[ xxxiii. the world we knew is dead ]
november 14th, 2010
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"DALE! DALE, WHERE ARE you?" Astrid's cry carried through the night, a raw, guttural shriek that carried her fear and horror. Her fingers danced over the grip of her gun as, without any hesitation at all, she shot forward in the direction of the desperate and agonized screams.
Andrea's own voice yelled somewhere behind her, yet Astrid's focus was singular—a laser-guided determination locked onto the ground ahead. She leaped over the fence that lined the faraway distant fields and sprinted head-on into the pitch black. The sound of terror grew as others from the camp reawakened at the sound of shouting and joined the fright.
"Wait, Astrid!" Andrea pleaded, struggling to keep pace.
Astrid did not stop. Tall grass whipped against her legs like phantom hands, an obsidian curtain concealing the unknown. Her flashlight carved a path, revealing snippets of her frantic farmland surroundings, but her mind's eye was fixated on one thing—Dale.
"Dale!" She called again.
Then, up ahead, Astrid saw it. An otherworldly and bloody image etched in moonlight. Two figures loomed, one unmistakably Dale and the other a grotesque embodiment of death—a walker, gnashing rotten teeth hungering for the elder man's life. Astrid's soul surged with adrenaline-fueled fury. She hurled herself into the fight.
Astrid slammed into the walker, a collision of desperation and sheer willpower, and toppled it from its perch atop Dale. Yet the victory was short-lived; as they rolled, the walker gained the upper hand above her, jaws now snapping like steel traps only inches from her own face.
Blood dripped down onto her and stained her vision, the tang of iron mingling with the metallic tang of fear. Astrid's fingers scrabbled in the grass for her fallen gun, fingers grazing cool metal that slipped through her grasp like smoke. Panic clawed at her chest as the walker's grip tangled in her hair, searing agony radiating through her scalp.
Then, a shadow swooped in, a guardian angel of brutality. Daryl Dixon materialized, swift and lethal. His knife sang through the air, the crack of skull against metal punctuating the night. The walker crumpled, lifeless and defeated, leaving Astrid breathless as she staggered to her feet.
Daryl's concerned voice reached her ears like a distant echo. "Are you alright?" He demanded. His arms as they held Astrid were a sanctuary that she was too frazzled to appreciate. She could not hear the hunter. Astrid ripped herself out of Daryl's arms. Her gaze locked onto Dale who lay in the grass several feet away, her heart in her throat as she crawled towards him, a woman possessed. Her flashlight's beam fell upon a scene of horror—Dale's stomach laid bare, split open, intestines spilling into the dirt.
Astrid's breath hitched painfully in her throat, and she began flailing her arms in frantic waves to summon aid from the approaching lights coming from the farmhouse. "Here! We're over here!" She announced loudly.
Daryl knelt beside her, his urgency matching her own. She could hear the tremor in his voice as he shouted for help, "Run! We're over here!" His fingers clenched around Dale's stiff ones. "C'mon, hang in there, buddy," The hunter pleaded softly.
Rick, Shane, and Andrea were the first converged upon them in the shadowy field. The sheriff dropped down on Dale's other side. "Oh, my God," He gasped, anguished, and horrified, and helpless. "Oh, God."
Dale continued to moan in agony. It was an unrelenting cry of pain. The group grew as more gathered around the elder man's stricken figure. More screams of horror pierced Astrid's ears, and her heartache bled through her tear-filled eyes as she turned towards Rick. "What do we do?" She questioned.
"Get Hershel!" Rick commanded fiercely. It was a race against time. "He needs blood. We need to operate right now! Someone, get Hershel!"
Astrid grabbed tightly to Dale's hand. He squeezed it weakly in return. She leaned close and could only hope her voice was a soothing touch in the tempest of his pain. "Hang on, Dale," She whispered. "We're going to get you help. You're going to be okay. Listen to my voice. Stay with me."
Dale's tortured sounds remained. Yet amidst his writhing, a glimmer of communication emerged—a nod to Astrid, feeble yet profound, that conveyed a fragile agreement. Above her, Rick's voice cut through the night again. "We need Hershel!" He bellowed.
Somewhere above the dissonance of helplessness, new voices joined in the night's tragedy. Astrid's gaze lifted, a flicker of hope ignited by the approaching figures of Hershel and Maggie, sprinting towards the gathering congregation. Crossing over to Rick's side, Hershel's expression twisted illy. "What happened?" He demanded.
