Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. I only own my character, Erin.

AN: Rated T for swearing and violence (the usual TWD stuff) but I may bump it up to M depending on where the story leads.

I've had this idea in my head since 6x06 aired and now I've finally gotten around to writing it! I'll admit, it might start off a bit slow, but if everything goes to plan it should pick up after that. Erin is a bit unhinged, so expect weird shenanigans and sudden mood changes from her.

Thanks for checking this out, I hope you enjoy it :)

Goodbye To A World

Chapter 1: The anomaly

-Erin Blake-

The forest was blackened and charred from where the flames had touched it. Ash coated the ground and lingered in the air, invading the lungs of the woman who carefully manoeuvred her way through the trees. She was unbothered by the eerie atmosphere and ruined surroundings; the lack of flesh-eating dead people more than compensated for any discomfort she felt.

Her name was Erin.

At 5'6" Erin was neither short nor tall. Her doe eyes were comparable to the leaves on a plant that hadn't been watered in a while; a faded shade of green. Her pale skin (a sharp contrast to her ginger hair) was dusted with freckles, and her physique was slim and lean, reflective of the harsh world she lived in. The blood-splattered cleaver in her right hand was also reflective of the post-apocalyptic world, but unlike her it glinted rather prettily in the sunlight.

Despite the heat of the sun bearing down on her back Erin wore a huge dark green scarf. It covered her neck and the lower half of her face, helping to filter the ashen air. It wasn't hand-made and it certainly wasn't made with the intention of it being given to her specifically (it had probably been churned out of a machine along with hundreds just like it) and she didn't even know what it was made of, though the incredible softness and durability of the fabric suggested it would have fetched a high price in the old world- such a high price that the old her wouldn't have even considered buying it. Yet it was Erin's most prized possession and she wouldn't remove it unless absolutely necessary. Merely knowing it was there comforted her more than any fire or cooked meal could.

Erin slowed to a halt, a huff escaping from her mouth as her gaze searched the desolate landscape. There was nothing to indicate she was reaching the edge of the forest and with the loss of her map a few days prior she had nothing to help gain her bearings except the sun. There was also a distinct absence of evidence to show Wolves were in the area, suggesting they had grown smart enough to leave her alone- no, she scolded herself. That wasn't the case; they were too psychotic and too driven by their irrational beliefs to fear her. She must have no longer been in their territory. A sigh left her. That simply won't do. She couldn't move on. Not while some Wolves were still alive. She adjusted her black backpack so it hung more comfortably on her shoulder as she contemplated retracing her footsteps.

The rumble of an engine rang through the air.

Erin froze, her heart skipped a beat.

It was coming closer.

She whirled around, inwardly cursing the lack of foliage as she desperately sought out a place to hide. A ditch caught her eye. It certainly wouldn't have been her first choice in a game of hide-and-seek but it would have to do until the threat passed by or was eliminated. She lunged toward the trench and with about as much grace as a wounded deer she jumped down into it, sending soot flying into the air. She crouched and waited.

And waited.

The growl of the engine grew louder until it was a roar.

She held her breath.

The engine was cut.

She flinched as something heavy clattered to the ground only a few yards away from her hiding space, and she forced herself to stay still when a thump resounded less than a heartbeat later. Seconds passed. Her ears strained for any more sounds of movement but there was only silence. She shakily exhaled. Unease settled over her like a blanket. Her options were limited; she could either wait for the possible threat to move on or confront them.

Erin unwound herself from her crouching position and peered over the edge of the ditch. Her gaze landed on the fallen motorbike first, then snapped to the man collapsed beside it.

He's a Wolf, was Erin's immediate assumption as she looked over his dark clothes, dirty appearance, and unkempt hair. Her eyes narrowed. Her grip on her cleaver tightened while her free hand clenched into a fist. The carefully contained feral part of her gnashed its teeth and a growl-like noise reverberated in her throat. If he is then I'll slice him open from neck to navel.

She blamed her loneliness for the hopeful thought that sprang up a few moments after the previous, less friendly one: but what if he's not a Wolf?

