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The Quiet Ones

TWELVE

She hadn't slept well. Rick and Glenn and Hershel hadn't returned, and she had repacked her pack several times over before crawling onto her sleeping pallet. She had lulled herself into a fitful sleep with promises of leaving when Rick and Hershel returned – and then she had dreamt of lightning storms, a tilting sky, and an endless wave of walkers crashing against the farmhouse.

The morning is a slow affair. She dresses her wound with a few dabs of polysporin, wincing as the skin tightens over her ribs. She grimaces as she slides into her shirt, and ties her hair out of her face.

When she steps into the world, the rest of the camp is quiet. Shane sits atop the RV, though he hardly casts her a glance. Carol squats in front of the fire, pushing something akin to eggs around and around in the pan. Her expression is grim, her lips perpetually turned downwards in some semblance of a frown.

Cal turns, and nearly bumps into Carl. The boy apologizes while he rubs the sleep from his eyes, and yawns up at her. His mother stands behind him, fussing with her belt. Cal notices the scrapes on her face and shoulders and hands; Lori notices her interest and pats Carl on the bum.

“Let's go see if they need help in the house,” she murmurs, and as they pass Lori gives Cal a nervous smile. Cal watches her retreat with a knitted brow. Lori doesn't look back.

“What happened to her?”

“I dunno. Eggs?” Carol's soft voice breaks Cal out of her stupor, and she accepts the proffered plate with a strained smile. The two women sit into the quiet morning, the grey light bleeding away as the sun crawls above the horizon. Eventually Shane crawls down to gather his own plateful of eggs, but he hardly stands around long enough to shove his few spoonfuls into his mouth before crawling back onto the RV.

Carol's painful quiet eventually forces Cal to suck at her teeth and break the silence.

“What was Daryl doing in the barn yesterday?”

Carol stiffens, “he was going out.” To look for Sophia, she doesn't say.

She doesn't need to.

“He should of been on bed rest,” Cal comments around a mouthful of eggs.

Carol nods, “I told him as much.”

Cal blinks, noting the slouch to the woman's shoulder, the beaten quiver of her hands. She sucks on the end of her spoon, and nods, “good.”

Carol smiles – brief and fleeting.

The two women resume their quiet, the uncomfortable silence slinking away to resemble something more hospitable – and almost comfortable.

Eventually, the rest of the group joins them. They stumble out from their tents or the RV, slumping into the assorted lawn chairs littered about the fire. Carol dishes out a few more platefuls of eggs, and everyone becomes quiet as they try to appreciate their morning meal.

It's only as Daryl joins them that they hear the faint rumbling of a vehicle break the silence of the morning. Each and every person freezes, their eyes growing wide or moving to the lone SUV that rolls down the drive. For a long moment they are still, eyes wild as they take in the vehicle and then the long empty road behind it.

Nobody is following them. The group breathes a collective sigh of relief.

One by one they move, finishing their eggs and dumping their plates in an empty bin. The group beelines for the house, Shane galloping ahead of them with the watch rifle slung over his shoulder.

There is a silent relief as the three men step from the SUV; they take in their dark eyes and ashen faces. Hershel is shaken, and Glenn's hands tremble. Rick leans against the vehicle, and looks to Cal with a darkness in his eyes. She lifts her chin, and he nods.

“Did you see others?” Andrea asks. As soon as the question leaves her mouth, the rest of the group surges forward with their fear and anxiety.

“Do you think they followed you?”

“How many were there?”

“Were they armed?”

“What are we going to do?”

“Who is that?”

The last one draws a sudden silence. One by one everyone turns to look at the back seat of the SUV. The burlap sack tucked over the person's head is enough to make them clutch at one another and bristle and glance about warily.

Rick rubs at his eyes, and Hershel looks pleadingly at his eldest daughter who reaches out for Glenn. Glenn in turn presents the group a sheepish grimace. “That's Randall.”

