. This was your idea."
Beth lit the stack of money Daryl had collected earlier, watching the bills curl and blacken. Then she threw the burning cash into the house.
The fire caught immediately, spreading along the trails of moonshine they'd laid. Within minutes, the entire structure was engulfed in flames. Beth and Daryl stood in the yard, watching their handiwork.
"You know what?" Beth said, raising her middle finger toward the burning house. "Fuck you and everything you represent."
Daryl laughed and raised his own middle finger. "Yeah. Fuck you."
They stood there for a moment longer, watching the fire consume the past. Then they turned and walked away together into the night, leaving the flames behind them.