Her stare slid back to the motorcycle beside him. Wolves preferred not to drive vehicles. She knew from close observation that they almost always travelled on foot. They barely even glanced at abandoned cars on the street, let alone drove them. If the man before her was a Wolf then it would be considered very unusual for him to drive a motorbike into the middle of the woods in the way that he had, especially as nothing seemed to have been pursuing him. She shook her head at the thought: Wolves weren't pursued by anything. They didn't flee, they ran headfirst into danger like lunatics.

She bit her lip. The doubt swirling in her mind was enough for Erin's hold on the cleaver to lessen. Without solid proof that he was a Wolf she couldn't kill him. After everything she had done she still refused to think she was a murderer. Besides, the man might be a good person. He might be someone whose only goal was to survive. He might be on his own. He might be lonely. The rest of his group might have been slaughtered by the same people she had promised to annihilate.

He might be like her.

She climbed out of the ditch as silently as she could.

Trepidation churned in Erin's stomach as she slid the cleaver into the make-shift sheathe that hung from her belt. She reached for her other weapon: a gun. It seemed like a bad idea to charge towards the possibly friendly stranger while brandishing a large meat knife. Then again, I shouldn't be approaching him at all, she thought, it doesn't matter how I do it or if he might be a 'good' guy- it's still dangerous! Nevertheless the woman crept forward, silently drawing the Glock from her belt and raising it to point at the stranger. The gun was a lot less intimidating than the cleaver (at least in her mind) and it would allow her to ensure some control over the situation while she kept a safe distance between them.

Her breath hitched when she heard the familiar wheezy-growl of a Walker. Her eyes instinctively sought out the source and latched onto it almost immediately: beside the man lay a blackened corpse so proficiently camouflaged against the dark ground that Erin hadn't noticed it before. But it didn't appear to be a threat as its head was stuck in a motorcycle helmet and its skeletal form rendered it unable to move. She wondered briefly how that worked (if the skin, flesh, and other organs had deteriorated, why hadn't the Walker's brain? Had the helmet preserved it?) yet decided not linger on those thoughts as she slowed to a halt, a mere two meters remaining between her and the fallen man.

Luckily, his eyes were closed, so he wouldn't see her staring at him like a creep. His breathing was surprisingly regulated and hushed (she had thought that he would be out of breath due to the way he'd hurtled into the area) but she didn't think he was unconscious.

Scruffy, dark hair fell in his eyes, obscuring his forehead from view. Erin frowned. She couldn't see if the customary 'W' scar of the Wolves was carved into him. The man was white, unshaven, and was coated in a thin layer of dirt she assumed was gathered from travelling. He still managed to look cleaner than most people did in those days though. He didn't look underweight like most Wolves were, in fact he seemed pretty well-fed in comparison to most survivors. She wondered if he had a group or if he was self-sufficient enough to gather plenty of food for himself. His tall and athletic physique seemed capable of easily overpowering her if it came to a fight, though it was hard to tell if he was as muscled as she assumed as the leather jacket he wore made it difficult to discern.

Her gaze flickered back to his face. The man may have been better-fed than her, but if the bags under his eyes were any indication then he was not as well-rested as she was. Erin's frown deepened; that was strange, a steady supply of food would imply he had somewhere reasonably safe to sleep. Then again, with the conditions and experiences they had to live with, it was not uncommon for survivors to suffer from PTSD, insomnia, or paranoia, all of which would make them reluctant or unable to rest.

The man shifted, snapping her back to focus. Voices in her head whispered at her to run, to get away from the stranger before he could realise she was there. He didn't seem to be a Wolf. She had no business with him. But, as it usually did, curiosity prevailed. She took another step forward and with a soft click she turned the off the safety on her gun.

The man's eyes snapped open, locking on hers.

Erin stared.

He stared back.

He glanced at the gun in her hands.

Reflexively she tightened her grip on it, unnerved by the way his gaze sharpened into an accusing glare as it lifted back to meet her eyes. Erin shifted. The Wolves' eyes were usually filled with psychotic glee when she came across them- she was used to that. What she wasn't used to was the sanity in the eyes of the man that laid in front of her. Sanity was dangerous. Unpredictable. She felt as if he was the one pointing the gun; not her.

