Well, thanks for the reviews of my first one-shot. I'm going to get brave and try regular action...not the "implied" kind from the one-shot, which may become it's own chapter if this goes well...may save the real smut for when I'm really feeling bold! Thanks to all of you who reviewed and the nice things you said!
Warning: Rated M because Daryl Dixon talks like I do...potty mouth!
Chapter One: The Find
Rick and Daryl stayed close to the buildings, their backs flat against the walls with weapons ready, searching for any signs of life…or death. The living could be just as dangerous as the dead now, given the state of deterioration that had become our civilized world in the past few months. The dead were always glad to see you-they were hungry, driven only by their primal desire for food. The living wouldn't necessarily be glad to see you at all-especially when you were in their town, scavenging for anything edible or useful. The group had to be careful…and quiet. They were in the downtown area of a small town on the outskirts of Atlanta. It was one of those towns that used to be someone's hometown, but was now barely an exit on the interstate-a collection of weathered buildings around a small park. Local bank, a gas station, insurance agency, a couple clothing stores, too small for even a Wal-Mart. The jewelry and gift store they were passing had been looted, it's window shattered, the glass on the sidewalk crunched underfoot. Dumb fucks, Daryl thought to himself, gold n' diamonds ain't worth shit no more. Nothin' is.
The building next door was apparently the town's city hall, police department and jail, all rolled into one convenient location. At least that's what the sign creaking overhead had once said. Now it was hanging precariously by one of the two chains that had previously held it to the iron rod extending out over the sidewalk. The double glass doors at the front entrance had been boarded up with heavy plywood and there was a heavy chain and massive padlock around the door handles. Immediately to the left, there was a six-foot chain link fence surrounding an overgrown grassy area from the end of the building, around the corner and out of sight.
Daryl motioned to Rick that he was going in, or rather, up. Rick shook his head and motioned that he was going to cross the street to one of the other shops that had easier access to the inside, thanks to the post-outbreak looting that had been so rampant. Shane and T-Dog were busy scavenging through what was left of a gas station at the end of the next block, their pick-up trucks parked in the middle of the street between the two ends of the "business district." The group was on edge and nervous. T-here was a distinct lack of walkers on the street and in the buildings they had checked thus far. That meant one of two things-either they were massed somewhere, like the did occasionally, or there were survivors…with weapons enough to clear the streets.
Daryl slung his crossbow around to his back and climbed the fence easily. He dropped down with a quiet thud and listened, motionless, for shuffling, moaning, any walker noises. Nothing. He kept low and still through the high grass and looked cautiously around the corner. He worked his way down the cinder-block building to a metal door at the end of a sidewalk that lead the other way to a large gate, also chained and padlocked from the outside. It was a parking area for the police vehicles. Daryl reached for the door and slowly, imperceptible turned the knob. It turned easily. He held his breath as he opened it, standing to one side, bolt ready in his raised crossbow.
The boarded-up windows let in little light, but he could immediately tell he was in the law enforcement area of the building. It was trashed-office furniture and papers tossed about, beer cans, empty food boxes, the acrid smell of cheap cigars. Pigs, he thought to himself. Not even Merle is this bad. He crept in, inch by inch, weapon drawn, stopping, listening for any signs of life from within. Nothing. He rounded a corner and walked into an open area which housed the holding cells. Old piss, more cigar, dank air. The paint was peeling in places on the bars, their doors standing wide open, except for one. Darryl looked at the one cell that was closed and blinked twice. Fuck me, he thought. That's a girl!
The small figure laid motionless on the bottom bunk of the cell, curled on her side in a fetal position facing the door. If she was as small as she could be, maybe they'd forget she was there when they returned. Through her one good eye, she could make out a figure in the shadows, moving slowly towards the cell. Please, God, let it be a walker, please. She closed her eyes. The figure moved steadily closer to the cell door now, clearly no walker but still a predator. "Hey" the figure whispered. It was a man.
She opened her eye only halfway-that's all she had strength for at this point. It had been days since she'd eaten anything. She'd lost a lot of blood and the abuse she'd received had taken its toll. She looked up at when she realized he was standing right outside the cell door. He was tall and thin with heavily muscled arms and he was carrying the biggest cross-bow she'd ever seen. His hair looked dark and shaggy, his clothing stained and dirty, like he'd been hunting for days without coming in from the field. His shirt had the sleeves ripped out at the shoulders and his camo pants hung from a leather belt at his hips. So did a very large hunting knife.
She looked into his eyes. "Help…me." she mouthed slowly. She wanted to scream, to sit up, to do something let him know she was alive. Nothing worked anymore-not her voice, not her arms, certainly not her legs. She closed her eye again, believing that he hadn't seen and would think she was a walker and shoot her though the bars, a large part of her praying that the nightmare would end. Instead, she heard the low voice again.