“You brought one of them back here?” It's Shane that voices his outrage for the group. He bristles, his lips pulling back in a snarl. He stalks towards Rick, confusion and anger flaring in his eyes. “Do you not remember what she said about them? Your last stray?!”

Cal watches Shane carefully, her jaw clenching as he throws a finger at her. She isn't particularly fond of being called a stray, though she supposes the term is correct if nothing else.

Rick's voice is calm and quiet, “I remember.”

Shane glowers.

“We couldn't leave him there. We got overrun by walkers.”

“He's hurt,” Glenn supplies.

“Is he bit?” Lori asks.

“Is he going to die?”

“He shouldn't be here!”

Rick holds up a hand and the group grows quiet. “We're going to patch him up.”

“And then what?” Andrea asks.

Rick's face is dark, “we'll see.”

Silence is the only response.

They fetch Randall from the car, and between Glenn and Rick they manage to carry him inside the farm house. The group remains muted even as they pass, the stench of blood and vomit wafting to their noses. Lori turns Carl's eyes away when they spot the wrecked skin of his mutilated leg.

“Oh shit,” T-Dog grimaces.

Andrea's face goes grey, and she steels herself against the smell. Dale places a placating hand on her shoulder.

When the door wheezes shut behind them, the group disperses. They wander back to camp, a new tension settling about them.

Shane doesn't move. He is shaking with anger; his eyes flaring. He runs a hand over his face and turns away. Cal stands a few feet away, her gaze bland and even as she meets his own.

“You think you might know that kid?” Shane asks, his voice low.

She glances over his shoulder towards the door, towards the curtain being drawn in the same bedroom she'd stayed in. Cal looks back to Shane. She doesn't like him; he's too unpredictable and violent. Everything about him screams dominance and madness.

“There are a lot of people in the world--”

“That's not what I meant. I asked if you might know him from town.”

She bristles. Her words are cold and sharp, “If I saw his face.”

“How many were there?”

“A couple. I only got a good look at a few of them.”

Shane is shaking his head, “he knows better. Rick knows better.”

“Didn't sound like they had a lot of choice,” Cal drones.

Shane scoffs. “We can't have him leading his friends back here.”

Cal's expression is carefully poised, “what exactly are you suggesting?”

He looks at her, “I think you know.”

“You want to... off him,” she can't bring herself to say it – it's foreign and heavy and even a little too far past the edge of her own twisted morality. The woman and child are brief flares in her memory; she dealt enough with her inaction having led to their deaths. She can't fathom being the one to drive a knife through a man's chest.

“If he's one of those creeps from town, you really think we should just be lettin' him wander back to his people?” She doesn't say anything, and when she looks away he ducks down to catch her eye. “Well?”

She glowers at him, “If he's one of those guys from town, you won't need to worry about what I'm thinking.”

“Cal?” Shane and Cal look up to see Rick walking towards them, his jaw tight and working. “Could you identify one of those men from town if you saw ‘im?”

The three of them stand there, a subtle tension flowing between them that grows and grows until Cal is blinking and wiping at the sweat beading on her brow. She nods to Rick and moves to follow him.

She brushes past Shane, and for a moment their eyes meet.

“Remember what I said, Cal,” he says.

The three of them move towards the house.


The living room is stifling. Glasses of cool water sweat onto the wooden table, and a bowl of peaches sits untouched. The screen door breathes with a gust of wind, carrying in the sweet smell of a dying Georgia summer.

They stand about the room, staring at one another or at the door tucked down the hall. Cal looks out the window, fingers vigilant at the hilt of her knife. Hershel watches Rick and Shane, lips thin as he considers the two men. Glenn fidgets with his hat, staring down into his hands with a pained expression on his face.

At once the silence is broken. Cal lifts her chin to Rick and asks in a quiet voice, “what will you do if he is one of those men from town?”

Rick pinches the bridge of his nose. “What can we do?”

“You know what we should do,” Shane says.

“Wait,” Glenn's eyes widen. “Are you suggesting--?”

“We have to be prepared for that possibility.”

“We don't know anything yet,” Rick murmurs quietly to Glenn.

