Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. That's who I felt like, taking on this bleak, godforsaken world alone.
Long limbed, lithe body, toned muscles, catlike reflexes, with the knack and skill for nailing a target dead center every time. The difference was, before the virus, before the world as we once knew it had been transformed entirely and gone to shit, I shot at wildlife or paper targets – not soulless creatures with decomposing flesh and open mouths with clamping, rotting teeth.
I'd grown up with a bow in my hand. While most of the folks in my neck of the woods preferred a shotgun, my daddy had trained me to use something less subtle. It required patience and steady breathing – an ability to control both the head and the heart when the moment was ripe.
And I was damn good at all of it, had a few state titles to prove it. Didn't mean much now, but it had back then. In a world full of materialistic girls, with upturned noses, I'd known how to live off the land, how to hunt and fish, skin and cook.
I'd killed squirrels and rabbits as an adolescent, then moved on to larger game as time went on. There was a thrill in the chase, something that got my blood pumping like no other. My bones and muscles would alight with excitement as I tracked the unknown, hunted it down with the sole intention of killing. And I was successful more often than not. I didn't know it at the time, but I was grooming myself for something bigger. Survival. The end of the world. College degrees and rich parents didn't mean shit during an apocalypse.
Nowadays, I killed walkers, or roamers, or biters. Take your pick of the name you preferred. Either one meant one thing: death if you weren't careful, capable. And because of daddy, I was more than capable. I flashed a thankful pair of blue eyes towards the sky, smiling at the sun that hit my face, as if the warmth of it was daddy's approval.
I was in uncharted territory, unfamiliar woods. Alone again. It had been that way for about four weeks now. Or maybe it was five. I'd lost track. Ever since I'd decided to leave the Birmingham group, go off on my own. I slept in trees most nights, tying myself to them with the belt that I'd stolen off of one of my first kills. Although muddled with blood and dirt, the leather had been expensive and sturdy – nothing that a few scrub downs in a nearby river hadn't taken care of.
With my quiver resting firmly over my back, chocked full of razor-sharp bolts, I took a few controlled breaths. This hunt needed to be successful. I needed food, nourishment. It had been days since I'd had protein, and the berries in my bag were no longer doing the trick. My body was weak. I could tell it in my sluggish senses, in the heaviness of my limbs. It was prevalent in the way that my brain would tell my body to move and the movement wasn't immediate.
I heard rustling up ahead – a few cracking limbs and the subtle sounds of leaves being disturbed. My ears pricked forward. Listening. Waiting. I jerked my head to the left when I heard it again. The hammering of your heart was oftentimes unnerving in the quiet, but not for me. It meant the familiarity of success, of happening upon my next kill. My eyes landed on a beautiful doe, restless but unassuming as she grazed a nearby pasture. Prickles of awareness tickled my insides. I was ready. My arm lifted, sailing upward through the air towards my bolt. I slid it from my quiver without making a sound, sliding it into place, drawing backwards.
Dinner was an inhaled, steady breath away. Three. Two…
Something went whirring past my head, sailing over my shoulder and into the side of the doe. The animal jerked to life, sprinting towards safety. It was too late though, the shot had been clean, perfect. Another bolt went whirring past, striking its target again, just moments prior to the blow to the side of my head. Then darkness. Sweet, heavenly, walker-free, apocalypse-ending darkness.
"Yeah, but why'd ya go an' knock her skull in?" Movement. Rustling. Sounds came at me through the murkiness of my mind. Cusses and hisses, more rustling and the sounds of flesh scuffling with flesh sounded nearby. Or maybe it was all just a dream. Or maybe I was dead and this was my introduction to the afterlife. "I know yer not smart, but Godammit, Merle."
"Ya push me again, we're gonna have more issues than an outsider with a gash on tha side of 'er head," the Merle character seethed.
"More than a gash. The shots ta tha ribs and tha stomach were uncalled for," the other pointed out. Because I couldn't see, I strained to hear.