"It's going to be okay, Dale," Astrid reassured. She then looked up, and her eyes met Hershel's. "What can we do?" She pleaded.
"Can we move him?" Rick prodded. Meanwhile, Astrid's ears strained, catching the guttural sounds of Dale's struggle for breath. He was beginning to choke on his own blood.
Hershel's response, a somber shake of his head, was a verdict that landed like a sledgehammer blow. "He won't make the trip," He informed.
"Then you do the operation here," Rick insisted sharply. "Glenn, go get—"
"Rick!" Hershel cried, cutting him off. Despair was written so plainly across his face. "He's not going to make it."
"No!" Astrid wailed. Her head shook with frenzied energy, as if her denial could somehow wrest Dale from the clutches of imminent death. Tears blurred her vision once more, mingling with the sea of grief that enveloped those around her. Amidst the sobs and anguish, Rick's own hysterics erupted. "Please, Hershel, you have to try something," Astrid tried desperately. She refused to let go like this. "Please!"
In the periphery of Astrid's breakdown, a small figure appeared nearby and cried out in terror. Little Carl's tear-filled eyes met the graphicness of demise before him, and the sight of his own unique pain was a fresh dagger through Astrid's heart. Her tears fell like rain.
Beside her, Andrea turned her own wet face towards Rick. "He's suffering," She murmured weakly.
The group remained frozen, seemingly helpless. Dale's cries soon reached a height that was unbearable for Astrid to witness. The very air seemed to vibrate with the agonizing sound of him dying. Astrid's frustration boiled over. "Someone, do something!" She ordered. It was a demand imbued with rage and misery, and finally shattered the stillness that had gripped them all. "Please!"
Rick extracted his gun. He fell to his knees beside Dale's head, the weight of a heart-wrenching decision nearly killing him, too.
Meanwhile, Astrid still clung to Dale's hand. She swallowed a sob and mustered a trembling smile. "It's alright, Dale," She soothed, even as her voice quivered uncontrollably. She barely sounded human. "I'm right here. Just keep looking at me, okay?"
Dale attempted to nod his head again when suddenly, arms wrapped around Astrid's shoulders. Shane Walsh now sought to pull her back. "C'mon," He coaxed. "Get up, Astrid."
"Get the hell off of me!" Astrid cried in protest. Nevertheless, her resistance was futile, a battle she had no strength left to win. Painfully, she allowed herself to be drawn away, her gaze never leaving Dale's anguished form. Helplessness settled over her, a mantle she could not cast aside.
Astrid painfully watched on. Rick's conscious actions, the all-defying click of a chambered bullet, were a confrontation with the uncompromising real life that they all faced now. But amidst the heartache, something stayed Rick's hand. In the face of such an ultimate and cruel undoing, their leader simply could not do this. Rick could not kill Dale.
Suddenly—in a moment that seemingly shifted the balance of power—Daryl stepped forward. He gently reached forward and pried the revolver from Rick's trembling grip. Rick exhaled a ragged sigh, a surrender to the inevitable reality that he, too, was only human.
As Daryl entered into the spotlight, a new form of leadership emerged, unspoken yet undeniable. The hunter knelt with a solemn reverence, a stance that spoke of a burden shouldered willingly. Astrid's breath caught as the gun's barrel found Dale's temple. The cries of pain that had once rattled so loudly now dwindled. Tears traced silent paths down Astrid's cheeks as Daryl's voice, heavy with sorrow, whispered his final words to a dying man.
"Sorry, brother."
An inner force begged Astrid to look away, to shield herself from the inevitable. Closing her eyes, she turned and buried her face in Shane's chest, allowing his heartbeat to steady her, even as her own heart seemed to shatter.
The gunshot ripped through the night like a crack of thunder, cutting through the very core of Astrid's being. Bloody and choked yelps were abruptly extinguished, leaving behind an emptiness that would last for a long, long, time within the definitively broken group.
Dale Horvath was gone.
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ASTRID LANCASTER DELICATELY WIPED away a lingering tear, her fingers trembling, as she cast one final gaze at the freshly turned earth that now covered Dale's final resting place. She allowed herself a last moment to say goodbye, accepting both closure and shattered hopes in his wake. Meanwhile, Daryl stood quietly beside her, waiting for as long as she might need. She finally nodded, her gaze still locked on the grave, but with that wordless signal, they turned away and began to walk back toward camp.