“But what if he's not part of that group?” Glenn glances down the hall.

“Then we'll drive him out when he has a better chance – and cut him loose,” Rick says.

Shane's brow furrows, “we can't --”

“We don't know anything yet,” Rick repeats.

“What if he is a part of that group? What if they come looking for him? Or we let him go and he leads 'em back here?” Shane asks.

Rick's jaw works, “his group left him for dead. I doubt they're looking for him.”

“You can't know that,” Shane says.

“And we can't just decide who lives and who dies,” Rick hisses. “Not like this.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, right?” Glenn suggests. Shane glowers at him.

Rick glances at Hershel. “What do you think?”

“I don't know, but we need to decide fast. If we wait any longer infection will set in – if it hasn't already.”

The others start when Cal stands abruptly. She moves down the hall. Rick moves to follow her. The door hardly squeaks when it opens, and for a long moment the two of them stand in the threshold in uncertainty. The room is noticeably different from her time lost in delirium – it's darker, and the ripe smell of sweat and blood is thick on the air.

The boy on the bed isn't unconscious. He's staring at the ceiling with a heavy expression; pain and fever cloud his vision. His skin is grey and sweating, and if the situation had been different she knew she'd suspect him of being bitten. She takes a step forward. It is then she notices he's unbound.

The floorboard squeaks under her heel, and the boy – Randall – glances at her. For a long moment they're stuck; for a long moment neither can look away. She sniffs lightly, and says: “Someone will be in here to help you shortly.”

She can feel Rick behind her. She can feel the sigh he releases. They turn and leave. Randall's eyes burn into her back.

Shane and Hershel stand when they re-enter the room. Glenn leans forward. “Well?” He croaks out, his voice quivering.

Cal stares out the window. The camp is quiet in the distance, though she can see Lori leaning over Carl, and Carol quietly picking at the laundry. She feels a sourness rising in her throat. She can feel hot breath running down her neck – when she reaches to rub it away, she realizes it is nothing more than a phantom.

No one is there.

“He was with them,” she says as her hand falls away from her neck.

She meets Shane's eye.

Rick is rubbing at his face, and then he's suddenly there in front of her. “Are you sure?”

She blinks at him, “yes.”

“That's a man's life.”

I'm sure.

Glenn's voice rises in a soft panic. “So we are just going to kill him?”

Rick holds up a placating hand, “nobody is saying that --”

“We can't have him leading his friends back here,” Shane snaps.

“And he has friends,” Cal murmurs.

Rick turns to look at Hershel, but finds nothing in the man's face. “I'll operate if you think it's best, but he poses a threat to us, Rick. To your wife – to Beth --” Hershel glances at Glenn, “-- and Maggie.”

Glenn looks at the ground, his lips thinning in realization.

Rick rubs at his face.

“You know we have to do this, man,” Shane's voice rises over the low sound of Glenn groaning into his hands. “We can't just let him go.”

Rick stares long at the ground, his jaw tight and teeth grinding. The room falls to silence as the situation settles more heavily in their guts. The rules of the old world were crumbling around them, while the rule – the only real rule -- of this new age was rearing before them like some great storm: adapt or die.

She doesn't like Shane. She doesn't like how loud he is, or vehement, or dangerous. She doesn't trust him, but Rick does. Rick loves Shane.

“Listen to Shane,” Cal's voice is low and pleading. She understands Rick's hesitance, but a decision has to be made.

Shane glances at her in gratitude. “Listen man,” he says to Rick. “Eventually we're going to have to accept that the world's changed. You need to do the hard things to protect your family – to protect Carl, and Lori.”

Rick glances up from the floor and meets Shane's eyes. Something passes between them.

“Can't we just drive him out and leave him somewhere? He doesn't know where we are,” Glenn asks.

Everyone glances at Rick.

They force his hand.

Rick's jaw tightens. “We can't,” he sighs. “If we let him go, we're responsible for what he does.”

Shane lets out a breath, his victory evident in his eyes.