"Her brain's not bashed in. Have a look at 'er. She'll be fine. Sure was fun," he noted, releasing a satisfied chuckle. The evilness it emanated made my insides boil. The bastard was gloating. If I could see, I'd put a bolt right between the fucker's eyes. "I'd do it again too." This time, the voice was closer, like it was coming at me from directly above.
I shifted all of my efforts on regaining my sight. I needed to know what I was dealing with. Or, better yet, who I was dealing with. I might've been born poor and sentenced to a life of land and trailer, but I'd always been beautiful. I'd been gifted that lucky strand of DNA by my mother. Money didn't always equal beauty, contrary to what many believed before. Even with dirt under my nails, I'd managed to turn heads. Even ones that I didn't want - like this Merle character. In this sadistic world, where people killed and took without thought, I had to worry about more than limping, dead flesh.
"Yer an idiot. Why doncha just think? Fer once?" This voice was heated, angry at the attacker. My attacker.
Heavy hands gripped my side, shifting my world forward then back, over-and-over in quick succession, before pressing me firmly onto my back. The pain was so great I thought it'd never end. I blinked my eyes again, the men becoming hazy blurs in front of me. "Pretty though, ain't she?"
"Fucking hopeless." This guy, much smaller than the other, lurched towards Merle as he said the words. His arms flared angrily out to his sides, something big – triangular - in one of his hands.
"Oh, stop being a pussy and grab you a handful." My body rocked again, the contents of the Earth digging into my back. The action was, again, painful. Beyond painful. My whole body ached. And my head…Good God, my head.
"Fuck off, Merle." He gave a gesture towards his companion, one that I assumed went hand-in-hand with the words he'd said.
"Where ya headed?"
"To get the deer." And then he was gone. The more rational of the two disappeared with another cuss and a huff.
Tightness bared down over my breast, like a vice clamping down over the full mound. The pain was searing, excruciating – even more so with my recent injuries. Rough hands clawed over both breasts, scratching the soft skin there. This was not a dream, the memory of the blow to the head from before surfacing. I tried moving my hands, but I couldn't. Maybe it was the hunger, maybe it was the pain, but my body wouldn't perform like I wanted it to. A moan that I was unable to stifle permeated the quiet.
"Yeah, squirm a little. I like it when my women fight."
And fight I did - against the darkness, and the pain, and the assault. I refused to go down this way, at the hands of a human. I'd fought my way through months and months of blood and guts and hunger. No way in hell I was letting this happen.
His chuckle hit me in the way of hot breath landing thickly on my face. It was worse than a hot July day in the South. He was close. "Feisty," he murmured as his hand began to snake its way down my shirt. "Daryl, come have a look," he called. "I'd say a solid 'C', maybe a 'D' cup."
"Back up, right now." Another voice, this one different than the last two. Calm. Controlled. Authoritative. I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cock. "Get your hands out of the woman's shirt. Do it. Now."
If saviors existed, this man was surely one. At least in the moment. He'd probably kill me later. My head didn't like the thought, the unease that it brought only adding to my pain.
The greedy hands left my breasts, my body jerking reflexively, attempting escape that wouldn't happen. Slowly, my vision returned, the blurry forms becoming crisp images. Too crisp. I squinted beneath the piercing brightness.
"Daryl, tell 'im I wasn't doin' nothin'. Talk some sense into 'im, will ya?"
"What's he doing out here anyway? His orders were to stay in the prison." He barked the words, aiming them somewhere beyond me. Sharp eyes narrowed, the tanned, crinkled skin around them accentuating his frustration. He'd addressed Merle like he despised him. His words towards the other man in the equation, very different. They sounded disappointed, like he'd expected better.
