Author's Note
I know, I know, I should be concentrating on my Final Fantasy XII fanfiction but I've been on a bit of a The Walking Dead binge lately and the growing temptation to do a Daryl/OC story was starting to distract me! I know this has been done to death already but he's just so damn cool!
For those of you who aren't familiar with my writing style I will warn you I tend to jump from 1st to 3rd POV at times and it takes a very long time for my OCs to become romantically involved with the chosen character because I love building sexual tension.
Prologue takes place before the Dixons join the Atlanta camp.
Disclaimer
I don't own The Walking Dead. I do own Billie-Jo, my OC.
Walking A Line
'Ain't no turning back 'cause I'm walking the line.'- Walking A Line, Foo Fighters
'Stolen friends and disease, operator please can you patch me back to my mind?'- Little Black Submarines, The Black Keys.
Prologue: Shoot the Runner.
"Fuck! Come on." The words curled from my lips in a muted hiss.
I shifted my weight slightly to alleviate the steady burning ache that gnawed at my legs. It suggested I had been crouched behind the charred husk that had previously been a car for too long now. Lifting my head slightly to peek over the puckered car hood it seemed not much was moving in the little town of Crowlby. Its once idyllic setting had been reduced to dusty, litter strewed streets, abandoned cars and broken windowpanes.
The firework should have gone off by now. I huffed an irritated sigh and pulled myself to my feet. There was no breeze gracing the soupy summer heat today, the cigarette I had fashioned into a slow fuse must have burnt out because of this. This wasn't the first time Georgia's heat-wave had hindered me. I moved to step around the car when something stirring further down the street caused me to cut my actions short. It was the familiar awkward shuffle of one of them. I gasped and hurriedly sunk to squat behind the car again, heart hammering out a faster beat against my ribcage. They had been around for weeks now but that didn't mean they still didn't scare the shit out of me. Bellamy was always referring to them as Rotters, Dead Heads or Coffin Dodgers instead of their true name in hope to lessen their now never-ending, threatening presence. Bellamy…
The distant whoosh of a firework rocket soaring into the stretch of blue overhead jerked me from my worry. It burst into a bright bloom of orange and reds before just as quickly fizzling out leaving behind a rapidly fading plume of smoke. The blast was almost heart juddering in the sinister silence that masked the town. I inched my head up so I could once again snatch a sight of the street. The Rotter that had been meandering around some of the domestic debris sluggishly turned its head in the direction of the noise before lumbering off to investigate further. I blew air out of my cheeks in relief. The only good thing about them was that they were predictable.
I waited a few minutes more to see if any others followed suit but the street was still once more. Content it was safe I slipped out from my hiding place and briskly walked down the street. Reaching a hand back, my fingers groped for the crowbar that was jutting awkwardly from my backpack. I tugged it free. I must have been on Crowlby's main street as all the usual establishments were dotted either side of its road. I hurriedly looked them over until I found the one I was after- the pharmacy.
Its brickwork and hand-painted sign matched the quant charm of the neighbouring shops yet as I neared I saw the spider web-like crack that was decorating the bottom of the pane of glass in its door. I curled my fingers loosely around the door's handle as I squinted past the glass at the gloom lurking at the back end of the shop, behind the counter. Nothing moved. I pushed the door open to be greeted by the pleasant chime of a bell. My eyes darted up to see the small bell still swaying slightly overhead. Well, I guess if there was anything back there I definitely had its attention now. My hand strayed from the door handle to grip the crowbar. I hovered in the entrance, weapon clutched tightly in both hands, bated breath. Nothing moved. I entered and quickly paced towards the rear of the shop, my footsteps sounding too loud in the lull. Slipping behind the counter, I shrugged off one of the backpack's straps and unzipped it whilst scanning the shelves for things I was in need of.