The night had been cruelly sleepless. As first light painted the blood-stained fields, it was as though the world she inhabited had splintered into a thousand shards, and Astrid now walked through them in a daze.
Yet another one of their own had fallen, swallowed by this post-apocalyptic nightmare. It had taken Astrid an hour to scrub Dale's blood from her hands. How long would it be before she was doing it all over again? Who would be next? Would it be her turn?
In the recesses of Astrid's mind, a dark whisper suggested that perhaps that would be a mercy. The constant barrage of loss was gnawing at her sanity, and she was unsure of how much more she could take. She wondered if others carried the same weary hopelessness in their hearts—if they too found themselves wondering when the pain would finally come to an end.
No matter, Daryl's steady presence beside her was a shield against the storm of her thoughts. She could feel his concern for her state of mind, the way he watched her as if guarding a fragile flame. It was a comfort that needed no words. It was enough to keep the tears at bay for the time being. With the breaking of the dawn, a new day began. Regardless of whether they wanted it to.
As they approached the gathering throng on the outskirts of the camp, Astrid remained silent as a ghost. Hershel had an announcement to make. For once, the man who had initially been so skeptical of their presence extended a genuine gesture of hospitality. The Greene patriarch cleared his throat. "Last night's events prove that even here cannot be entirely safe." He said. "We don't need any more accidents. My family and I all think it's best if you move indoors. With us."
Rick frowned. "It would be tight," He pointed out. "Fifteen people crammed in one house."
"Don't worry about that," Maggie reassured spiritedly. "With the swamp hardening, the creek drying up, and fifty head of cattle on the property, we might as well be ringing the damn dinner bell."
"She's right," Hershel agreed. "We should've moved you in a while ago."
Rick's resistance crumbled. It would be foolish to decline the offer. "Alright then," He conceded. Next, began a series of new precautions to set around the farmhouse. "Let's move the vehicles near each of the doors, facing out towards the road. We'll build a lookout in the windmill and another in the barn loft. Those should give us sightlines of both sides of the property . . . But as for now, everyone should get packing."
Astrid nodded. With that, the group split. Like ants in an anthill, the camp now buzzed loudly with purpose as everyone embarked on their tasks of stocking and defending their new home. Parting ways with Daryl, Astrid walked over to the tent she still shared with Andrea. Gritting her teeth against the throbbing ache in her chest, Astrid began packing up her scattered belongings. The air mattress, once a vestige of Amy Harrison's own presence, seemed to sigh beneath her touch as she flattened it, an echo to the ghosts that still lingered around them.
With the tent now empty and its skeletal structure laid bare, Astrid swung her heavy bags over her shoulder and set off back towards the farmhouse. It was not long before Rick intercepted her, breaking through her haze. They faced one another in the dead grass of the yard.
"Astrid," The sheriff addressed her. "I've decided that we're going to take Randall farther out and cut him loose. It's the right thing. Has been all along."
"We?" Astrid repeated. She barely noticed his underlying praise in what she had been trying to fight for since the beginning.
"I'm taking Daryl this time," He clarified. "While we're gone, I want you in charge and to help Hershel out if he needs it."
Astrid nodded curtly. "I will," She confirmed. But then a furrow creased her brow. "But if it's just you and Daryl going out, wouldn't Shane still be around?" She questioned. "Why are you asking me to be in charge when he will be here?"
"Because Shane has a way of letting things get out of hand. You're not like that. You keep things in control," Rick explained. "I trust you."
Her green eyes rolled involuntarily. "So, basically you're calling me Shane's babysitter, right?" She returned. "He's a grown man, Rick. It's not my job to clean up his messes."
Rick's gaze softened. "I'm not asking you to," He emphasized. "I just want to know I can count on you if need be."
Astrid's eyes locked with the sheriff's. "You can always count on me, Rick," She vowed.
His hand found her shoulder. A silent exchange of promises passed between them. How far they had come from that first day in Atlanta . . . As Rick's figure pulled away and receded into the distance, Astrid faltered. How far they had come, yes, but how much further they still likely had to go.