"Are you a Wolf?" It was a question she had to ask, even if she was heavily inclined to believe that he wasn't a Wolf. Her voice was quieter than she remembered it, though not as hoarse as she expected it to be. Somewhere along the road it had lost its sturdy edge. She sounded soft and tired, almost sweet with her distinctly feminine lilt. She didn't like it. She didn't sound as strong as she used to.

A few beats of silence passed. Erin wondered if he hadn't heard her or if he hadn't understood. After all, without context, the inquiry 'Are you a Wolf' was more than a bit odd. She was debating how to tell him that she wasn't asking him if he was a furry animal when he gave a response: "No." His own voice was gravelly, deep, with an undertone of strength that she immediately felt drawn to. But that didn't matter. Until she was absolutely certain that he wasn't one of them none of what he said or how he said it mattered. Her eyes narrowed, fixed on him as she adjusted her stance.

"Show me your forehead." Her command was met with a stony stare. "Now." With an incoherent grumble and yet another glare, the man brushed a hand through his hair, briefly revealing a brow clear of the trademark 'W'-shaped scar that the Wolves loved so much. She released a sigh of relief, her body visibly relaxing.

There was a strange thrill that came with the knowledge that he was not part of the cult she hated so much. She hoped her excitement didn't show on her face; she didn't want him to think she was crazy.

The thought made a new issue rear its head. What if he doesn't like me? Erin truly did want to be liked by people (sane people), especially now that they were so few and far between. She didn't want the man to leave her without even a backwards glance. She hoped that maybe they could stick together, make the harsh world a little more bearable and easy to live in- oh. She sheepishly realised that continuing to point a gun at his face probably wasn't going to do her any favours.

"I- I'm gonna lower my weapon now," she swallowed. His expression remained unreadable, though his eyes held a sharp glint that alluded to his irritation. He wasn't scared of her, she realised, (it would be ridiculous to assume he was). He didn't intend to hurt her either. He just wanted their encounter to end. "Please don't make me regret this."

It may have been a stupid decision but she hadn't spoken to a person (excluding the occasional Wolf) for months. As much as she didn't want to admit it... she was lonely. She wanted to make something work between them.

Nerves continued to flutter in her gut as she lowered her gun and risked a step backward to give him some space. The man waited for a moment, quietly observing her, before standing up. He didn't move immediately but when he did it was not towards her. He reached down to the motorbike he had arrived on and pulled it upright. Erin tensed. His hand moved to the crossbow positioned on the back of his vehicle, but he slung it over his shoulder without even a glance at her. She exhaled a breath she hadn't known she had been holding.

He moved around to the other side of the motorbike, turning his back on her as he crouched, seemingly checking the bike for something- she wasn't sure what he was doing, she knew nothing about engines. All she really registered was that he turned his back on her.

Annoyance struck Erin like a slap to her face. It was like he had decided she wasn't worth any more of his time; she wasn't a threat that deserved his attention. Didn't he see the blood stains on her jeans and top? Didn't he realise there was a cleaver hanging from her belt and a gun still held in her grasp? She was not someone to be ignored.

"What's your name?" she chirped. Conversation seemed like the most innocent way to garner his attention. His gaze flicked over his shoulder toward her, calculatingly sharp and strikingly blue. She hadn't really paid attention to their colour earlier, but she did then, and they were unlike any eyes she had seen before.

"Daryl." he muttered. A mixture of relief and excitement swept over her like a wave. He wasn't one of those survivors who had a don't-let-anyone-know-who-you-are-and-don't-get-to-know-people mindset. She didn't like those much, but she supposed she could understand them. Trust issues were also common in the new world.

Daryl turned back to his bike, straightened up, grabbed its handlebars, and started pushing it forward.