"Sorry, Rick. We jus' came ta hunt. That's all. We came up on tha deer and she was there. We didn't-He…"
The response came through heavy breathing, gaining volume as he neared. A loud thump came from the ground nearby. The doe. The animal's assassin came into view, his back to me as he faced the one asking all the questions. He wore a plaid collared shirt, the sleeves intentionally removed from the garment. I knew because all of my button-ups had met the same fate. The South was too damned hot this time of year for sleeves. His muscles flexed, drawing my eyes to the crossbow that hung by his side. He'd been the shooter, the shit who'd stolen my dinner. We'd have words if I ever got out of this mess.
"Awe, fuck. What he's tryna say is that tha bitch was hopin' ta take our dinner fer herself. I did it fer the camp."
I had news for him. The deer had been mine. All mine.
I began trying to piece things together, put names with faces thinking that it might come in handy later on. Merle, Rick and… I stared at the back of the man whose name my mind couldn't recall. I hadn't heard it, had I?
"Daryl?" curly-brown-hair questioned the guy with the crossbow.
Mystery solved. I had heard it…I think. Things were just hard to process given my current state.
Silence. Then a whisper as the cop stepped forward. "I thought I told you to keep him in line. Not only did you let him leave the prison, now he's beaten up an outsider. What if she has people nearby? Heavily. Armed. People?" he said slowly, driving his point home.
"Ya can't keep 'em locked up, Rick."
"Yeah. I can." Rick turned his sights towards my attacker, closing the space between them in two quick strides, driving the butt of his gun into the side of the burly one's head. Merle's hands flew upwards, covering his temple, his lips spewing cusswords that would've made a sailor proud. "I'll handle Merle. You carry the girl."
"What?"
"You heard me," Rick said, stepping towards Daryl before doubling back. The weapon hung limply at Daryl's side, a dejected, almost angry hunch to his form. "I'll take Merle. You take the girl," Rick repeated, this time more slowly, doing sharp, exaggerated motions as he said the words. He motioned between himself and Merle, then towards Mr. Crossbow and me. Daryl, my mind corrected.
"We're bringin' her back?" He was confused by the leader's plan, probably in complete disagreement too. The venison stealing, fucker.
"Until we figure out what to do with her, yes," Rick confirmed, jerking his head up and down. He pulled some rope from his back pocket, taking his time to tie my attacker's hands behind his back. Despite my pain, I smiled. I'd always loved when an asshole got the karma he deserved. Rick forced a gun between his shoulder blades, ordering him to his feet.
"What about the deer?"
"We'll send someone back for it," Rick called, already leading Merle in the opposite direction.
"And if the walkers get it?" Daryl yelled, anger chasing after their retreating forms.
"We'll kill another."
The simple answer came without a backward glance, something that my crossbow-wielding companion didn't appreciate. His heavy sigh cut into the silence, as he turned slowly towards me. With narrowed eyes and tight facial features, he shot something resembling anger in my direction. His hair was messy, like he'd found a dull pair of scissors and allowed a blind man to create the style. It was an odd pairing of long and short, the longer strands framing his hardened face, the features hampered by dirt and grime.
It suited him, I thought. My mind began to process him in single words: angry, hard, brutal, strong, capable. I sucked in a sharp breath, not appreciating the last adjective my mind had used. Capable was me. It was my term. It was a positive one, not used for people who let other's beat up on an unassuming woman. I struck it from my description of him, replacing it with coward.
He came towards me, his footsteps heavy like his crossbow and firm like his face. My heartbeat wracked my eardrums, the fear palpable. Every cell in my body was screaming for me to find some guts, to forget about the pain, and fight for my escape. I harnessed what little strength I had, kicking desperately at the forest floor, scattering leaves and dirt in the process, doing very little to place distance between myself and the remaining stranger.
"Not gonna hurt ya," he murmured, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder.
Yeah right.
"I mean it…woman." When he neared my side, he stooped down, one knee shoved hard into the dirt for balance, the other bent towards his chest with a limp arm resting over it. His eyes were no longer slits, affording me the view of their bright blue orbs, orbs that were very similar to my own. The brilliance of the color surprised me, like he'd been gifted them by accident. Black soul's didn't deserve that kind of beauty.
