Disclaimer: I sadly do not own The Walking Dead.
Warnings: Potential spoilers from Season 1 and 2. Rated for themes, language, violence, and adult content.

A/N: I created a map of Area S with a brief explanation of what happened in this AU. The link's on my profile!


Packages in Zombie Zone, Area S

The floorboards creaked, each stair aching under the weight of heavy boots and the man in them. Muddy footprints traced his path past the facedown welcome mat, underneath the dingy front door, through the tight hallway, the cluttered cans scattered throughout the tiny kitchen, into the little bedroom and stopped at the foot of a broken old mattress. The sheets were straighter than he remembered.

His bag clunked heavily onto the floor, its contents rattling inside. He carefully hung his bow onto a makeshift hook comprised of a nail and a hole in the wall. He peeled off his dirty shirt and carelessly tossed it aside before he pushed his belt-buckled pants downwards. His needy cock flopped heavily between his legs, untouched, noticed, but wilfully ignored.

He grumbled loudly before crashing onto the bed, not caring how high his paper-thin curtains were. He peered over and luckily for him, they only let in a tiny slit of air. The room was cold. He cursed after he realized he forgot to close the window before the last time he left the apartment. The grimy Borderlands air infiltrated whatever sanctity was left in his so-called living quarters, penetrating the sagging wallpaper and crumpled bed sheets. The wind carried death with it. Dried old raindrops and suspicious gunk festered beneath the open windows.

But the hunter paid little attention to his surroundings. This was only temporary. He'd be contacted soon enough and have no reason to stay in this shithole any longer than a few more days.

He flopped his body onto the mattress. It creaked loudly from the sudden weight, warning him that it may possibly break. It's been a while, Daryl, it whispered under the man, who murmurs into the pitiful pillow. It wasn't long before he fell asleep.

An anguished groan startled Daryl awake. Immediately, he reached for his waist, only to remember he was naked, that his knife wasn't on him, that he was in that room he pays rent for but rarely uses. He rubbed his forehead and applied pressure in a circular motion.

Silently, he made his way to the side of his window. He peered through the paper curtains and saw a small pack trudging its way down a far off street.

A piercing scream!

He slowly closed his eyes, lowered the curtains, and brought himself back to bed. Daryl groaned against the rough fabric, closed his eyes, and tried to readjust himself to the funky smells, the dark gloomy skies, and the constantly moping people. Just another day in what was the great city of Atlanta.

Welcome back to Zombie Zone, Area S.


The morning began with Daryl rummaging through the pitiful stockpile in the kitchen cupboards. Three cans of beans, one expired container of collard greens, and one of syrupy peaches sat behind the sagging wooden flaps, covered in dust. Small circles illustrated where other cans once were.

His lips quirked at a small roll he didn't remember leaving there. Ignoring the metal tins, he reached for the paper roll, placed it between his lips and scoured his apartment for a match. But when he realized things had been moved around, he scoured his secret compartments. There was nothing behind the toilet, nothing hidden in his mattress, nothing in the hole he made under the stove. Empty.

"Merle."

He immediately dropped the roll and stomped towards the other room down the hall. Cleaned out. Empty. What else could be gone? Daryl furiously rifled through his belongings, his weapons, his food, his bullets, and opened each and every hidden compartment and crevice, counting the supplies he had left.

He peered out the window, grim light shining through the tattered blinds, and noticed what most others wouldn't be able to from a similar distance: bloody streaks, strands of hair, and a flattened bag. All of which indicated someone had been dragged away against their will. On another street, there was a child running around, chasing a ball. In an alley, a cat screeched, trapped between two figures closing in and a tall brick wall. No sign of Merle anywhere.

He slid under the bed once more, wiping the floor of dust, debris, and who knows what else gathered there since he last left a few months ago. Daryl reached into his mattress, stretching his arms around, feeling for that tiny ass piece of paper he regrets shoving up there. Something soft squished in his grasp. He made a face, but continued the search. And there it was.

Daryl retrieved the slip from the dirty mattress and exhales, relieved. On it were thin fading lines, a map, telling him to the lair of the Eye. He'd visit the old bag soon enough. That way he'd get a better sense of how much this place changed.

Or so he thought.


