"Shit."

A Fanfiction About how I Became Pregnant with Daryl Dixon's Baby

by Kella Marie

Disclaimer; I do not own either Daryl Dixon or The Walking Dead. Norman Reedus is also his own person. Although I do own myself, so.. No. You can't have me(;

Backstory; Okay, so this all happened a few days ago while standing and waiting for the bus with my friends (who are also The Walking Dead fans). I had just gotten in to the show because my mom bought the first two seasons on DVD, and I had changed my background image on my phone to Norman Reedus as Daryl Dixon. As my friends started to arrive, we started talking about the show, and my sister (who is a fan as well) told me to show them my background. My friend, Ethan, who is gay, thoroughly agreed that Daryl was the most attractive male in the show. We then both agreed that the majority of the male cast is pretty damn sexy. Anyway, I was talking to Ethan and I just so happened to say that I was "pregnant with Daryl Dixon's baby." Ethan laughed and predictably asked, "how?" And thus, here is my story. This is now an on-going joke between my friends and I.

Chapter 1

It was the middle of June, and I had just graduated high school in the year 2013. This morning we had all awoken to a jolt stop, and Bryton informing us that we'd hit some traffic. I stood up and stretched, pulling off my "leg lamp" pajama pants, and pulling on my cut off jean shorts. For anyone else, my shorts would have been too short, but fortunately for me, I have no junk in the trunk. All my junk had shifted to my hood when I turned thirteen, and rapidly went from a B cup to a D cup. I bent down and grabbed my bra off the floor, pushing the pink, straps up on my shoulders and clipping the back, adjusting the cherry patterned underwire to sit comfortably under my breasts. My beige cami top hung loosely around my body and I had to tuck it in to my black and purple studded belt. I wouldn't necessarily call myself "white trash" or "trailer trash," but I'm not what anyone would call "classy" either. I'd grown up poor, living in apartment after apartment and shopping at Goodwill, along with many of the people in my group.

First off, there's Amber. The only one of my little sisters that I know for a fact had survived. My sister Ariel and my mother had gone to Pennsylvania to try to meet up with my uncle. Most days, I highly doubt they'd made it. Amber's most distinct feature is her height. Despite the fact that she is fifteen turning sixteen, she is just under five feet, and many times she gets mistaken for being ten. Her long, brown hair hangs plainly around her face and falls just past her shoulders, and there's never a day that goes by when she doesn't wear her boots, which were bought at a yard sale for fifty bucks. Online, the same brand were selling for over a hundred.

Then, there's Ayla, Bryton, and Mel. Ayla and Bryton are siblings. The only way you can tell they're related is their hair color, which is a dark blonde, but Ayla likes dying her hair. Currently, its brown with faded, purple streaks running through its long strands. There has never been a time when I saw her wearing anything but skinny jeans and a novelty t-shirt. Bryton wears the same style jeans everyday, along with some metal band t-shirt. He seems convinced "hair nation" is going to make a comeback, so he keeps his mane (as he calls it) straight and long enough to touch his chest. Mel is Bryton's girlfriend. She is the epitome of "I don't give a shit about you and your opinion, unless it's a compliment." She wears her hair short and naturally curly, and normally throws on anything that looks good to her. I've actually seen her wear a striped, green tank top under a black Metalica t-shirt. She'd cut slits through the middle of the short sleeves, running from the base of the fabric to the seam.

Lastly is Ethan and Ty, who are brothers. Ethan is one of my best friends, and before he knew he was gay, we dated. It was a really awkward relationship that ended badly, considering I was a sexually hormonal idiot. I feel like we didn't talk for a long time after that and I don't even remember how we started talking again. He wears a bright orange beanie all day, everyday, and he only takes it off to shower. He sleeps in that damn thing. Ty always reminded me of a small, human version of Godzilla. His nose is abnormally small, and his eyes are abnormally spaced out. For some reason, he was born with a Bostonian accent. This sounds pretty normal, except for the fact that no one else in his family has one.

