Note: Daryl being Daryl, he'll let slip some ethnic slurs. It's going to happen in later chapters also. So anyone reading, don't get offended.
To NRIASB – Thank you, you are my first reviewer ever and the first fav/follower of this story! You get the metaphorical cookie jar. As for the word through I understand it's an informal spelling of through, so it's not really a mistake.
All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.
At the crack of dawn, Samara seated herself on the front porch stairs of her house. Alistair was at her feet, munching on an old bone he had found in the pantry. After her talk with the sheriff, Samara hadn't been able to shut her eyes for even ten minutes. The man's words kept circling around in her head like a broken record.
There is no cure.
At least not in America. This Jenner may have lost contact with the other continents but that didn't mean there still wasn't some scientist hunched over his research somewhere. There had to be. But even if there was, how long would it take for it to reach the other side of the globe. Months, years…decades? One thing for sure was that she probably will see no sign of a cure during the remainder of her possibly short life.
With a groan she leaned back, elbows resting on top of the stairs. Once the edge of the wooden planks made contact with her lower back, a throb of pain spread throughout her body. Even after three days she still felt a strong amount of pain and her movements were still too sluggish for her liking. If she had painkillers or at least a bag of ice it would have been so much better. But she didn't so she had to make do with what was at hand…which was nothing.
Samara looked over yonder at the lookouts. Somewhere in the night they changed, the old man was now atop the roof and the redneck came out again only after two hours of Grimes replacing him. He looked as restless as she felt. His head kept venturing to where she was ever since she came out of the house, but he never once attempted to get closer. The old man was the same; his binoculars always seemed to find her.
The marshal waited for Grimes to come after her. She wasn't about to just waltz in there despite her escapade last night. She didn't think the redneck would keep his finger from pulling the trigger.
Not a few minutes later the man in question exited the house, full sheriff gear on, and once he saw her, he headed towards her. Samara watched him as he got closer and once in range, the man froze. His eyes remained glued to her face. She couldn't blame him, she looked like hell. Her face was littered with cuts and her forehead had a deep gash.
When his legs finally unfroze, he approached her carefully. Alistair's tail started wagging, but he didn't move from his bone. Rick leaned over and ruffled the Collie's fur as he stopped at the foot of the stairs.
"What happened to you?"
"Lord of the flies, that's what happened."
His frown deepened.
"Some teenagers ran me off the road after I shot one of their group three days ago. I thought that he was going to shoot me." When she saw that shotgun pointed in her direction, she didn't think she just reacted. "Fact was, he was scared shitless of all the guns strapped to my body. The others didn't take too kindly to my actions and gave chase. One of them got lucky and perforated the back tire of the Cherokee with a shotgun."
Samara brought a hand to her forehead and gently prodded the cut. It still stung like a bitch.
"At the speed I was going I lost control of the car and rammed it into a tree. Blacked out once I hit the airbag. I think Alistair lost conscious too because I heard a howl before hearing my own skull crack." She remembered that when she regained consciousness the group was helping themselves to the trunk of her car. "They took everything except for the weapons I had on me and some other objects I had in the front of the car." Her food, water, clothing, medical supplies, camping gear and her duffle full of weapons were gone. The only things she had left were three handguns, one silencer, the machete, a first aid kit that was standard in all cars, binoculars and her night vision goggles. And the most important, her photos.
"Once I was conscious, I shot off a couple of rounds." She could clearly remember their fright once she came out of the car bloodied and growling like an animal. Their fear turned into full-blown panic once they were greeted with a shower of bullets. "They scurried off like vermin and I lost conscious on the pavement after."
"I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up Alistair was trying to drag me off the road. There were six wendigos not twenty feet away from us and they were very enthusiastic." She couldn't put in words the terror she felt once she saw them. She had barely been able to move, let alone see straight to target their heads.
Green eyes slid towards the dog. "Stupid dog actually thought he could move 65kg of body mass…"
Her tone was not reprimanding but grateful. If it hadn't been for him forcing her awake, she would be wendigo all-you-can-eat buffet.
Alistair perked up when he heard his name. His tail wagging more enthusiastically when Samara leaned forward and petted him kindly. She really hit the jackpot with him…
Rick seated himself beside her and listened further.
"I got up and sent Alistair to distract the wendigos so I could gather whatever valuable was left." For a tiny moment, she had hoped that the wendigos would catch him. If Alistair had died that afternoon, at least then the wendigos would have been too focused on eating him instead of chasing her.
But he hadn't died. The dog had stayed within a reasonable distance from them, always taunting them whenever their attention riveted back on Samara. It had worked for a little while.