Daryl grabbed his bag, filling it with a half-full canteen, a tin of corn that probably expired a few months ago, a dried piece of meat; extra arrows he carved himself from a tiny branch, a few blades he picked up along the way, a magazine or two he took off some rowdy targets; and a worn-out transceiver he obtained from a dead cop.

He swung the bag over his shoulder, his crossbow over the other. He quickly scanned the room before he set out his front door once again. However, this time he would return within at least a couple of days. Daryl slid the key into his front door and turned the lock, giving the knob a few shakes before he turned towards the stairs.

The apartment he used was in the middle of the hall. Of the four rooms on the floor, it was the second closest to the stairs. If anything happened, he'd have a better chance of escaping than the depressed man at the end of the hall, who always screamed in the middle of the night, calling out to his long lost family, or the fat asshole and his timid wife. They had a daughter, or so Daryl thought.

The floor creaked with each of his steps. The dreary wallpaper sagged, making Daryl wonder if the landlord died and a new one was appointed. The room before the stairs was the largest one on the level. Although Daryl had never seen the lodger, he doesn't feel right each time he passes underneath the dead light bulb beside that room.

A seemingly small figure stood before that very room, knocking on the door in a brisk rhythm. The person tapped their foot, repeatedly, rushed. Nervous. Daryl stopped moving and took in the sight. It's a kid in an oversized shirt; jeans ripped at the knees, tattered at the leg holes; a small green knapsack that bulged, overstuffed; and a tiny baseball cap, covering his face. He had a large box balancing on the palm on an outstretched hand.

"I've got the stuff!" The kid yelled before he shoved the cardboard box in his hand in front of the door's peephole.

The door opened swiftly. Daryl barely had the time to register the hairy fist that grabbed the kid's shirt before he was yanked into the room. The kid meeped and probably fell face first onto the floor. Thump. A loud thud echoed in the hall when the door slammed shut.

The hunter shook his head at the thought of the boy. Damn, times have changed. Daryl groaned, grabbed his package and moved it up before he trudged his way down the moaning stairs. But he stopped on the first step and looked at the door behind him. He furrowed his brows and wondered how much he'd have to pay. Times have changed indeed.


He shoved his rent, a bundle of salted game, into the metal slot in the landlord's door before knocking on it four times.

"Took you long enough!" was the reply. "Next time you're late you won't have a room anymore!"

An empty threat. Barely anyone could afford the rent as it was. Though it was expensive, the rent covered heating, food, running water, security around the clock, and a landlord who didn't ask questions. The four-story building in which he resided had two others beside it and another at its rear, six buildings in all. Aside from the front entrance, he was well protected. The buildings were cramped, close enough one could go into another using a window if they were extremely skilled—or had a ladder.

Daryl passed the complex's fence. He nodded at the guard standing at the fence entrance. He didn't get one in return.

He followed the map through the empty streets. The sun beat down heavily onto the cracked pavement. Children sat underneath the shade of broken down buildings. A few women stood on one particular street corner, some men in an alley down the road. A pitiful old prune reached out to touch Daryl's leg. He lifted it away before the grimy hands could touch him.

A hoarse whisper escaped its mouth, "Please."

It's eyes showed hope, a will to live. But Daryl had no time and no pity for this man or woman or whatever it was lying there with their guts pouring out, bleeding profusely onto the dry cracked pavement. He heard a groan in the distance. He walked.

The map was troublesome enough to decipher since he didn't live in the Zone before it all happened, but the recent changes confuse Daryl. Where there was supposed to be a statue, there was a pile of rubble; a muddy path replaced a tiny patch of forest; the peace signs on a building had been sprayed over with hateful graffiti. Has he really been gone this long?

He passed the Wall, a large metal fence separating the two distinct sectors of Area S. Encircled by the Wall, Zombie Zone was considered to be highly dangerous—even though walker activity is minimal during the day. Deep inside of the Zone, stood the Borderlands, the Burbs, and what was left of the Old City, rumoured to house unruly heathens, rapists, and murderers. The guards eyed him warily.

"You're in the Clear," one of them stated.

The Clear, inhabited by the rich and powerful, is the desired goal of many. Although many flooded to the Clear for haven, the hired guns push the riff raff back through the fence or kill them before every sunset. Then again, it's rumoured that things happen behind Clear doors that even the strongest stomachs couldn't handle. Daryl never decided whether the Wall was to keep the crazies inside or out.

