I only own Wes and Callie. If I owned WD, I'd be married to Norman Reedus by now. Hope y'all like the new characters!

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Chapter 1: Looking for a needle in a haystack

The world is a dark and dangerous place nowadays. The streets are lined with creatures that hunger for flesh. The few living are so terrified, most of them have lost their sanities. Each day is a fight for survival, and there aren't many who can win against hordes of the undead.

When all this began, I just couldn't believe it. I assumed the media was blowing things out of proportion, hoping to cause panic like they always do. But then my sister got sick. Her blood seemed to boil, making her skin scorching hot. She coughed up blood, unable to eat or drink anything. Towards the end, she had bouts of hysteria and hallucinations. Then, she died.

That wasn't the worst part though. The worst part was what happened after she got back up. My uncle Wes had to take her down. She did her best to get her pound of flesh, but fortunately for us, Wes was faster.

"Callie!" I heard Wes call out, shaking me from my reverie. "Find anythin'?"

I gave a frustrated sigh, blowing my blonde locks from my face. "Not yet. What about you?"

"Nah," he muttered as he made his way through the living room to the bathroom where I was. "Painkillers?" he asked hopefully.

I shook my head and he let out a disappointed grunt. Wes had been in the military for quite a while, and he had suffered with an injury to his knee. While he was able to run and fight on it, it stiffened up on him sometimes and gave him a great deal of discomfort.

I took in the sight of his face, with the long scar from his left temple down to his chin. It made the left side of his mouth curve down just the slightest amount and gave him a permanent stern and disapproving expression. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black, and his blonde hair looked light brown with all the dirt and oil in it. His body was large and broad, evidence of his time working for Uncle Sam. All in all, his presentation was menacing.

He turned and left the room to finish rooting around the house. I continued my task, searching through random bathroom supplies, looking for something we could take with us. Whoever had owned this house had to have been a clean freak. There were at least fourteen different kinds of bathroom cleaners and rows upon rows of sponges.

I twisted, readying myself to turn and take my leave, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My blonde hair was no longer shiny and vibrant. I had chopped it off, getting rid of my waist-length hair so the undead wouldn't be able to use it to my disadvantage. It was choppy, shoulder-length, and unimpressive.

I'd always been a bit tan, thanks to my father's side of the family. My mother had offered up her slim frame. All in all, I knew I didn't look as bad as some of the women nowadays did. My face was heart shaped, my pale blue eyes were striking and still full of life, and I had earned some impressive muscles following Wes around like a shadow.

I made my way to the kitchen, ignoring the blood and brain matter splattered all over the walls of the living room. The people who had once owned this house had taken the easy way out and died on their own terms. I guess, in the end, it didn't matter if they were clean freaks or not.

Wes had gathered cans of food and was in the process of searching for bottled water. We dove through the endless supply of cabinets, until I opened one of the higher ones. "Jackpot," I muttered. Wes peered over and I moved my arms so he could see. There were several different types of liquor: bourbon, whiskey, tequila, rum. The list could continue on for miles.

Wes shot me a toothy grin. "There's my gerl!" I gave him a pleased smile and helped him unload the find onto the counter. "Jus' gotta load it up into tha truck."

We had parked the truck as close to the front door as we could get it, making sure it didn't also block us in. We snuck out the door, quietly loaded everything we had gathered, and headed back inside, always watching for the undead.

"Got enough daylight fer a quick shower, I reckon," Wes said, as we headed up the stairs. There had been two bathrooms with a shower in each one, and we were in desperate need for a thorough cleaning.

"I'll take this shower, Wes. You take the master's." He nodded and started to head down the hall.

"Five minutes," he called over his shoulder.

There was enough pressure built up for both of us to take quick showers. The hot water didn't work, but then again, I hadn't expected it to. I was just relieved to have the walkers' blood and all the dirt and grime washed off. I felt a few pounds lighter without all of it weighing me down.

As I scrubbed, my fingers lingered over various scars along my torso and arms. Memories suddenly overwhelmed me, phantom pains from injuries that happened long ago rocking my frame. My tears blended with the water cascading down my face. No, I had to forget. Remembering would get me killed. Those memories were nothing more than pitiful weaknesses. I had cast off that former version of myself and I'd be damned if it came back to haunt me.

I grabbed a pair of jeans that fit kinda loose around my hips and an old worn out T-shirt from the bedroom connected to the bathroom I was in. I knew Wes would be able to see through my act, even if he didn't comment on it, so I allowed myself a good thirty seconds to collect my thoughts. When I felt I was ready, I made my way from the bathroom.