"Daryl," she parroted softly, "I'm Erin, it's nice t'meet you." She flashed him a moderate smile (carefully constructed so it was not overly-enthusiastic and not apathetic; both would discourage him), an attempt to kindle any sort of emotion on his face. Daryl paused, regarded her once more, then shook his head and started walking again. He hadn't returned her smile. She pouted. A stray memory from her time studying psychology rang through her head: Mirroring helps to create rapport; a close and harmonious relationship in which the people involved understand each other's feelings or ideas and communicate well. But he refused to reflect her positive gestures and she couldn't exactly imitate his body language when it was so defensive - it would only subconsciously make him dislike her more.

Her hopes of companionship deflated as he moved further and further away. She slowly trailed after him, feeling very much like a lost puppy. "You're leaving? Just like that?"

"I got places to be. No time to hang around and get to know ya." He responded much quicker than he had the previous times and the sharpness of his tone stung her. Pathetic, she scolded herself. She didn't even know the guy and she was letting him upset her. But she couldn't let him leave yet. She stopped following him and wracked her brain for a witty remark or anything really that might make him stay. No words came to her. She mused bitterly how she would probably think of something smart to say later, hours after he had gone.

Daryl sighed- not a sigh of sadness or relief; one of annoyance. Her gaze, which had dropped dejectedly to the floor, lifted back up in time to watch as he turned to look at her, his stare narrowed and calculating. She shifted uneasily. "What?" she questioned.

"You got a group to get back to?"

Erin hesitated, reluctant to admit to anything that may be seen as a weakness but hopeful that he may have been considering letting her go with him. "No..." Maybe he would take pity on her.

"How many walkers have ya killed?"

Erin's brow raised. She hadn't expected that, but then again, she didn't know what to expect from the stranger she'd met in a burnt down forest. "Was I supposed to be counting?" the redhead asked incredulously. She wondered if it was a trick question, yet the seriousness in his countenance conveyed that it wasn't. She sighed, her left arm hugging her middle while her free hand reached up to finger her scarf. "Feels like I've killed thousands."

"How many people you killed?"

Her eyes widened; she definitely hadn't seen that coming.

Shit.

A pause stretched out between them, growing more heavy with tension as seconds passed. She could envision the cogs in Daryl's head turning as he eyed her, his gaze narrowing to near-slits as time moved by. Answer him, a voice whispered, the silence will only make him suspicious. But, try as she might, she could not recall the amount of people she had killed. Their deaths blended together in a red haze, their corpses uncountable. It was a shock, to say the least. She hadn't thought she was so far gone.

Her grip on both herself and the scarf had tightened when Daryl had spoken, so she forced herself to relax, a task she found very difficult under the man's unwavering stare. "I haven't kept track of that either," she confessed slowly. Daryl didn't even flinch. If anything, he had relaxed after she gave her answer. He was becoming more and more confusing to the woman.

"Why?" he asked.

"When it's kill or be killed everything's a blur," she told him, and added a sigh for extra effect as she ran a hand through her hair. "There's not exactly time to count when you're fighting for your life." Well done, the voice cooed; the way Erin phrased her answer would imply she had always acted in self-defence. She was fine if Daryl believed that.

He seemed to mull over her words, his expression thoughtful as he bit the pad of his thumb, the motorbike leaned casually against his side. Erin used his silence to ponder their exchange. His questions felt rehearsed - systematic as if he'd asked them multiple times. They were too unusual for the man to have made them up on the spot, and the lack of any more inquiries suggested that the three given to her were chosen before Daryl had met Erin. They were obviously some sort of test. She just hoped she had passed it.

Her attention was brought back to Daryl when he nodded slightly, more to himself than to her.

He grunted, "Then are ya comin' or not, Bambi?"

Erin's face flared, her eyes widened in disbelief. "B-Bambi?" she spluttered. His lips twitched as if he was trying not to smirk. Bastard. He'd enjoyed provoking a reaction and she had no doubt that he'd do it again. She sighed, exasperated, though her heart felt light with joy. She wasn't alone anymore.

"Sure, why not. Let's go."

AN: And that was the first chapter of my first fanfiction! I'm not sure if I should continue it or not as school is kind of my biggest priority right now, but nevertheless please tell me what you think and feel free to ask questions~