The pharmacy hadn't been cleaned out which was a pleasant surprise. As soon as people figured that looting superfluous items such as plasma TVs and designer jeans wasn't going to get them far in this new world, they began to hit supermarkets, pharmacies, camping supply shops and gun shops. Crowlby was small, more of a hamlet than a town and slap bang in the middle of nowhere so it must have been overlooked by other survivors. Despite my luck I wasn't going to celebrate just yet. Uncharted territory never went undiscovered for long and the firework I had set off as a distraction for the Coffin Dodgers could just as easily ensnare the attention of others. I began to stuff items into the bag. Hydrogen peroxide, gauze, surgical tape, iodine, antiseptic cream, ibuprofen, gentamicin, rifaximin, meropenem, amoxicillin, ciprofloxacin-any antibiotics I could get my hands on.
By the time I had raided the shelves the backpack was brimming with boxes, blister packs and plastic bottles full of pills. I slung it on and marched out back onto the main street again, glancing around for any sign of Rotters. There were none. Instead there were three guys further down the street checking out a shop window. Their heads snapped round when the cheery chime of the pharmacy's bell rang out upon my exit. I froze.
We stood there for a beat or two dumbly staring at each other and then my mind jerked out of its shock of seeing living, breathing people. I hastily grasped the grip of the Colt M1911 that was stuffed in the waistband of my jeans and yanked it free before pointing it at the group with a flick of my hand. They flinched, quickly dropping down behind a car that was haphazardly parked across the pavement. Turning on my heel my feet took flight as I dashed away from them and out of Crowlby hoping my bluff had bought me enough time to put some distance between us. I fumbled and attempted to shove the gun back in my jeans. I wished it were loaded.
Running was hard work in this heat and not to mention I hadn't had a proper meal in days. It wasn't long before my chest heaved, legs burned and dots began to blemish my vision. I pushed on, not stopping until I reached my bike that I had left on the outskirts of town. I shoved the crowbar back into the backpack and swung my leg over the Triumph Bonneville. It rasped and spluttered a few times before finally starting up with a roar. I chanced a glance behind me to see if they were in pursuit. They were. I took off.
Roads were no longer easy to navigate due to them being bogged down with cars, vans and the occasional decomposing corpse. It made sense to travel by motorbike but the Triumph was heavy and cumbersome. I needed to check it over, it was taking too long to fire up lately. I snaked round an over turned car.
They had to be the same group. All guys, all armed. This wasn't good. Either they were branching out to explore new territory and our meeting was pure chance or they were looking for us probably to finish what they started. We'd have to run again but with hardly any supplies, no ammo, me with my crowbar, Bellamy with his hammer we weren't going to make it far especially with the state that Bellamy was in. The niggling worry that had been budding since my little jaunt into Crowlby suddenly exploded into full blown panic at our chances. This wasn't good. We were in trouble.
I turned my head to snatch a glimpse of the road behind me, it showed no signs of anyone following me. I returned my attention back to the terrain ahead of me in time to see a Rotter lazily lurch from the car it had been propped up against and attempt to grab at me. I swerved, a yelp coming from my lips. I clipped the bumper of an adjacent car and quickly attempted to outmanoeuvre another that was blocking my route. The bike quickly spun out of control under my amateurish attempts at driving and before I knew it I was on the ground. Dust kicked up from the crash masked the air but it was clear I had run the Triumph off the road and was now sprawled out on the grassy slope that lined its edge. The bike's engine was still rumbling as it lay a few feet away from me on its side. It soon choked and died. My leg felt like it was on fire. I lifted my head to see that the denim of my jeans had been rubbed away along with a few layers of skin. Road rash. I groaned and allowed my head to drop once more, hoping to catch my breath.
A groan rang out in response. My head jerked up to see the Rotter that had caused my crash was slowly stumbling his way down the bank to me. I yelped and attempted to put some distance between us by scrambling back. My limbs were sluggish and stung with each endeavour at moving them. He advanced, a hand already outstretched and swiping. I fumbled for the crowbar to see it was over by the Triumph amongst the supplies that littered the crash site. I hadn't even noticed that the backpack was no longer on my back but sat gaping beside the bike, one of the straps ripped off. The Rotter groaned louder now as if the anticipation of sinking its teeth into my flesh was becoming overwhelming. My fingers went to my belt and attempted to grab the hilt of the knife that was sheath there. After a couple of tugs it came free from its leather sheath. I clumsily repositioned my fingers so that I held it with a firmer grip before attempting to pull my battered body up. He was closer now and sagged to his knees so he could get at me. I shrieked and kicked at him but his putrid hands were on me. I continued to squirm and kick before summoning the strength needed to spring up so that we were face to face, on our knees. His hands tightened their grip, one hand at my throat, the other seizing my free arm. How could something so decrepit be so strong?
