The Darkest Storm

From This Valley

It appears as an endless vista; beautiful, ocean-blue, with rolling blue skies and drifting clouds. A spec, a dot of light, appears on the horizon. The mark of a new day is hovering; teasing the world.

Crossing the grounds, a sprawl of camping tents is revealed; their un-zipped windows are flapping along with the short, humid breeze. Smoke from a late-night campfire still floats in the air. All seems well in the eerily quiet surrounding.

But, there is a faint droning of flies. Spanning closer, a body is focused. Half-eaten, half-torn to shreds. An eye dangles from it's socket. Slightly-dried blood is pooled underneath it.

Shane appears; haggard, exhausted. He stumbles out of his tent with a yawn, shielding his eyes against the sun. He sees them; all of them. A huge sprawl of dead amongst the grounds. It looks like the world's biggest, and most creative, Halloween display.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his head whilst his eyes still try to adjust to the sight in front of him. He spots a particular tent to his right, intentionally placed close to his, and purses his lips. Happy, yet unshakably disappointed.

Shane starts to walk when he spots another tent. This time, it is purposefully on the outer edge of the group, just under a tree. A fire pit lined with squirrel skins hangs limply amongst the rocks. Spare arrows and ammunition are set strategically along the tent's front.

For a moment, he is awed by the quiet sense of desolation. Then, rustling of the rest of the camp awakens, as if they all felt the urge to get up and move on.

Shane raps quietly on the tent's entrance. He hears the two inside groan inwardly to themselves and he can't help but do the same. Waking up Daryl was not his favorite thing to do. In fact, anything that ever involved the two Dixon's was a struggle; he could only sit and pray that Darcy was a bit more civil.

Daryl spots Shane standing on the other side of the thin tent fabric; sleepy, but making his authoritative presence known by raising a brow at the two who haven't made the effort to move.

"It's that time." He says, rubbing his face with a calloused hand. "We'll be on the move soon."

To his right, with one foot out of her sleeping bag, hair tangled in a frenzy, and one hand aimlessly searching the floor for her own bow, is Darcy. "Just need Daryl's help movin' the bodies." He says in her direction.

"Thank God." She mumbles within her pillow.

"Darcy, need you in charge of breakfast." Shane tells her, hearing an odd sort of whimper come from her direction before she sits up slowly with an ache in her shoulder.

Shane gives a thankful look, "Andrea and uh- Amy – had a whole lotta luck with fish last night. You can try the Quarry. We don' want anybody straying too far, you hear?"

Darcy listens with little interest while she slips on her boots and grabs her bow. "That's where I'll be then."

Shane sighs before standing up and out of the tent to let Darcy pass. He follows her for a few seconds when he says, "We all appreciate you stayin'. Our odds would have been a lot worse if you weren't here. Wish ya'll had never left but we sure are grateful you came back."

"You don't think we should've gone?" Darcy's question hangs in the air tensely. She keeps her eyes straight ahead.

Looking at her with raised brows, Shane says, "It ain't my call."

Darcy swiftly turns on her heels to come face to face with Shane. He stops just short when she holds out her hand to him – grazing his chest when she does.

"Listen, just so we're clear, whatever trouble you got going on is between you and Rick." Shane places his hands on his hips, raising his head for a swift second before looking back at her with a raised brow. By that time, Daryl had come out of the tent with his boots in hand. He sees her stern look and watches them carefully.