[ xliv. she lit a fire ]

july 1st, 2011

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DARYL DIXON'S GAZE BORE down painfully upon the small dirt grave adorned with a single Cherokee Rose, his guarded heart now exposed and heavy with disbelief. It could not be true. Astrid—his Astrid—could not possibly be dead. A full day had passed since the merciless surprise ambush on their home, and Daryl found it impossible to maintain a coherent thought when the Lancaster woman's memory echoed in every corner of his raging mind. The world seemed to crumble around the hunter.

In the span of a day, their group had lost three of their own: Astrid, Lori, and T-Dog.

Among the wreckage of the prison's tombs, Carol Peletier was the lone survivor of her group. She had been with both Astrid and T-Dog. According to her, T-Dog, after being bitten, had made the ultimate sacrifice to save the two women from walkers. But then, Carol, too, had been separated from Astrid only minutes later. Carol had escaped, but before she had, she recounted hearing a blood-curdling scream, an agonized cry that could have meant anything.

In the aftermath, Daryl, driven to find Astrid against all odds, had embarked on an urgent search, scouring every inch of the tombs for any trace of her. But cruelly, he had found nothing—not even her lifeless form (though not once had he expected to find that). In the end, after nearly four hours, all he had to show for his efforts was Carol's abandoned firearm.

He wanted to go back in. Search within crevices he had not peeked into yet. But he had to call off the search early. New priorities had taken over. One of them involved a motherless newborn baby. Motherless—because Lori Grimes was dead.

Unbeknownst to the hunter at the time, she had gone into labor during the initial attack and had died during a rushed and complicated childbirth, delivering—nonetheless—a healthy baby girl into the world. None of those within the group that had survived had figured out a proper name for her yet, so Daryl had taken to calling her Lil' Ass Kicker. Astrid would have loved her.

Will.

Astrid will love her. Daryl could not afford to think otherwise when everything around the hunter kept reminding him of her. It was eating him up inside.

And who was he kidding? They were all being eaten up. The whole group was spiraling out of control over yesterday's mess. In the wake of so much devastation, their leader, Rick, had gone and disappeared, likely drowning in grief over his estranged wife, even though his kids needed him now more than ever. Especially Carl, who had been there, in the flesh, for the birth of his sister and the death of his mother.

And Maggie—she was a wreck, too, because she had been forced to deliver the newborn right out of Lori's lifeless body. Daryl still did not know all the grisly details of what had gone down, and he sure as hell did not want to ask. Some things just needed to stay buried in silence.

Daryl abruptly shook his head.

He needed to be rid of the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him all over again. He had better things to do than fret over others. They needed to mourn their dead. But that sure as hell did not include Astrid. He was going to find her if it was the last thing he ever did.

Daryl squatted down beside Astrid's empty grave, put his fingers to his lips, and then pressed them to the dirt. "I'm goin' to find you," He promised with a gritty steadfastness.

Then the lone hunter stood back up, slung his crossbow over his shoulder, and turned away from that ever-growing makeshift cemetery that had become their prison yard. As he made his way back through the courtyard, he paid no mind to the fresh bloodstains on the asphalt that were souvenirs of the brutal ambush he had survived.

When he walked back into the quiet cell block, he saw most of his group gathered around a singular table, eating their small breakfasts in silence. Daryl noted that there were a couple of new additions added to their mix—two prisoners—Axel and Oscar—who had helped him, Rick, and Glenn retake the courtyard and overall control of the sabotaged prison. Daryl figured they had earned their keep after that. Glenn, too, eventually had given the green light for them to stay. Rick might have as well—but none of their group had spoken to him in some time now.

Daryl soon earned himself some attention as he strolled in. His piercing eyes scanned the clean faces in the room, but the only face he wanted to really see was not there. "I'm goin' to clear out the lower levels of the prison," He declared, grabbing his knife off one of the nearby tables. "Just to make sure we haven't looked anythin' over."

No one opposed him. In fact, Carl, the boy who had seen way too much for his age, and one of the ex-cons, Oscar, decided they would join the hunter. They got themselves geared up and ready, and Daryl did not waste any time before pushing back into the tombs, searching for walkers, supplies, and most importantly, Astrid. But so far, there was no sign of her.

Daryl swung his flashlight around when he heard a clanging sound just a few feet away. He crossed the shadowy corridor to where a door was trying to swing itself open, but a mass of dead bodies in the narrow hall held the rusty barricade shut.

Oscar swallowed hard. "Check it out, man," He suggested. "Must've missed this door last night."

Daryl shrugged, turning away. He was not interested in the dead. Not right now. "Probably just one or two of 'em," He brushed off. "Don't look like they got much fight left. They ain't goin' nowhere. We'll take care of 'em on the way back."

He kept on walking down the hallway but quickly noticed a pair of familiar footsteps had silenced. Daryl glanced over his shoulder and eyed Carl, where the young boy seemed to be lost, staring off into oblivion. Daryl recognized the painful and haunted expression more than he wished to. After a moment's hesitation, the hunter then whistled softly, beckoning, and the boy's head abruptly snapped in his direction, torn from his thoughts. Without even a word, Carl immediately fell back into step beside Daryl while Oscar trailed behind them.