"Hey. Girl." He said softly. "Keys. Where'sa keys?" Daryl instantly recognized the trouble the girl was in. There was blood on the bare mattress. Lots of blood. Her long, dark hair was matted and tangled. The half of her face that was visible was painful to look at-a horrible purplish-blue shadow surrounded her eye completely, which was almost swollen shut. There were scratches and cuts on her cheek and jaw. Ugly finger-shaped bruises circled around her neck. He could see her struggle with each breath. She raised her hand about three inches off the filthy mattress and pointed in his direction, her eyes moving slowly, deliberately to his left. There in the lock of the empty cell next to hers, was a large set of keys on an old-fashioned iron ring.
It took Daryl three tries. When he heard the metallic clank of the lock release, with the third key he tried, he tore open the door and took two giant strides into the cell to the bunk. "Fuck ME," he whispered when he looked down at the heap on the bed. "Can you walk?" Her legs were covered with bruises of every shape and size, in various stages of healing. There were wounds too. Knife cuts. On the back of one of her thighs, he could make out what appeared to be bite marks-human teeth-in the flesh of her leg.
"Can you WALK?" he said urgently. She looked at him and shook her head slightly. "Ok, then I have to do this." He grabbed her arms and hoisted her over his shoulder, adjusting the crossbow to the other side. The pain in her ribs shot through her like nothing she'd felt before, each hurried step he took was worse than the other. She weighed less than the last buck he'd bagged, he figured, even dead weight as she was. Before he got to the outer door and into the sunlight, she gurgled and went limp. "Fuck" he swore, with the realization that she might have just died while he was carrying her over his shoulder. "Don't do this now, Girl!" he said, "Don't you do this!"
He reached the fence on the street-side and called for Rick. "Get over to the side. Shoot the lock." he yelled. "I can't climb with her and she's about gone." Rick rubbed his eyes and what he was seeing and looked over his shoulder. He sprinted down the fence towards the locked gate at the back. Just then three walkers came from the alley behind the building. "Daryl, man, we gotta go. There are more coming, Shane just spotted a whole bunch of them at the end of the next block over and they're moving fast." Rick drew his service revolver and fired at the lock. It glanced off, barely scratching the metal. He fired again and the lock broke apart. He clawed at the chain as the three walkers advanced. He whirled around, slammed the handgun into it's holster and lifted his shotgun. Two shots-two of the walkers went down in a spray of brains and gore. The third kept advancing, spurred on by the noise.
"Down!" Daryl yelled as he let the girl slip down his back a bit and took his hands off her. He drew the bow, still cocked and as Rick dropped, he fired a bolt into the third walker. "Motherfucker!" Daryl yelled. Rick stood up quickly and pulled the arrow out of the walker's head and handed it to Daryl. "Trucks. Run. Now!" he yelled. Daryl swing the bow around his shoulder, balanced the girl on his shoulder and they both took off running. For a minute, Daryl forgot that he was carrying something other than his crossbow. He reached his truck about half a block before the walkers were upon them. Rick and Shane jumped into the red pickup that T-Dog had already managed to start. "What the fuck?" he heard Shane yell at Rick as he looked over his shoulder to Daryl.
Daryl threw open the door of the passenger side of his battered Dodge and half-chucked her limp body into the seat. Landing half bent, he pushed her legs in and slammed the door closed. He lept around the front of the truck, threw his crossbow in on top of her and pulled the door shut as the walkers were within 10 feet of the bed of the truck. He cranked the key in the ignition and it started with a lurch, tossing the girl's body back against the back of the seat. As he pushed the gas pedal to the floor and it lurched forward, he showering the bloated and rotting faces of the walkers with gravel and glass from the street. She moaned and rolled forward towards the floor board, the bow sliding off from on top of her. Daryl caught her shoulder in time to keep her from hitting the floor and pulled her back to the seat.
At that point, Daryl realized that she wasn't dead, but had probably had passed out from the pain. In the panic to get her into the truck and get away from the advancing walkers, her shirt had slid up, exposing her ribcage. It was black with half a dozen large crescent-shaped bruises up and down her side. Fucking boot marks-he'd seen those on his own body after his sum'bitch drunk-ass Daddy had give him a once-over in a tequila-fueled rage. Steel-toed, from the looks of how dark and angry the bruises were. "I'm sorry. I'm s' sorry." he said out loud, looking down at her. "Hang in there. Everythin's gonna be alright. We'll get ya fixed up. You're gonna be alright." Her arm slid forward and off the bench seat as he accidentally hit a bump and it jostled the whole truck. This time she cried out as the pain washed over her. Daryl drove like a madman back to camp.