Wes was already downstairs, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt I didn't recognize. Once we had gathered up our meager belongings, we stepped outside. Some of the undead were wandering about, drawn by the cooler air and promise of darkness. We don't know why the walkers like the night better than the day, but they're usually more active then. Although, if they see you standing in the sunlight, they won't hesitate to chase you down.

We hopped in the truck and took off before any of the undead could attack us and rip into our flesh. It would be dark soon, but Wes and I felt we were too close to the city. True, we were in suburbia-land outside of Atlanta, Georgia but we would have been more comfortable stranded out in the Rocky Mountains. Wes and I practically lived in the woods while I was growing up. I'd never been a picket fence kinda girl.

By unspoken agreement, Wes drove and I kept an eye out the passenger window, looking for signs of movement as we moved along. After a while, I couldn't see any more walkers and the light was quickly fading from the sky. Just as we always did, Wes pulled over and kept an eye out while I curled up and napped.

It was a light, fitful sleep, one full of rotting faces and snarling mouths eager to feed. I hadn't had a deep, peaceful slumber since before all this started. Too soon, Wes's hand was on my shoulder, shaking me awake.

"Alright, okay," I muttered, rubbing my hands over my face to wake myself up. "Go to sleep, Wes. I got it."

I climbed out of the truck and sat in the bed of the truck on the toolbox. Pulling out my hunting knife, I started quietly sharpening it, pausing every so often to listen intently. We were far enough from the city to not be in too much danger, although the walkers had started wandering recently. We were also pulled off the road enough to not be quite so noticeable. Wes and I had a system that worked for us.

I heard distant sounds of the undead, although most were a fair distance away. I had exceptional hearing, so I wasn't too concerned about one of the walkers sneaking up on me. I continued to sharpen my knife, watching the moonlight caress the blade as if it revered it.

A low groan caught my attention. I turned my head, the rest of my body frozen in place. A walker had stumbled out from between two cars. He lifted his nose into the air, drawing in deep breaths. Our scent must have drawn him. His eyes sought me out.

Once he caught sight of me, his body tensed and became driven by his base instinct: to feed. He let loose a snarl that raised the hairs on my arms. His speed increased the closer he got to the truck. A quick glance around revealed no other immediate threats so I knew I could take my time.

"Hey big boy," I murmured, standing up and jumping out of the back of the truck. The stench of his rotted flesh hit me full force and I almost stumbled. Shaking my head to clear it, I focused on the zombie before me.

He's been taken down by bites to his chest, it seemed. Half of his stomach was ripped out, his intestines flapping along his legs as he stumbled closer. He snarled and I could see bits of flesh caught in his teeth. His skin was gray and stained by the blood of his victims.

I held the knife loosely in my hand, twirling it around to keep my wrist relaxed. I didn't need a strong grip and tensed limbs to take down my opponent. I had been raised to know how to hunt and use weapons such as the one I held, unlike many of the poor bastards in the world today.

I kept a wary eye on his hands. Just one scratch could change my fate. I knew I would stab myself before I'd let the sickness take me. Hell, so would Wes. Love didn't trump survival in his mind.

The zombie lunged at me and I easily stepped to the side, blocking him and letting him run past me. He swung his head around, enraged that his prey was evading him. When he rushed at me again, I ducked under his outstretched arms. We continued this way for several minutes, almost like we were caught up in some intimate dance. His growls got louder and angrier, until Wes woke up and stepped out of the truck, keeping his distance as he watched.

Finally, Wes cleared his throat, my cue to wrap it up. As the walker lunged at me again, I grabbed his left wrist, using his momentum to jerk him around so I ended up behind him. Swiftly, before he had the chance to turn his head, I buried my knife to the hilt in his skull. His body slumped to the ground and I removed my weapon, wiping the blood and brain matter across the material of my jeans.

Wes and I moved to get back in the truck, not eager to face anymore of those things. One is alright, but I don't wanna sit down for lunch with a whole group. As soon as my fingers touched the door handle, I heard something the made me pause.

I frowned, turning to face the city. Wes paused and watched my face. I cocked my ear towards the tall buildings, waiting and listening. Then, I heard it again. Some poor bastard was screaming for help.

I looked over at Wes and knew he'd heard it too. "Ain't our problem," he murmured.

I turned towards the once great city of Atlanta. "There's someone in trouble, Wes."