The hunter could tell that Carl was torn up inside over losing his mother. He wanted to say something to comfort the boy. After all, he knew Astrid would have done the same. And she would have made it look easy, too. But he was no good with words—especially when it came to kids.

"You know, my mom, she liked her wine," Daryl finally started, awkward as all get-out, while they continued searching the dark, empty tombs for any sign of life beyond their own.

"She liked to smoke in bed. Virginia Slims. Anyways, I was playin' out with the kids in the neighborhood. I could do that with Merle gone. They had bikes—I didn't," Daryl rambled on, peeking into a cell before turning back to Carl. "We heard sirens gettin' louder, so they hopped on their bikes and chased after 'em, hopin' to see somethin' worth seein'. I ran after 'em, but I couldn't keep up . . . I turned a corner and saw my friends lookin' at me. Hell, I saw everybody lookin' at me. Fire trucks everywhere. People from the neighborhood. They were there for my house . . ."

"My mom, she was in bed, burnt to nothin'," Daryl revealed, his voice trailing off as he recalled the horror of that day so many years ago. It was not even his first experience of heartbreak. Of loss. But it was still one he would never forget . . . because it was his mom. "That was the hard part. She was just gone. Erased. Nothin' left of her. People said it was better that way. But I don't know, it kind of made it seem like it wasn't real, you know?"

Carl was quiet for a long moment. Contemplating. Then let out a deep breath. "I shot my mom," He confessed, his voice barely a whisper, and Daryl stopped in his tracks, staring down at the kid in disbelief. "She was out . . . Hadn't turned yet. I ended it. It was real," Carl whispered, looking up at Daryl with sad eyes. "I'm sorry about your mom," He apologized.

Daryl gave the boy's shoulder a solid squeeze. "I'm sorry 'bout yours," He replied gruffly before taking a step forward. "C'mon, we're almost done."

They moved on down the hall, and then Daryl heard a light chuckle from behind him. He turned around and saw that Oscar had veered off-course and stepped into a small cell. "Aw yeah, that's what I'm talking about," He cheered. Carl and Daryl followed Oscar into the cramped cell, only to see that he was holding up some red slippers. "Yeah, buddy."

"The hell you need slippers for?"

Oscar smirked playfully. "You know, for the end of the day, relaxing," He explained. Daryl's face fell slightly at the innocent comment. Astrid would have reacted the exact same if she had been lucky enough to find a pair of slippers to call her own. She certainly would not have let them go to waste.

A bated moment passed. Oscar caught a glimpse of the intensity in Daryl's eyes and started to say something, but then sinister growls filled the air. The hunter instinctively whirled around, his heart racing, and faced the lone walker that now stood on the threshold of the cell, nearly cornering them. But they were ready. Daryl fired his crossbow instantaneously while Carl and Oscar let loose with their guns.

The gunshots rattled into Daryl's very existence, and he watched the lone walker hit the ground, body riddled with bullet holes. He exhaled sharply and took a step closer to the walker, thinking it was all over. Oscar began talking mindlessly from behind him. "Must have been in the cell at the end," He insisted. "We've already checked everywhere else, and—"

Daryl did not hear the rest. Something on the ground had seized his attention. With painstaking caution, he lowered himself to a crouch, his calloused fingers inching toward the revelation before him. There, nestled in the grisly throat of the freshly fallen walker, was a glint of steel—a small knife.

He grabbed the handle and yanked the blade out slow-like, not caring about the walker's blood splattering onto his fingers. Daryl held the knife up to the dim light overhead, eyeing the coated black blade, and Carl watched with curiosity. "What is it?" The boy asked.

Daryl's gaze remained locked on the gruesome trophy in his hand. "It's Astrid's knife," He announced, his voice a low rumble. With an indifferent swipe, he wiped away the foul residue from the weapon and sheathed it in his back pocket, the act punctuated by the growing, rapid thud of his heart, which now seemed to echo in the dark, unforgiving corridors.

Rising to his feet, he turned to face Carl and Oscar. "Why don't you two head back to the cell block? I'm goin' to take one last look around this place. I'll be right behind you."

"You sure?" Oscar asked, hesitant. Concern was etched on his face as he placed a comforting hand on Carl's shoulder, signaling for them to prepare to depart. Daryl's returning, swift nods were as solid as the foundation of a mountain. He watched them retreat down the dimly lit hallway, their figures vanishing into the shadows as Astrid's haunting fate continued to dance within his thoughts.

Daryl knew that finding Astrid's bloodied knife did not mean she was dead or alive, but it sure as hell meant one thing—she was close. He could feel it in his bones. No certainties had been given to him just yet, but a sure-fire had been relit in his gut. A fire that she had lit. One that he would not ever let go out.

With a throaty growl, the hunter hoisted his crossbow high once more and continued on into the dark.

He was going to find her.

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