Shaking the thought away, Astrid's steps led her back into the farmhouse, where a whirlwind of purposeful activity swirled around her. The once-familiar abode had transformed into a makeshift haven where beds and supplies formed the new currency of decoration. Astrid's gaze swept through the living room, eyes tracing the contours of change that had been etched upon the walls and floors. The space no longer breathed with the normalcy of a home. It had metamorphosed into merely another survivalist camp.
Amidst the clutter, a far corner drew Astrid's attention—a spot where Daryl's belongings were already carefully arranged. Silently, she went over and dropped her bags to the ground next to his, a subtle assertion of claiming her space beside the hunter.
Unfortunately, Astrid's moment of tranquility upon settling in was short-lived. The confines of their newfound home struck her harshly, and the prospect of living alongside fifteen other adults suddenly loomed like a daunting mountain. With a long exhale, she quickly retreated outside and onto the porch in search of fresh air and more promising peace.
The Lancaster woman was not even given a full minute to herself before Shane appeared at her side. Her eyes met his with resentment. Despite what he had done for her last night as she grieved for Dale, she still had not forgiven him for his violent attack on her and Rick.
"What is it?" Astrid asked sharply, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Shane's extended hand held a gun toward her—an unanticipated offering. Its familiarity struck Astrid quickly. It was Daryl's. She accepted the weapon instantly. "Where did you get this?" She demanded.
"Carl gave it to me," Shane answered bluntly. "Look, I promised the kid I wouldn't say anything—but he took it from one of Daryl's bags and went out into the swamps yesterday. Don't know what he was thinking, but he came across a walker stuck in the mud. Tried to shoot it, but he got scared and ran off."
"So?"
"Turns out, it was the walker that killed Dale."
Astrid felt like her entire nervous system had suddenly stopped and restarted. It had only taken seven words. Slowly, almost mechanically, she slid Daryl's gun into her waistband, her gaze still locked on Shane. "Why are you telling me this?" She asked. "Why not his parents?"
"Because his parents need a break," Shane replied, providing the Lancaster woman a glimpse into the cracks that had apparently begun to appear in the veneer of Rick and Lori's own resilience. "I've seen you with Carl. You're good with him. I think you should try to talk to him before the big guns are brought out."
"Okay," She breathed. "I'll talk to him."
"Thanks, Astrid."
With a brisk nod, Astrid moved past him, in search of Carl. It was not hard to find the boy who was perched in the loft of the barn down the driveway, an innocent guardian of the vast property. He even looked the part while wearing his father's sheriff's hat that had been gifted to him upon his recovery from his accident.
The ascent up the ladder at the back of the building was marked for Astrid by a blend of anticipation and trepidation, each step a silent reminder of the conversation that awaited her. What was she supposed to say to someone so young who had already seen horrors so grave?
As Astrid settled down beside Carl, the boy stayed quiet, lost in the faraway distance beyond the binoculars he held up to his eyes. Astrid carefully laid Daryl's gun down in the space between them. At this action, Carl lowered the binoculars and turned towards her, a mixture of curiosity and caution in his eyes.
Meanwhile, Astrid kept her gaze forward, trying to guess where Carl had been looking. "See anything?" She poised casually.
Carl's head shook slowly. "No," He answered. Once again, his gaze shifted toward the gun before returning to her. "Is Daryl mad at me?" He wondered softly.
"He doesn't even know. And he won't know." Astrid's admission was a gentle reassurance as she picked up the gun and extended it to him. "Carl, I want you to take this."
"I can't," Carl protested weakly. "I'm never touching a gun again. It's my fault Dale's dead."
Astrid's gaze held a firmness that sought to challenge his self-blame, her voice a steady counter to his inner torment. "What happened to Dale had nothing to do with you," She insisted.
"Yes, it did," Carl murmured painfully. "He's dead because of me. I found the walker that killed him. If I had killed it yesterday like I was supposed to, Dale would still be alive."
"Maybe," Astrid said softly as she considered the complex web that had led them to this point. "But maybe not," She challenged. "Shane said that walker you found was stuck in the mud. If that's the case, then odds are it was going to get free somehow. Any one of us could have been out in that field last night. You did not tell Dale to go out there. You could never have known. This was not your fault."
Carl sniffled. "I can't be trusted with a gun," He claimed.