He shrugged and grabbed the key, ready to turn it. "I ain't gonna hang myself jus' ta let some bastard walk free." He shook his head. "Won't trade my life fer anyone else." He continued to watch my face, seeing my conflict. "You won't either."

I stared at the city for a while longer. "Like hell I won't." I grabbed one of our rifles, my handgun, and a small amount of ammo out of the bed of the pickup. I already had my knife in the sheath at my waist. In my mind, I was fully prepared for my trip. Maybe I should've been more concerned with the hordes of undead walking around the city.

Wes sighed, leaning back in his seat. He didn't seem very surprised though. Maybe I was a bit too reckless for this world. "If you ain't back by nightfall, I'm leavin'." I just nodded and began my long walk down the highway.

I walked quietly, used to the hunts Wes would always take me on growing up. I didn't hear any walkers wandering around as I approached the city, which was both a relief and ridiculously unsettling. As I drew closer to the outskirts of Atlanta, the sky started to lighten. I quickened my pace. I had several hours to get there, help the guy, and get back to Wes, but you never know when things will go south. I'd rather not waste precious seconds.

I slipped past a few stray zombies, even though I had to use my knife when I turned a corner and a walker was suddenly right in my face. She went down quickly and quietly, but I knew I'd have to be more careful.

All the while, I listened for the guy who'd been shouting, but it seemed he wasn't trying to give me any clues as to where he was. I looked around at the buildings, spotting one across the street that was fairly taller than the others around it. I should be able to get a good bird's eye view from that roof. Maybe the person in trouble made a sign or something.

I crept across the street, trying to avoid detection and giving a wide berth to the store next to my destination. It was a department store, and looked like the undead had gone out of their way to rip into its front doors. They could be long gone by now, but one never knew.

I slipped through the doors, keeping as quiet as humanly possible. I could hear the shuffling of feet, but I figured I could get up the stairs while giving the zombies in the building the slip. As I reached the door that provides access to the roof, I decided that I deserved a freaking medal. The door was a bit noisy when I pushed it open, but I hadn't seen any walkers the whole way up the stairs, so I was hopeful none heard it.

I stepped onto the roof, immediately spotting a zombie who looked as if it was debating jumping off the building. I frowned, thinking it was unusual, but I turned and closed the door, glancing around for any others. It was just us up here.

I approached the walker slowly, holding my knife at the ready. The walker seemed to be reaching for something as it leaned over the wall that surrounded the rooftop. It hadn't even noticed me. Then I realized why.

"Help me, you sumbitches!" a man yelled. Glancing over, I realized he was on the roof of the department store next door. I grinned at my luck. Guess I wouldn't have to go searching for him. The man was on his knees, head bowed.

I stabbed the walker in the head while she was still focused on the other roof, and then shoved her over the wall. She splattered across the pavement. I wiped off my knife and stuck it back into my sheath.

There was a tiny bit of concrete that connected the two buildings. It would be frightening, but I was sure that I could make it across. I had the rifle strung across my back and it would have probably knocked anyone else off balance, but this was something I was used to. I almost felt incomplete without a knife at my side and a gun across my back.

I managed to inch across the concrete, the very edges of my sneakers hanging over the sides. I held my breath, almost as if breathing alone would send me tumbling to my death. All the while, I never gained the attention of the man. I made it to the other roof and stopped about five feet from him.

"Hey, sir? Are you in trouble?" I asked. I kept a hand on my knife's handle, uncertain if I should be worried about how dangerous he was.

The man's head snapped up at the sound of my voice. His eyes widened and he seemed to drink in the sight of me. His mouth formed an 'o' of surprise. "Are- are you really here?"

I looked down and noticed he was handcuffed to a large pipe. I crouched down and looked him in the eyes, being careful to stay out of arms reach. His pupils were dilated, and I knew he was on drugs. "First of all, that's kinky." I motioned to the handcuffs. "Looks like you got a winner there. Second of all, yes I'm really here. Third of all, seriously dude? You're skitzing? We're in the middle of the damn end of the world and you're on drugs. Very nice."

He squinted at me. "You can't be real. I imagined you." His eyes raked over me and a new gleam entered his eye. "But damn, I got a good imagination."

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "I probably just wasted a trip to Atlanta. Freaking ridiculous." I shook my head. "Okay, new subject. What did you do to end up chained to a pipe?"

His mood instantly soured. "Officer Friendly did this ta me. Left me up here ta die."

I raised a brow. "Your girlfriend is a cop? Or a stripper dressed as a cop? I'm thinking option number two."