They go silent again. In the quiet of the living room they each stare down at their hands and imagine the colour red staining their skin. Eventually it's Shane that speaks, his earlier intensity curbed by his victory.

“Who will do it?”

“I will,” Rick says with a nod.

“What will we tell the others?” Glenn asks.

“We'll tell them the truth.”

“We should talk to him first.” Everyone starts and glances up. Daryl moves through the screen door, his eyes narrowed as he takes in the reluctant council. “See if we can get any info 'bout his group. I'll do it.”

Rick nods slowly, “you sure?”

Daryl nods – and then his eyes meet Cal's.

“I'll help,” she says without pause. Rick's voice rises in protest. Cal doesn't look away from Daryl. “I heard things. I'll be able to tell if he's lying.”

For a long moment it looks like he'll say no, but then he nods: “Alright.”


She dabs the sweat from his brow, and sponges cool water past his lips. The chill of the cloth in her hands is the only thing grounding her – that, and Daryl's soft breathing at her back.

Randall is staring at her, the fever in his eyes doing nothing to dampen his silent scrutiny. Occasionally he glances at Daryl, though he shies with a strangled moan and looks back to Cal.

They've hardly been in the room for more than five minutes when he finally speaks, his voice desperate and wavering. “Am I going to die?” For a long moment no one says a word. The silence stretches on; the tension rises until Randall sputters in fear. “I'm too young to die.”

“Ain't nobody too young,” Daryl rasps coolly.

“We just went lookin' for our friends, ya know,” the kid snivels. His eyes are on Cal, as if he thinks she'll offer him any more sympathy than Daryl. The cloth in her hands feels heavy – she drags it roughly across his throat, making him quake. “Your friends shot first.”

“Ain't the way I heard it,” Daryl bites at his thumb, seemingly nonchalant.

“You got a lot of friends?” Cal asks softly, surprised that her words aren't crumbling past her lips. She feels like shaking.

Randall blinks at her and then eyes Daryl cautiously. “They're good guys, ya know. Just tryin' to live.”

Cal makes a sound in her throat. She wrings the cloth into the bucket, watching as the clear liquid begins to go grey. “Just looking for more time,” she suggests. He nods enthusiastically, his eyes lightening as he realizes she understands. “Yeah, I know what it's like.”

“Then you know we don't mean no harm.”

“We've all had to do things for more time,” she ignores him.

“Yeah,” he blinks at her.

“Is that why they left you behind?” The cloth slides down his arm – she scrubs at his fingers. He says nothing, and she feels him tense under her hand. Her grip tightens; she turns his hand over and scrubs at his palm.

“They thought I was dead.”

She makes a sound in her throat.

“They thought I was dead,” he repeats.

She shrugs and releases his hand. He tucks it against himself.

“We've all been left behind one way or another,” she says.

“How many boys you got?” Daryl's voice is muffled from behind his hand.

Randall blinks slowly, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “What's this about?”

“What do you think this is about, half-pint?”

Randall lets out a whimper when Daryl takes a step closer. “Please, I don't know nothing.”

They go quiet, allowing the boy's panic to settle. She can feel his eyes on her – her skin crawls. She tries to ignore him, and begins to clean his other arm.

“You from around here?” Daryl asks.

Randall glances at Daryl over Cal's shoulder. “I ain't going to talk to you,” he says with a whimper. His eyes fall to Cal. “I'll talk to her.”

“You ain't in any place to make demands,” Daryl growls.

Randall whimpers again. “I ain't going to say nothing then.”

She can feel him crackling behind her. “I ain't leaving you alone with her.”

“You have something to say Randall, you can say it in front of him,” Cal explains.

Randall stares at her long and hard, his eyes darting every which way over her face. It isn't long before she can see it – the sudden flare of recognition. “Do I know you from somewhere?” He asks.

She can hear the smallest intake of breath from behind her.

“We met in town.”

Randall's expression is careful. His brow furrows thickly over his eyes, his lips thin as if he can't quite comprehend what she's saying. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he says, his voice catching.

