Hello readers! Long time Walking Dead fic reader, first time poster (also first time posting on this site, and the formatting is kind of kicking my ass, so forgive any glaring errors. I'll work it out eventually.)
Any constructive criticism about the story itself will be taken in and nurtured like a tiny puppy. (Also please forgive any glaring American-knowledge errors and any Australian-ism's that slip in.)
This is a Daryl/OC fic, as the summary suggests. It's a WIP and while I already have about 5 parts written out, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update, but I'll try to make it fairly regularly.
Also I disclaim heavily, don't own the Walking Dead or anything. Just my character and her plot and stuff. And also the title is somewhat a reference to the City & Color song Sleeping Sickness, which I also don't own.
On with the story because I've most certainly rambled enough.
You would think that the zombie apocalypse would be about the survival of the fittest. The smartest people and the most weapon and survival savvy would survive, but that's not necessarily the case. In reality, it probably just has to do more with luck than anything else. Not being in the wrong places at the wrong times; making all the wrong decisions and somehow managing to survive has more to do with luck than brute force or instincts.
You can joke around and make plans with your friends regarding a hypothetical apocalypse all you like but that doesn't mean shit when push comes to shove and all you can do is run for your life, hide where you can, and stick geeks through the eye with the blunted end of one of your mom's kitchen knives when you have to.
It's easy to say to your best friend "We can hide out here at my place, we always have shit tonnes of rice in the cupboard and my mom buys canned vegetables like it's going out of fashion," but when it comes down to it, and you're putting the blunted knife through that best friends eye so they don't bite you, you realise that it's not really as easy as that.
And that's how Holly ended up sitting in the middle of the bench seat in an old blue pick-up, between two brothers that grew up three blocks behind the housing estate she spent most of her life in, staring at the road ahead while her town is overrun behind her. The edges of Holly's vision are darkening with fatigue, but she couldn't sleep if she wanted to. The brothers are both silent, one looking around vigilantly like he's been doing this for years, while the other one drives on ahead, occasionally, sickeningly, chuckling as he hits one of the creatures moving towards their slow paced vehicle. The bumps jolt the car, snap Holly out of her daze for a few moments, before she settles back in to staring at the lines in the middle of the road.
Holly couldn't tell you how long it was before they ended up on the interstate; the sun is going down, but that means nothing because she doesn't even know what time they hit the road. There's cars everywhere but none of them are moving. Holly can see people sitting inside them, guesses they probably have no idea where they're going or what they're doing. And then she realises that she has no idea where they're going or what they're doing, either.
Her voice is scratchy, hoarse, from screaming more than from crying, and then from hours of disuse. "Where are we going…Merle?" The name is foreign on her tongue, she hopes she remembered his name right; she's never met Merle before tonight, and though she doesn't make a habit of getting into cars with redneck boys she went to elementary school with and their strange older brothers, she wasn't really left with much of a choice.
"Campin' girly," the brother that's driving answers her without a glance, and Holly looks over, sees that he's grinning like he doesn't have a care in the world, like the dead haven't risen with a craving for his flesh. Holly decides he's either mad or stupid…or maybe both.