I lurched forward and slammed the knife into its head. He suddenly went still and slumped forwards. I sat back and I took in quick snatches or air, my hand still holding the knife's grip. There was no blood. There never was any blood when you stabbed an older Rotter, just a gloopy brown tar. My eyes flickered from my knife to the head it was still embedded in. Brittle, blond hair was sparsely covering its skull. I was just thankful it had bowed its head so I didn't have to look at its eyes. I yanked the knife free, gagging at the gore covering its blade and the smell of the now unmoving corpse. The Rotter swayed and fell to its side, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, cloudy eyes open and vacant. I swallowed some air in hope to still the churning in my stomach. It didn't work. The merge contents of my stomach vaulted up. I always puked after killing them, Bellamy never failed to find it funny.
I dragged the back of my hand across my mouth when I heard it. The far away hum of a car. Suddenly the reason why I was fleeing in the first place flashed in my mind. Despite my injuries, I clambered up and hobbled about stuffing the broken rucksack with supplies. I bent over the Triumph stripped it of its saddlebags before limping off into the woods as far as I could and collapsed behind a tree.
"Hold up." Merle barked.
Daryl complied and slammed on the breaks causing the pick-up truck to jerk to a stop. He turned his head to see his older brother was leaning out of the open window, his attention to something on the roadside.
"What?" He grunted.
It was bad enough they had been chugging along in the battered truck with no air conditioning and the radio only singing out a grim public broadcast on loop but at this current slower pace the journey was becoming unbearable.
"Don't remember those being there when we came through this way the other day." He swung the door open and got out.
Daryl craned his neck to see what he was talking about. Skid marks marred the asphalt. He sighed and killed the engine. Supplies were running low and Merle stopping to investigate every potential lead was costing them gas.
"Jackpot!" He heard him holler from further down the bank.
He climbed out of the truck and paced to the lip of the road, adjusting the strap of his crossbow so it hung more comfortably against his back. The grassy slope that snaked down from the road showed that marks had been caused by a motorbike.
"That a Triumph?" He made his way down the slope with quick steps, passing his brother who was nudging a Walker with a hole in its head with his boot. He sunk to his haunches as he looked the bike over. "Same model. This is the first bit a luck we've had all week. It's kinda banged up but I bet I could strip it down." He placed his hand on the bike's black tank where some of the paint had been scraped off. His brow furrowed. He looked over his shoulder at his companion who was currently observing him.
"Bet that thing's still warm." Merle said.
"How'd ya know?"
"This fella's just been done in and looks like whoever stuck him didn't have a strong stomach."
Daryl rose and approached the corpse at his brother's feet. There was puke splattered on the grass next to it. He shrugged the crossbow strap off his back and approached the fringe of the woods. Sure enough it looked like someone had slunk off into the trees and judging from their tracks they were injured.
"Wanna go after 'em?"
"They ain't gone far." Merle strolled past and entered the woods, dry leaves crunching underfoot.
"You think they're the one behind that shot we heard earlier?" He followed, crossbow raised.
"I told you it weren't no shot. Sounded like a firework."
"Whatever." He sullenly mumbled his eyes still darting about the woodland floor for tracks.
Merle suddenly stopped and gestured at a distant tree. He saw it straight away, a shoulder peeking out from behind the tree's thick trunk. Whoever they were they were sat with their back against the tree.
"Ain't much point in hiding. We found your bike, you gotta be in pretty bad shape." His brother called out.
Silence gripped the air, the odd bird call breaking up the void of voices.
"I'm armed." Called out a girlish squeak.
"Well then, better ditch the gun and come out with your hands were we can see 'em. My brother here is quite the sharp shooter. You ain't gonna be much of a match for him."
She didn't answer. She didn't move. Merle turned his head to look back at him and nodded in the direction of the girl. Quickly understanding what his brother was implying he do, Daryl hissed,
"Come on, man. You know chicks can't shoot for shit."