We lost the eighth member of our group, Sean, a few weeks ago. He had sacrificed himself to save Bryton who was having an asthma attack while running from a bunch of roamers back in Exeter. He'd forgotten his inhaler, but luckily I'd grabbed mine while I was running out the door with my car keys. We all piled in my mini van and we were gone. Three days ago, we stopped at an RV dealership and picked up the biggest mobile home we could find, with six bunk beds on either side of the hallway, a master bedroom in the back (fully equipped with a queen size bed), a sitting area, that conveniently turns in to a couch, a kitchenette and a bathroom. Unfortunately, the bathroom didn't have a shower, and the last time we all bathed was in the Exeter River, two days ago, before leaving. We'd literally been driving, nonstop, for almost 48 hours, and we'd made it all the way to North Carolina using back roads, and taking turns at the wheel.

I walked out of the master bedroom, it was my turn on the big bed, and sat on an empty corner of the sofa/dining area booth.

"What's going on?" I asked Bryton, grabbing the map from the middle of the table and unfolding it to lay in front of me.

"There's hundreds of cars in front of us. There's no way I'm going to be able to get this thing to the other side of them," He came and sat across from me. "There aren't any back roads that I can see either." I observed the map curiously, turning it every which way so as to not miss anything that might look like an alternate route.

"Hm.. Weird, well while we're here, we might as well scavenge, right? We're running low on food, and there's bound to be someone who was smart enough to pack a cooler of canned goods," I folded the map back up. I turned to find everyone had awakened and was crowding in the den of the RV, observing our situation. Amber turned and looked at me sarcastically, as if to ask, Are you kidding me?

"We're stuck on a highway and there are no back roads," Bryton announced to the group. The silence was deafening, scared. I, myself was a bit scared. There could be roamers all over the place here.

"Bryton and I have decided it would be a good idea to go out and look for more food, and maybe even some water," I stated and stood up. "Who wants to go?" Crickets. Nobody volunteered. I looked at their subtly petrified faces.

"C'mon, any takers?" Nothing.

"It was your idea, why don't you go do it?" Ty asked matter-of-factly. At that, people started speaking up. In agreement with Ty. After a few moments of silent protest, I shrugged, and let my hands fall to my hips with a thud.

"Alright, fine. I'll go," I said, pushing past Amber and Ayla to grab my things. Amber grabbed my wrist and drew me in to a tight hug.

"Be careful, Kella," She said and released the embrace. I looked at her tear-filled smile and playfully tapped her cheek.

"I will!" I half yelled. "What do you think I'm gonna die or something?"

"Don't joke like that. Not anymore," She said seriously. I rolled my eyes and turned back toward the master bedroom.

We'd made the master closet in to, sort of, an armory. We kept all of our weapons in there, which wasn't much. A pistol each, a semi-automatic machine gun, two pump shotguns, a .45 magnum, and a scoped rifle was what we had for guns. The mele weapons were mostly made up of mine, excluding Bryton's spiked club and katana. Ayla was right when she said I'd be horrible at shooting, so I invested in some other toys. Two throwing hatchets, six throwing knives, and over 20 ninja stars.

I opened the closet doors and strapped on my holsters. Two black leather shoulder straps that held the hatchets, which hung tightly to my shoulder blades for easy access. Six thigh holsters for my six throwing knives, a phanny pack (which I wear on my hip) for my ninja stars, and black leather gloves. I must admit, I look cool, but all that leather sweats and makes me sweat even more than I usually do.

As I made my way back out to the living area, my group had parted to form an isle for me to walk by. I felt like I was walking through the parted Red Sea, but instead of being on my way to something glorious, I was on my way to my death bed. I just so happened to glimpse at the dashboard. It read 9:13AM, and next to that in small, digital font, it read 98 degrees. I groaned as I came to the end of the columns of people and turned around to face them.

"I'll be perfectly fine. Don't worry about it," And with that, I ducked out the door.