A couple of men in sheriff hats moved towards Daryl, guns in hand. They asked if he'd seen a masked figure recently. The one with short brown hair and bulging biceps stepped forward.

"My buddy got shot. Need all the leads I can get," the rough voice demanded before a hand was placed on a holstered gun.

Daryl shook his head and tugged his crossbow higher up his back. He didn't see anything like that. "Just got back into town. Didn't see nothin' out of the ordinary."

The cop's grip on his gun's hilt tightened. "You sayin' masked creeps ain't normal?"

"Isn't uncommon. That's all."

"Where've you been?" the sheriff asked. "Isn't safe to be wandering outside the Clear."

Daryl replied briskly, "Huntin'."

"What's your game?"

"Meat and meatbags."

"Well, if you hear anything let us know down at the station." The sheriff grabbed his belt buckle and sauntered off, his cohort in tow.


As he followed the map, Daryl saw clean houses, complete with pleasant yards and outlined properties; blooming green grass, a few trees with leaves still on them; semi-happy children playing with a ball; and nestled close to the wall, far from the supposed utopia was the functioning underground trade centre, the Hunter's Helm.

Signs were plastered along the walls with a variety of rewards ranging from technology, batteries, weaponry, and permanent bedfellows. One sign requested a female cow in exchange for a young child, another offered a case of food for retrieving a missing girl, while another asked for headphones for small pistol with no bullets. Many old, outdated signs wanted their lands cleared of the walking dead, offering rewards galore.

A blonde waved him over from a booth to the side. "Hey, Dixon!"

She smiled from underneath the makeshift metal booth fashioned from pipes and car parts. A sign hung above her, rusty but painted anew. Fishin' for Gold. Daryl nodded at the young girl, clad in a skimpy suit, revealing far more than she should in a place like the Helm. She's pretty young, but the many scars on her face and arms showed she'd been through more than most others her age. A short distance away, leaning on a shoddy wooden pole, was a man who stood staring, tongue poking between his lips.

"It's been a while. Thought you'd gotten lost out there." She laughed. "Had to give a few jobs away."

"Things are different here. Feels different from when I left. Somethin's up."

"Really? I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

Daryl eyed a shady stall a few booths down. It was at the end of the row, at the corner of the building. A large group of people were yelling in front of it, practically throwing their money at the vendor. A dented metal sign hung above the stall, bright and colourful from spray paint. The graffiti changed the original logo and name. Where the spaceship used to be was now a rotting walker. Zombie Zone Express, it read.

"Opened up a few weeks ago. They run things in and out the Borderlands and the Old City."

"Where's your sister?"

"Out there somewhere helping someone in need. Or something like that. You know how she is." She shrugged before resting her elbows on her booth. "What are you in the market for? Missing person? Missing dead? Game or guts?"

"Lookin' for the Eye. Is he still here?" He pulled the map from his bag and handed it over.

She unfolded the paper, looked, and laughed lightly. "Well, he's moved to the Zone! He says being in the Clear isn't too safe for the likes of him, got this weird vibe. He ended up moving in an apartment complex in the Borderlands. Andrea and I should be tagging along and moving there sometime soon."

Daryl was taken by surprise. "Any idea which one?"

"Yeah, the one beside the old broken statue. I think it's called Domino Block. You know, the six buildings with the tiny mesh fence?"

"You're kiddin' me."

"Nope, that's the one. Why do you ask, something the matter?" Daryl shook his head, nothing at all. "His RV is parked out back of the one he moved in. Third floor up. That all I can do for you?"

"Here," Daryl said. He reached into his bag, pulled out a metal ring, and placed it on her table.

Amy picked up the ring, raising it up high, turning it around to get closer looks at it. She frowned, sighing before she placed it in her pocket.

"That's the one. She won't be happy with just the ring but I'll get you your compensation the next time you visit." He turned around and took a step towards the exit but her voice stopped him. "How'd you find him?"

"Troublesome."

"That's too bad," she murmured, staring at the ring under the dim flickering lights and scratching her breast. "I'll let her know."

He continued to walk, but stopped to offer a warning, "Don't walk home alone."


The sun began to set when Daryl reached the fence back to the Zone. The main gate was closed, so Daryl grudgingly made his way a few blocks west. People scurried around him, hushing and rushing each other towards their homes.

"It's not safe here."

"Hurry up!"