"She's gotta know we mean business."
"Bitch probably ain't even packing." He muttered before taking aim on the tree that neighboured the one she was cowering behind.
It was slightly further ahead than her so the bolt would go whistling past her. He fired and the bolt hit its target with a satisfying 'thunk'. A startled gasp rasped out from behind the nearby tree.
"You gonna come on out or is my brother gonna start aiming for closer targets?"
Daryl loaded another bolt onto the crossbow, pulling the weapon's string back until it was taut. He shouldered the crossbow again and waited.
"Okay, okay! I'm coming out."
She pulled herself up and limped into view, her hands held up. One loosely held a crowbar. She hadn't been lying about the gun. Its grip was poking out from the waistband of her jeans, it looked to be a Colt M1911. The only other visible weapon on her was a USMA KA-BAR knife that hung from her belt. That was probably what had caused the hole in the Walker's head.
"You packing a lot of heat for a lil'one." Merle smirked.
She continued to shuffle forward. As she neared Daryl noticed the extent of her injuries. The jeans she wore were torn and ripped all the way up to the knee on one leg, revealing a sizable dirt encrusted scrape. Skin was also missing on her elbow and cheek on the same side.
"Far enough. Drop the crowbar and put your hands on your head."
She did as she was ordered, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them. She was shaking. Merle stepped up to her and plucked the pistol from her jeans. He skilfully ejected the clip. He turned to look back at him, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
"Shit ain't even loaded." He replaced the clip and shoved the gun into the back of his own jeans before bending to pick up the crowbar. He looked it over with indifference and quickly shifted his focus to the KA-BAR on her belt. He moved to remove the sheath from her belt but she ducked back a few steps.
"No, please... It was my Pa's."
"Finders, keepers. Now it's mine." He yanked the sheath off her belt before she had chance to evade him again. "Got me the inkling that you're holding out on us here, missy. You got any other supplies back behind that tree?"
"Don't have anything else. I was just on a run looking for supplies but everywhere's been raided."
"You the one that set that firework off?" Daryl asked.
"What firework?" She didn't even miss a beat but her eyes were wide, a sure fire way of knowing she was bullshitting them.
"Seems to me that if you're that tooled up just for a run you got stuff worth scrapping for." Merle loped off to where she had previously been hiding.
Daryl noticed her face fall before she turned to watch the older man duck behind the tree.
"Well lookey what we have here!" He called. He plucked the used crossbow bolt from the tree trunk it was currently embedded in and quickly returned with a torn up backpack and a saddle bag for the Triumph. He dumped them on the ground, tossed Daryl his bolt back before beginning to undo the buckle of the saddlebag. It was full of spare pieces for the bike, wrenches and tools to fit them. "Guess you don't have to strip the bike after all. We got everything we need right here." He delved into the backpack to pull out medical supplies.
"Take anything you want- take the parts, my weapons but please, I'm begging you, I need those." She pleaded in a thin voice. She looked on the verge of tears.
"Finders, keepers. 'Sides I don't take well to being lied to."
"Let her have 'em. We don't need 'em."
"Better to be prepared." He shrugged as he continued to rummage through the contents.
"Please. I need them." She choked back a sob.
She was so scrawny and with those pleading, brown doe-eyes of hers she reminded Daryl of one of those stray dogs he used to see scuttling round the back of the local diner in search of scraps.
"Merle." He drawled in a low tone. He was attempting to sound warning but it came off more like whining.
"Quit your bitching both of y'all." Merle snapped. He shoved the supplies back into the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He cast off the crowbar with a swoop of his hand. It clattered to the floor a few feet away. He then bent to snatch up the saddle bag. "I ain't leaving you with nothin'. You can keep your water and your crowbar. And I'm no longer interested in your bike so consider yourself lucky. "
He stalked off back out towards the road. Consumed by despair the girl sank to her knees. Daryl lingered for a moment before lowering his crossbow and turning to head after his brother.
"That wasn't cool." Daryl muttered as he started up the pick-up truck.
"Pussy." Merle snorted.