He shook his head, frustrated. "Some new guy. Met up with my group and chained me up here. Then they left."

"Still didn't answer my question. Why were you chained up here in the first place? What did you do?"

He looked pissed. "Who said I did anythin'? Damn women, always blamin' a man…" he muttered, continuing to grumble to himself.

I shrugged, unconcerned. "I only got a couple hours to spare. You wanna be free? Make sure you use that time wisely. I may be the only one who can get you out of here."

He scoffed. "Merle always gets himself out of a jam, sugar tits. Don't you worry 'bout that."

I frowned. I'd only known of one man my entire life named Merle, and he'd been from Georgia too. But there was no way this could have been him… I decided to test him, to figure out if my hunch was correct.

"You seem kinda tough." He raised a brow. "I can tell you were born in the south. You got that look, plus the accent. It's hard to miss." He shrugged, not seeing where I was going. "But your kinda tough is usually learned after living in the south. Military?"

His eyes narrowed. "Yeah, why?"

I feigned innocence. "No reason, just making small talk. You ever stationed overseas?"

His frown grew. "Yeah. Boot camp was Parris Island. Why do you wanna know?"

I cocked my head. "You ever met Sergeant Baker?"

Merle frowned, either in confusion or because he was trying to remember. I saw wheels turning in his head and simply sat back and waited. Finally, the light bulb clicked on. "Baker! That sumbitch and I went ta boot camp together. You know him?"

I smiled. "Uncle Wes used to ramble on about you."

He was grinning so big, his face looked like it would split in two. "Damn, he and I used ta get into a hell of a lotta trouble. I 'member back when we was both privates, our drill sergeant was a real bastard. Slipped itching powder to his body powder." He laughed, one of those laughs that start somewhere deep in the belly. "That man was a faggot."

I chuckled along with him, having heard the story before. "So, Mr. Merle Dixon…" He wiped his eyes as he looked over at me. "What did you do to get yourself in this situation?"

He sighed. "Shot the gun a couple times. Beat the shit out of some nigger in our group. Hit in the head when my back was turned."

I sighed. Wes had always said Merle was a loose cannon. "You're crazy, you know that right?" He merely grinned in response. I made my way over to some tools scattered on the ground several feet from Merle. A handsaw caught my eye and I picked it up. As I straightened, I looked up and caught the gaze of a walker on the other side of the door.

Merle saw where my attention was focused. "Don't worry, sugar tits," he called out. "That door is chained closed. At least there's one thing the nigger's good for, even if he dropped the damn key. Those bastards can see, smell, and hear us, but they don't stand a chance of gobblin' us up."

I went back over to Merle, falling to my knees so I was level with him. "Let's try this, shall we?" I began sawing away at the chain, but after about thirty minutes, I had to admit it wouldn't work. The saw was too dull and the chain on the handcuffs was too strong.

I found a hammer and tried breaking it apart. That didn't work either, and I threw the tool to the ground in frustration. "Dammit!"

Merle was laying on the ground, hiding his face in the shade from the pipe. "Gotta come up with somethin' else gerly."

I gritted my teeth in response and began pacing. "We need to come up with something, I know. We need something like… bolt cutters!" I scrambled to the tool bag and began rifling through it, but came up empty handed. "Shit!"

Merle was looking at his hand. "Could always cut it…" he muttered.

I turned to him. "Cut what?"

"Cut it off." At my confused expression, he explained. "My hand. Cut the hand off. Like a coyote chews off its leg."

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. "What? Are you freaking insane?"

He sat up and fumbled with his belt, finally yanking it from the loops. "For the tourniquet." I shook my head and backed away. He sighed and fastened the belt around his forearm by himself. Then he picked up the handsaw. "You gonna look, or be a girl?"

I felt nauseous. Sure, I'd skinned my own kills since I was eight years old. Sure, I took down disgusting, rotting corpses every single day. But I had never harmed a human being, or seen someone harm himself. I clenched my teeth against the rising bile. He lifted the handsaw to his wrist, and my only thought was: Oh God, here comes lunch…

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Okay, as you can probably tell from my other story as well as this one, I don't like throwing Merle out into the world to screw things up. I hope I've been able to make this seem logical and well written. Callie won't be like other characters I've created. She's a little more messed up, but we'll get into that as the story progresses. Let me know what y'all think, reviews always welcome! If you've read or reviewed on my other story, you know I like to respond to everything people say. I really do appreciate your criticism and ideas.