The Imminent Storm

ByRia

Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead, just playing in AMC's sandbox.

A/N: First attempt at The Walking Dead fanfiction. This is an alternate ending to 'This Sorrowful Life' and reads like a mini-episode that allows the plot to fall back into place for the Season 3 finale — think of it as a bump between the episodes. I'm not big into romance so no pairings; but I do love torturing hot shaggy-haired guys so the will be a reasonable helping of angst. No slash. Rated T for swearing and torture.

Part One

Daryl lay against the cool ground, trying to focus on anything but the gory scene surrounding him. Dry blades of grass prickled against the skin of his neck and the fresh scent of earth around him was fouled by the rotting corpses only a few feet away — one of which was once his older brother. Daryl's chest tightened with grief, his breath hitching occasionally from the barely contained sobs. He tried taking long, slow breaths but with each exhale the emotional pain turned physical, constricting his lungs a little further each time. He could almost hear Merle's voice next to him, "Blubbering like a cry baby? That's shameful and pathetic lil brother. Git up and move on, ya hear. Stop bein' a pussy."

Daryl let loose a half-broken chuckle and managed to get his breathing back on track. His body relaxed but the sorrow and ache in his heart remained persistent. Merle was right though. He couldn't let this destroy him. He was the last Dixon to survive this mess and he would do just that, survive. He may have lost his brother, but he had a family now — people who cared about him, who counted on him — and he sure as shit wasn't going to let them down.

He just needed a few minutes to regroup, get his head straight, and some time to handle disposing of Merle's corpse.

For now though, he was content to lay in the grass and not think about anything at all. He could hear the distant shuffling and more audible noises of the remaining upright walkers — no doubt still feasting on the flesh of the recently deceased: The Governor's lackeys. The walkers had kept their distance so far, distracted by the easy meal, and were not a pressing concern. As long as he lay still, he wouldn't attract any attention from them.

Daryl had surveyed the scene upon arrival, not really knowing what to expect, but immediately recognizing the location from when Rick had his meeting with the Governor the prior day. Merle always had a taste for chaos and the younger brother expected nothing less if his sibling had decided to bring the fight here.

He would have liked to know exactly what his brother had been thinking in his last few hours. Running into a freed Michonne had been a shock in itself; but then finding this carnage had left Daryl stumped. It was no secret Merle wanted the Governor dead, but he had to know he'd be walking into a losing battle. Why hadn't he just asked for help? Daryl would have been at his side without a second thought. But that was the point, wasn't it? Protecting his little brother. Merle had always been Daryl's hero — at least when the older brother was actually around and not being a dick — and now he had sacrificed himself doing what he could to make sure his baby brother stayed safe and happy with his new family.

"Dammit Merle." Daryl mumbled into the slight breeze which had started winding its way between the crevices of the multiple farm buildings. The light blue sky and sparse clouds were melding into one overcast color, signaling a possible storm for the evening.

Good, wash away all this filth, he thought. Daryl wiped his face, casting away any evidence of the few partially-dried tears that had slipped out during the initial shock of finding his deceased brother. He was just about to sit up when he heard footsteps approaching.

He stilled and listened intently. This wasn't the drag and shuffle of a walker advancing toward him. The step was heavy, probably a work or military type boot, and moved with purpose in his direction. Now that he was truly listening, he could make out three softer sets of feet also heading toward him but from different origins, spaced out strategically like an ambush.

Shit. He swore silently, embarrassed that he hadn't noticed he wasn't alone. There had been no vehicles in the area. No other people, aside from the walkers, skulking around the buildings and silos. If these people had been lurking from the time Daryl arrived, why wait until now to attack?

The pace of the four people encroaching on his position quickened to a run and Daryl reached out for his crossbow only to have the weapon kicked from his hands. Three sets of guns glinted in the hazy sunlight, all aimed down at him.

A shadow appeared above Daryl, silhouetted against the reflective cloud cover. He started to roll to his side so he could get up, but one of those heavy boots crushed down on his shoulder, holding him in place. After a moment, Daryl's eyes were able to focus on the man's features and his suspicions were confirmed — it was the Governor and his remaining few men.

