How long had she been out by herself? Just eighteen years old, brown skin and frizzy hair. She ran her hands through her brown hair streaked with dimmed, cheap, washed out, candy apple red in the side bang. It had been on sale months ago at the hair store she frequented for $6.99, and the color didn't match her skin tone well. It was even uglier now that her hair was all stiff and dirty.

She couldn't remember the last time she had a proper shower. Her feet were hurting from her boots, her tight, tiny shorts becoming uncomfortable. Her knotted halter-top was grass stained, not the best clothing to wear for running around in the woods during the end of the world. She had stolen them from a department store, forgetting it wasn't about looking cute anymore, but old habits died hard. She scratched her right cheek, her nails running over the month-old blackened scratches that drew themselves on her skin.

There was a pop somewhere in the bush. A twig perhaps? She gripped her two machetes in her hands and glanced around. The blades had belonged to her little brother. He had always been into weapons, for the life of her she would never know why her father let her 14-year-old brother have such dangerous things. It had to have been a 'male thing,' she figured. She kept walking, knowing she was more than likely safe. A few Garglers didn't scare her; crazy alive sons of bitches did. She saw firsthand how insane some people got after the world crashed and burned, the shock of it all turning them into psychopaths; at least Garglers were stupid. There was another snap of a twig, and she stopped dead, narrowing her eyes and turning slowly around to see what it was. She turned the right side of her face towards the noise- her 'bad side,' she called it. And as she glanced over, she saw a man standing there for a split second in the thick brush. He had a crossbow raised to his eye. She inhaled to speak, but before she could make a sound, he shot. She was knocked off of her feet and into the mud by the force of the shot. A loud, painful yelp jumped from her lips. The arrow had dug itself in just below her collarbone.

"What the fuck!?" she screamed, trying to pull the arrow out.

She heard her attacker swear under his voice and run towards her.

"Do you just go around shooting people!? You stupid redneck motherfucker-ah-God!"

She yelled as she writhed in pain in the mud, snatching the arrow from her body. He bent over her and covered her mouth with his hand.

"Shut up!" he said with an angry whisper, but the girl still uttered under his palm, trying to get his hand off of her mouth.

He looked down at her, with her darkened scratches on her right side and one white, cloudy-looking eye. That was the thing that made him shoot her; at first he thought she was normal, until she turned to look at him. Her one eye was cloudy like a Walker's, but it was apparent he should have gone with his first mind.

"I said shut up!" he hissed again.

She stopped fighting, her eyes rolling in the back of her head.

"Fuck!" he uttered, putting two fingers against her neck; there was still a pulse. She must have just passed out from the pain. He grabbed her machetes, slipping them both under his belt. He picked the girl up. He had no choice; she would die if he did not take her back to camp. Daryl Dixon was an asshole, but he was not as much of a dick as to let a young woman die there in the dirt under the trees and burning summer sun.

"Hey! I need help!" Daryl yelled, staggering into the camp. Her look was deceiving; she was heavier than she seemed, and he cursed that he also had to carry her backpack and weapons.

"Are you fools blind!? I need your fucking help!" he yelled again, and this time people listened. Everyone was still shaken up from the Walker attack that happened just last night, and that had killed some of their group members. He went out to get some extra food for their journey to the CDC, and instead he brought back a black girl.

What a fuckin' day. He thought.

"What happened?" the old one, Dale, asked, wearing his ever-present hat.

"I- I thought she was a Walker," Daryl said, with a slight choke as he glanced down at the girl in his arms.

"Why on Earth would you think she was a Walker? I mean look at her, she looks alive to me," Dale added, with that same surprised expression that he always had.

"Look man, I have my reasons! Now are you going to help me or what?"

"Put her in one of the tents, we'll take care of her there," Rick ordered, taking the girls pulse.

She slowly woke up, her eyes fighting to stay open to meet the blue plastic of the cheap tent. She put her hand to her chest, feeling that the puncture was stitched up with normal needle and thread. It must had not been that deep, but shit, did it hurt. If it had dug any deeper than it had, it might have killed her. She glanced over only to find the man that shot her sitting in the corner of the tent, watching her. She had a better look at him now; dark brown greasy hair, grimy skin, and narrow, questioning blue eyes. Her eyes left his face, landing on his side and noticing his hand on his knife. He just looked at her disfiguring scars and her one white eye.

"What happened to yer' face?" he asked, with a rough tone of voice which reminded her of sandpaper.

"Well, that's rude," she murmured as she sat up on her elbows. "You tried to kill me, and now you want to ask me twenty questions? Fuck ya, Redneck."

"Hey, you watch yer' mouth," he hissed pointing at her.

The girl narrowed her eyes at him, and sucked her teeth.

"What happened to yer' face? And what is yer' name?" Daryl demanded an answer from her. She said nothing at first, running her hand on the stitched area.

"Brandy."

She spoke before she sat up and reached for her backpack, and rummaged through it. She pulled out a container of prescription pills, popped two, and then shoved them back into the bag. He was still glaring at her. Brandy raised an over plucked eyebrow at him.

"My face looks the way it does because of an accident- I'm ain't bit. I'm blind in my right eye," she mumbled, scratching her head.

The man said nothing to her; he just kept glaring at her.
"Who do I owe the pleasure?" she asked with a fake, mocking smile as she ran her finger over her new scar.

"Daryl. Daryl Dixon," he answered, three of his fingers still on the hunting knife that was at his side.

"Well, now. That's a surprise. I was expectin' something like 'Tim Bob' or 'Bubba,'" Brandy jeered, getting up and grabbing her knapsack.

"Thanks Daryl, for almost killin' me," she hissed turning and storming out of the tent.

"Hey! Wait!" Daryl yelled following her past the old RV. The other members of the group stopped and looked over at the commotion. Brandy stopped and turned around, her half-pretty face wrinkling with anger. He pulled her two machetes from up under his belt and handed them to her. The young woman snatched them away and kept walking.

"Bitch…" Daryl cursed under his breath.

"Whoa, whoa," she heard someone call out from behind her; she was not going to stop, but whoever it was caught up to her.

"Hey, hold on," a tall man who had on a Sheriff's hat said to her.

Brandy turned to look at him, and as soon as she did she could tell that he was shocked by the right side of her face. His blue eyes widened, and scanned over her scars and her eye. He instinctively went to touch the scars.

"Hey, you alright?" he asked.

Brandy sucked her teeth and whacked his hand away from her face.

"It's from an accident," she hissed at him.

"I'm sorry-I-I thought…" he started to say to her, shaking his head.

Another man approached them, this one with wavy brown hair and dark eyes. He looked at her the same way everyone else had.

"It's from an accident," the first man said to man at his side, knowing what he would say to her. "What's your name?"

"Brandy Simmons."

"I'm Rick," he said, shaking her hand.

The other man introduced himself as well; his name was Shane.

"You know you can stay, you don't have to go back out there alone," Rick said, putting his hands on his hips. She let out a chuckle at his words.

"Yer' meth friend almost killed me," she said, pulling her halter-top collar to the side and showing them the stitches right under her protruding collarbone.

"He mistook you for a Walker. I'm sorry that happened," Rick apologized. "We are headed to the CDC, you can come with us."

Brandy snorted and tapped her booted foot in the dirt.

"I heard that there might be a cure," he added.

Brandy stopped, turning around with a look of speculation, narrowing her eyes and searching Rick's face for a trace of a lie. She found none.

"Whateva' but two things. Numba' one, I keep my weapons," She said, looking down at her machetes.

Rick noticed a gun on her hip with a silencer.

"Numba' two, stay out of my business," Brandy said to him, and turned to walk away.