"Time to leave, honey."

"I hear there's a new gang in the Old City that takes kids at night."

The streets emptied of Clears within a minute. From a distance, a line of men with guns were walking towards the fence, threatening to fire, unless Zoners somehow moved back across the Wall. But that didn't seem to faze him. Daryl shrugged his shoulders, shifting his crossbow higher up his bag. He reached behind him to grab his near-empty canteen and took a swig. He eyed the fence and noticed a few walkers moaning his way.

A piercing screech echoed loudly around him. His head perked with anticipation then removed his crossbow from his shoulder. With lightness in his step, he jogged quickly behind an old rundown building as he armed his weapon.

He took a step inside, string loaded, ready to fire. Daryl silently edged his way deeper into the structure. His breaths became slow and deep, his senses heightened. Foot after foot, he aimed into each doorway, swung around furniture, and ducked behind walls. After searching most of the main level, he decided on a room with a window leading to an empty alley. He blocked two doors with tall shelves and bulky couches before he let his shoulders relax.

He groaned lightly when his ass hit the cold dirty floor. Reaching into his bag, he found the can of expired corn and peeled it open. He bent the lid and used it to scoop the syrupy sweet kernels. When he reached the bottom of the can, he raised it high and began devouring the sweet liquid. A small stream escaped his mouth and he wiped it with the back of his fist.

To his right was a broken couch that could have provided comfort for those awaiting whatever service the building's previous owners provided. There was a broken mirror in the corner and underneath a large shard of glass stained with red fingerprints and dried blood. Daryl glanced over the empty cans of food in the corner swarmed with maggots before turning away in disgust. Other than that, the room was surprisingly clean.

His eyes were closed and he appeared calm, but the gritting teeth told more. He loosened his belt and placed his crossbow a short distance away. A hand slid down his zipper then into his pants. After a few pumps, he managed to rouse his cock. His member stirred from its long slumber, its aching need left untended for weeks. He closed his eyes and sighed.


The shivers dancing across his skin sent Daryl shuddering. A sound came from behind one of the doors, as if someone was trying to kick it down. He opened his eyes wide, alert, before he launched out to grab his crossbow. He shook his head, taking in where he was. It took a second, but he realized he was in the run-down building nearby the hole in the Wall. It's dark, meaning night, possibly early morning. He sighed, knowing the shelves would hold off whatever was on the other side of those doors.

He chewed off a piece of his dried meat and sat on the couch. He felt something hard beneath him. The knife he carried sliced through the faux leather fabric, allowing him access to whatever was hiding underneath. After pushing some puff balls aside, he saw a trove of food. He grabbed a tin of sausages from the pile, lied down, and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the can.

A juicy piece of what was supposedly meat entered his mouth. A few bites, and he began to salivate for more. He set off to finish the can before preparing to leave, but the huffing and heaving coming from outside garnered his attention.

Daryl raised his crossbow and steadily moved towards the window. He leaned in slightly to get a better view of the alley. Nothing coming from the Clear. He ducked under the window and peered down the other end.

A dark silhouette stepped lightly, dodging dumpsters and debris, dashing madly from the groans following slowly behind. He passed the window and Daryl switched sides once again. The figure raised a hand to the building Daryl was in and stopped to catch his breath, unaware they were being watched. Daryl tried to get a closer look at the person, wondering what kind of idiot would be making their way out of the Zone this time of night.

He only saw a small knapsack strapped to the person's back. Their head was hard to see, their arms dark from the light, their shoes covered in grime, but that ass under the moonlight indicated he was male. Daryl gulped slowly, watching the figure bend over to possibly tie a shoelace. He couldn't see the face from this angle nor did he really care.

When he heard a moan closing in, Daryl unlocked the window and aimed his bolt at the walker's head. But pipes and broken stairs attached to the buildings hung in his way, so he aimed, he released, and he made contact, his bolt breaking through his target's patella, shattering it with a quick pierce. It stumbled and clunked heavily onto the cement and Daryl sighed. It reached out from the ground, struggling to grab its escaping meal.

"Hey, dumbass! Yeah, you holed up in my room!"

Daryl turned his gaze towards the man who was pointing a finger, then the finger at him.

"Thanks, but no thanks!"

Then the man sped off, zigzagging his way out of the alley, probably worried about getting an arrow to the knee.