"It's a shame your biter-brother's already dead. You would have made a sizable meal for him. On your feet." The Governor's voice rolled out like oil, polluting all those unfortunate enough to hear it. Daryl scowled darkly but said nothing in response and made no effort to follow the order.

"Now." The Governor demanded, quickly growing impatient from the resistance. He locked eyes with the man on the ground, his stern look promising heavy consequences for not complying.

Daryl met his 'eye' and stared back, the rebellion evident in his words and tone, "Ain't doin' nuthin' you say, Asshole."

Three gunshots popped almost in sync, causing Daryl to flinch, but there was no pain. He realized then that the Governor's three lackeys were now facing outward and scanning their surroundings. Three new corpses lay on the ground. A few other walkers had noticed the commotion and were slowly making their way toward the group. Four more shots took care of the problem, leaving only the human threat.

The Governor was done requesting cooperation. "Get him up and bring him inside." He commanded. "Martinez, make sure he's secured. I'm gonna bring the truck around."

The Governor walked off between a couple silos, not bothering to look over his shoulder — he trusted his men to handle it. As soon their leader was out of sight, the man addressed as 'Martinez' bent down to take a firm grip on Daryl's feathery hair, pulling him up from the grass. "Come on, you inbred piece of shit."

After being dragged up the splintered wooden steps inside the building, Martinez kicked Daryl's legs out from under him, causing their prisoner to drop to his knees. Moving the redneck from the yard and into the workshop had not been an easy task and the black eye Martinez now sported was the most obvious indication of the hassle. The other two men, subconsciously rubbed at their ribs and abdomen, which were sure to be blossoming colorful bruises after having made friends with Daryl's elbow, fists, and feet.

Martinez had finally become frustrated with the struggle and drove a dive knife through Daryl's calf. The hunter grunted in surprise and fell to the dirt as the limb momentarily lost the ability to support his weight. Martinez rolled his eyes, wishing he would have just done that in the first place. After taking a moment to remove all their captive's weapons and throttling the hunter for his refusal to cooperate, they were able to drag their him into the building with much less resistance.

The blade wound still bled sluggishly, causing a red stain to saturate Daryl's pant leg. It hurt, but not unbearably — a good sign there wouldn't be too much muscle damage. Daryl hissed sharply as Martinez tightened and secured a leather strap just under his knee to serve as a tourniquet. "Can't have you bleeding out before the boss has a chance to play," he commented darkly while gathering a few more items from a work bench at the back of the room.

Daryl's hands were repositioned behind him, forearms were clasped together across the width of his back. Martinez tugged on a thick pair of leather work gloves he had found and stepped behind Daryl with a thin coil of metal held loosely in his right hand.

Daryl didn't have to wait long to find out what the wire was to be used for.

The cord was wrapped around his forearms, locking them together. It became clear right away that the wire was covered in barbs as each individual knot poked through Daryl's skin, drawing blood. Martinez seemed to take delight in every hiss and gasp from their prisoner and made sure to pull the wire taut after each wrap, driving the small spikes as deep as they'd go. He smiled as he wound the wire through the last time. "That oughta hold ya."

"Ya better hope it does." The redneck snarled back threateningly.

Daryl knew he should keep as still as possible to prevent further damage to his skin, but the metal points impaling him jostled with every movement, every breath; there was no way to escape the pain. The metal punctured through the cotton fabric of his long-sleeved shirt easily but at least his vest kept the spikes from scarring his back.

The men pulled their prisoner up into a chair at the table. Martinez wrapped an old, oil-stained rag around the knife wound in Daryl's leg, staunching the remaining blood flow.

There was a sharp beam of light that caused the four occupants to squint toward the shop entrance. The Governor entered, accompanied by the squeal of rusty hinges. The heavy wood smacked shut behind him and the dim shadows claimed the room once again.

"You boys head outside and keep watch." Commanded the deep voice. "I'm gonna have a chat with our friend here." The Governor announced as he took the last few steps up the split-level loft, eyes locked on his prisoner.