“You're right,” Cal sits back. “We didn't actually meet. We had brief run-in. I think it was down Centre Street. Nice place.”

Her voice is calm. Her words throw him for a loop. She can feel him tense again. She can feel Daryl's interest pique as he looms over her shoulder. The young man sniffs and sputters, more indignant and surprised than afraid. “She's crazy, man. I ain't never seen her before,” he calls desperately to Daryl.

“Ain't what you said before,” Daryl rasps.

Randall glances back at her, his fear evident, but his tongue tied. He lets out a gurgled moan and sinks as far from her as he can.

She wrings the cloth into the bucket – the water swirls black. “How long have you been using that town, Randall?”

He groans.

“Answer her,” Daryl is suddenly there, one hand fisted into the boy's collar. Randall squeals.

“Not long,” he shouts. “We was just passing through, ya know?”

“You best be telling the truth,” Daryl growls, and reaches towards the knife tucked at his belt.

Randall quakes, but remains silent. His eyes meet Cal's over Daryl's shoulder, “help me, please.”

She turns her face away as Daryl's knife slides from its sheath. He leans his elbow across the boy's chest and drags the tip along Randall's leg. He bucks under Daryl's weight, his eyes white with fear. “O-okay! Okay!” He shouts. “I grew up 'round here. They took me in--”

“How many?” Daryl asks.

“Something like thirty,” Randall gasps.

“And?”

“And... they took me in. Just a bunch of guys, ya know? Good guys.”

“How long have you been with them?” Cal's voice is low.

Randall quivers, “like a week--” Daryl pushes down on the tip of the knife, the skin casting a single red ribbon down the side of Randall's leg. The boy cries out. “A month. I've been with them a month.”

“So they ain't moving around a lot, huh?”

Randall quakes.

“And you grew up here?” Cal asks.

“Yeah,” Randall stares at Daryl, at the knife pushed against his leg, at Cal who sits impassively by and watches with a bland expression. “I know Hershel – nice guy. I went to school with his daughter Maggie.”

The room goes still.

A breath catches in Cal's throat, and she meets Daryl's eye over his shoulder.

It takes a moment for her to compose herself, but when she does she is tight lipped and blank eyed, her voice a soft drone.

“I have to empty the bucket. The water is dirty,” she stands and moves towards the door, the basin tucked under her arm.

“You best talk,” she hears Daryl mutter.

And then the soft sound of Randall crying out in pain.

The door clicks shut behind her, and she returns to the living room. Glenn, Hershel, Shane and Rick are all staring at their hands.

“He knows Hershel,” she says. “He recognized him.”

They don't look up from their hands, but she can see their shoulders slump. Glenn lets out a soft moan.

She stands in the doorway for a long moment, and then she moves to the kitchen to dump the water. The sink turns grey as the water swirls down the drain.

She stands at the counter at length, watching the clouds bulge in the sky. Eventually they break, and it begins to rain. Thunder sounds in the distance; she stands in stillness until it rolls and cracks overhead.

She stiffens when Rick leans against the counter.

“You think we should kill him,” Rick says, more statement than question.

Cal blinks. The rain patters against the window sill. “We don't really have a choice.”

“We always have a choice,” Rick grits out. “That's what separates us. Us and the dead. We can choose to be better. We can make choices, and we can live with them.”

“And if we choose to kill him?”

Rick's jaw tightens, “that's a choice I'll carry.”

Cal turns to him, “is it something you want to carry?”

Rick's eyes burn. “I killed two men last night,” he says in a low voice. “They drew on us, and I killed them. Some people might say I had no choice, but I did what I did to to protect the group. I made that choice.”

“I told you to shoot first.”

Rick shakes his head, “this isn’t about blame. I made that choice.”

She considers him for a moment; his eyes are blameless, and burn with a fervor. “You'd do it again.”

“I would. I will,” he says. They turn when Daryl moves into the kitchen followed by Hershel, Glenn and Shane. Cal notices the red blossoming on Daryl's knuckles; she looks away when he catches her eye.