I flinched, reeling away from his outstretched hand. He frowned, the action causing the stubble on his face to move along with it. "Lemme see. Please," he added at the last moment. His voice was strangely calm, shockingly soothing. Knowing that my efforts would simply fall short, I stopped further protest and mentally accepted my fate. When he was convinced my episode was finished, he reached his hesitant hand down towards my midsection.
Rough fingers touched exposed skin, just above my jeans and below the white tank top that I wore. I jerked beneath the contact. He paused again, his eyes flickering briefly to my face before returning to my stomach. He peeled the thin fabric upwards, exposing skin and fears the entire way. With each new inch of exposed skin, his piercing eyes busied themselves scanning, searching. He'd lifted my tank top up above my ribs, hooking the fabric over the swell of my breasts, one of his hands hovering just above the one closest to him. I clamped my eyes closed, certain that I was about to experience assault number two.
"Not gonna touch ya," he mumbled, his gravelly tone prying my eyes back open. "Not like that." His face soured like he didn't like the words, or the thought, or both. "Just tryna to figure out tha damage." At that, his fingers slid over my ribcage, tracing the bones from the front until he no longer could, the ground beneath me stopping his progress. I winced. His eyes pinned to mine, his lips pulled into a thin line. "This is gonna hurt." Seconds ticked by, like he was giving me time to prepare, before his hand put pressure over my left side.
The pain was overbearing, but I knew if I screamed, there was the potential to distract walkers. Gritting my teeth, fighting off tears, I writhed beneath his assessment.
"I think yer rib's broken. One of 'em, possibly two." That much I'd pretty much figured. What I didn't understand was that the man looked almost apologetic about it. Hadn't he stood by as my attacker had done what he'd done? "I'm gonna have ta carry ya. Okay with that?"
No, I wasn't. I wasn't altogether comfortable with touching of any kind, especially since I'd just been beaten by someone from his group. I didn't like to depend on people either. My whole life had been spent grooming me to do otherwise. And him picking me up would leave us both vulnerable. I couldn't let that happen.
"I'll walk," I ground out, my voice shaky and uncertain. His eyes narrowed again, both cheeks and his pointed chin creating a trifecta of confusion and frustration and, again, anger. Or maybe he just had an angry face. I didn't care enough to linger on the thought. I couldn't.
"Suit yourself," he grumbled, helping me to my feet.
I pulled the tank top back down, taking my time to hook the buttons on my flannel over shirt. It had been stupid of me to leave it unbuttoned in the first place. My hunger had hampered my brain. He studied me, like he was surmising my intentions, preparing for an inevitable escape. I wanted to, wished like hell I was able. Because I liked being on my own. I felt more capable on my own. There was less to worry about, not much plan-making and more doing. You got in a jam? You fought your way out. No worrying about someone to save or losing another in a world where death had become so common.
He bent low, plucking my quiver from the ground, slinging it over his free shoulder. Some of the bolts bent at unnatural angles, broken beyond repair. My heart bled at the sight. Those weren't easy to come by. I'd raided more buildings than I could count to find the ones that I had, the remaining dozen or so tied to a tree about a half-mile from where we were. I'd have to come back for my knapsack later. There were things in there too dear to me to leave behind.
He picked up my bow and handed it to me, a single bolt coming with it. "Ya shoot if ya need to?"
It was a question, not a command. "I think so," I said nodding, second-guessing myself when another pain tore through me, clawing its way from my midsection out to my extremities.
"This way." His head jerked in the direction that the other two men had went. I hobbled towards him, grimacing beneath the pain that each movement brought. With the stealth of a cat, he was by my side in seconds, his arm instructing my free one around his neck. His other arm grabbed at my hip, pulling me firmly into his side.
"You'll compromise us both," I argued.
"If we see a walker, you'll be on yer own."
That shut me up, quickly. I focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other - not what would happen after we reached our destination, not that I was heading towards, not away from, my attacker. Because really, forward progress - another hour, another day - was all that the living could hope for in this shitty world.