Astrid's hand moved, her fingers closing around his smaller hand as she gently placed the gun within his grasp. "Carl, I trust you," She told the boy. "I know you can do this. I won't sugarcoat it. You are going to have to fight, on your own at times, to survive in this world—and you can't fight without a weapon. So, you need to take this. It's for your own protection," She whispered. "No more kid stuff."
Carl's gaze remained fixed on the gun, a symbol of his newfound responsibility. Astrid's arm encircled his tiny shoulders, pulling him into an embrace Carl's gratitude flowed softly, his voice a vulnerable murmur. "Thanks, Astrid," He breathed. "I can see why Daryl likes you so much."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, a mixture of surprise and warmth coursing through her veins at the thought of the hunter.
The possibility that Daryl harbored something—something genuine—for her had been one she considered before in the passing days—but only very recently. And she had never given much thought to it. Certainly not enough to act on it. But now, upon little Carl's innocent revelation, the idea that something, perhaps, truly did exist there, little and new, left her simultaneously exhilarated and uncertain.
In fact, the complexity of her own feelings for the hunter surprised her and made Astrid's smile grow, too. She had been focused on simply staying alive for so long that the idea of nurturing something beyond survival seemed impossible. But now, as she sat atop that barn loft, Astrid found herself replaying her and Daryl's conversations from the passing weeks, dissecting the nuances of his expressions as they lifted their guard more and more—the way his eyes held a certain softness only when he looked at her. It was as if she was deciphering a new language, one that spoke to the life they had both been precariously dancing around as they dared to open up to one another.
"Actually, a lot of people like you," Carl insisted, abruptly ripping the Lancaster woman from her distant train of thought. "Shane does. Randall does."
Astrid's gaze sharpened as she pinned Carl with a scrutinizing stare, her eyebrows knitting together in both suspicion and sternness. "When have you talked to Randall?" She questioned.
Carl hesitated. Swallowing audibly, he seemed to wrestle with his confession before finally offering a resigned shrug, his shoulders sagging with a sense of reluctant admission. "There's not much to do around here anymore," He tried to rationalize. "Figured I still had to find a way to help out."
Astrid looked on in disappointment. The realization that he had engaged with someone as shifty as Randall was a cause for concern. She would certainly have to go to his parents with that one, she thought. But she had done enough reprimanding for today. She was not Carl's mother.
"You're a handful," She finally muttered.
"So are you," Carl retorted with a playful glint returning to his eye. "Well, that's what Daryl says when you're not around."
Astrid's chuckle was twisted with amusement and exasperation. "That asshole," She breathed.
Another quiet moment then passed between Astrid and Carl. Suddenly, the boy's sense of wonder shifted the mood, his tone turning somber as he looked up towards the open blue sky, his gaze seeking answers beyond their reach. "Do you think Dale is watching us right now?" He mused. "I was talking to Carol—and she said that she still believed in Heaven . . . Do you think that's where Dale is?"
A small smile pulled at Astrid's lips once more. "I think that's exactly where he is," She answered softly.
"So, what happens now, then?" He prodded curiously. "With my dad getting rid of Randall . . . What do we do next?"
As the conversation shifted to the uncertain path ahead, Astrid's eyes locked onto Carl's deep blue ones. "We recover," She murmured. "We go back and heal."
As their gazes lingered over the vast expanse of fields and farmland, they fell into a contemplative silence. Astrid continued to hold Carl close, and her fingers tightened around him, a silent promise to protect and guide the boy through what lay ahead.
Astrid's attention soon shifted down to Carl again as he carefully tucked Daryl's gun into his waistband. The corners of her mouth quirked upward with pride, all the while very aware of the responsibility she had taken on herself in choosing to help nurture his growing resilience and independence in the world. The conversation that Astrid would have to have with Rick and Lori about their son's evolving role could wait, set aside for another day when he was ready for it.
For now, they would rejoin the others at the farmhouse, and find a way to weather their recent losses together. For somewhere deep down, Astrid still held onto the belief that they could all emerge from these trials stronger. Perhaps everything could still be okay.
Yet just as a semblance of peace settled over the two souls sitting atop the barn's narrow loft, haunting and harsh screams erupted from back at camp. The stillness of the world shattered near-instantaneously as the reality of Astrid Lancaster's cruel existence came crashing back to her, all at once.
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