“Group's large,” Daryl rasps. “They ain't good people.”

“You can't go looking for them,” Cal says to Rick.

“I wasn't planning on it.”

“Ain't be much use,” Daryl says. “Kid said he had no idea where they might be. They move around a lot.”

“Maybe they'll move on,” Glenn murmurs.

“Nah,” Daryl shakes his head. “Said he'd been with them for a month. They ain't left yet. They just move around this county.”

“But they might,” Glenn pleads.

Shane is quiet. His eyes are hard. His hands run over his head, fingers pushing at the scabby bald patch near his temple.

“Maybe,” Rick nods. “But we should prepare for the possibility --” he glances at Hershel “--that they don't.”

“This is my farm,” Hershel frowns. “I'll die here.”

“How many were in that group in town?” Rick asks Cal.

“Three or four.”

Rick's jaw tightens and he nods. He glances at Hershel. “We need to be prepared for the possibility.”

Hershel's lips tighten, “I know.”

“We'll need our guns.”

“I know.”

“And we'll need to stay together.”

Hershel glances at Shane, “I know.”

“If they find us --” Rick's hand shakes, though he tries to stop it. “If they find us, we can't let them go. We can't have them leading the rest of their group back here.”

“And what about Randall?” Glenn asks, his face grey.

Rick shakes his head and looks to Cal and Daryl. “You're sure he said he knows Hershel?”

They both nod. “Mentioned Maggie too,” Cal says.

Hershel grimaces. Rick frowns.

“We can't let him go.”

The group is quiet. They soak in Rick's words, ruminating on the cold truth.. Shane nods, stands and leaves; the door hisses shut behind him. One by one the others slink away. It's only as Daryl turns to leave that Cal finally moves – she walks behind him, out of the house towards the camp.

Her eyes wander along his bloodied knuckles.

“Are you going to clean those?” Her voice is hardly a whisper over the thunder rumbling in the distance.

Daryl shrugs. “They ain't much.”

“At least wash them up.”

“I'm fine,” he grouses.

She makes a sound at the back of her throat, and moves past him towards her tent. As she slides the zipper along its track, she sighs. “I uh -- Thanks,” she says.

Daryl hesitates and glances over his shoulder. “For what?”

“For having my back in there,” she pauses, her breath tight in her chest. There are words she doesn't say, but in truth she doesn't need to.

Daryl had seen her tension. He had seen her try to hide behind her bland expressions. He knew what it was like, sitting beside someone who had terrorized him. Every day that he had endured his father's beatings, he had thought of how simple his life would be if the man had simply died.

He blinks at her, his lips thinning as he rolls over her words. And then slowly, he nods.

“You should get your hands looked at.”

He glances down at his knuckles – bloodied and raw and weeping. Old scars that have split and bled. He can't help but think of his father – and Merle. They wouldn't have noticed.

But she did.

His brow furrows. “I'll think 'bout it,” he says.

She looks at him for a long moment, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. And then she turns and leaves.

He watches her go. He doesn't look away until she's out of sight.


Notes

Comments

Read this story today and am hooked. Love the character Cal and how you've written her. Agree with Phoebe that she reminds me of Michonne when we first meet her. Hope you update soon and let us know what happens next in Cal's story.

Grimesgirl63 Grimesgirl63
10/2/16

I've read this story all the way through another two times since your last update. I'm barely coping with not know what's going to happen next. Legitamet withdrawals.

In case you haven't figured it out - big fan of the story :)

ItsPhoebe ItsPhoebe
6/18/16

It's good, we'll written, I like that you had Randell killed off, by Daryl.

Francesmbezenah Francesmbezenah
5/23/16

Another amazing story!! This is good! Keep writing...you definitely have a knack! And keep the chapters coming! I'm enjoying it greatly!

Taemom Taemom
5/12/16

Your writing is honestly so amazing! I'm excited to see what happens when Cal sees Randall being brought back with Rick. Can't wait for more x

rachelloyd rachelloyd
5/7/16