"Once I picked up everything I needed, Alistair and I ran. Gods know how I was able to stay focused long enough to do any of that. I guess it was a testimony of human willpower." And a good portion of luck. Because at that point she had been in so much pain, her head so clouded and her limbs so stiff that all her movements came out jerky and disorganized.
"I don't remember clearly for how long we ran. I don't even know how I lost the wendigos or found this place." She looked around the estates, the early morning breeze brushing strands of her dark hair over her shoulders. "Once I saw the houses, the possibility of the estates being riddled with wendigos didn't even pass through my mind, I just went right in."
The house she chose had been thankfully devoid of any corpsey guests. At the sight of a bed, she just placed a chair underneath the door knob and practically blacked out before she even hit the mattress.
"Woke up a day or so later, patched myself up as best as I could, scavenged some of the houses for food and that's it. I've been holed up here until you people came along."
Rick unfroze his raised eyebrows and let out an incredulous breath. It seems we're both lucky. "It seems every time I see you you're wounded."
She snorted. "I guess karma finally caught up to me and delivered one hell of a slap. I just can't believe I was bested by a bunch of brats barely out of puberty."
A strangled noise escaped the sheriff's throat and it wasn't a sarcastic one. Samara gave him an indignant look.
"Sorry." Rick settled his expression into a serious one. It had been a slip. The image of Samara, tied to a pole and encircled by a group of children in tattered clothing and war paint while holding spears over their heads, danced in his head. It wasn't his fault that his mind conjured something so ridiculous.
"I told you bloodshed doesn't help."
Her lower lip protruded and Samara sunk in her place like a scolded child.
Rick cast a look at the watch on his wrist. It was almost 7AM; the others should be waking up any moment. His gaze returned to the woman beside him—Samara looked sickly and the shadows underneath her eyes wore more prominent than ever.
"Have you eaten anythin'?"
Samara averted her eyes. "Ran out of food yesterday." She hated this. She was practically at the sheriff's mercy. It was an ugly feeling, worse than losing the majority of her belongings to those little shits.
"Come on. There's some canned tomato soup you can have."
"…I owe you one, Grimes."
Rick waved her gratitude off. "Think of it as me repayin' you for Atlanta. It's the least I can do now that we're neighbors."
Rising up, Rick noticed her poorly hidden wince. "How are you feelin'?"
"Like I was just run off the road and hit a tree." She said with a derisive grimace. Concussion, whiplash, stiff joints—the whole package. The head wound attenuated days ago, but the others were just getting worse. "You don't by any chance have any painkillers around?"
He shook his head.
"It was a long shot anyways…"
Daryl's eyes were trained on the foreign woman as they approached, his crossbow held readily in his hands. The woman was injured from the way her feet were dragging and as they got closer, he could see the scrapes and cuts littering her face.
His first impression of Samara was a mix one of distrust and caution. Daryl had grown up around enough dangerous individuals to spot one from a mile away and his instincts raked at him that there was one coming towards him right now. The woman had a handgun shoulder holster that held two firearms and several spare cartridges. There was another handgun on her right thigh encased in a holster and a machete at her belt. Her hands never strayed too far from the weapons on the lower half of her body, and coupled with the way her eyes surveyed the area showed that she was cautious even among seemingly safe surroundings. There was a hardened glint in those pale green eyes that spread throughout her features.
The marshal, as Rick revealed, had two large tattoos on her upper arms. They were old from the way the colors were faintly washed out. Daryl's eyebrow almost shot up when he saw the necklace around her russet throat—a turquoise beaded one with several large aged fangs hanging from it. From the size of them he would venture they once belonged to a bear, if they were real.
Her clothing weren't in any better condition that her face, the dark olive T-shirt sported rips and mud patches were more concentrated on the lower portion of her faded navy jeans. Her cherry-brown cowboy boots must have seen better days and the fingerless gloves on her hands were tattered and in need of serious repair.
Overall, she looked like she just escaped Hell.
Rick and the woman stopped just near Dixon and Rick motioned towards the woman. "Daryl, this is Samara. Samara, Daryl Dixon."
The woman was not thrilled with Daryl judging from the faint scowl that broke her apathy.
—The feeling was mutual.
"And the dog is Alistair."
Alistair, as he was called, avoided Daryl altogether. He probably still remembered the roughhousing from last night.
"They're stayin' then?" He drawled in displeasure. At Rick's nod, the hunter snorted. "Just what we need, two extra mouths to feed."
"Don't worry, if you run out of food I'm sure you there's a rat around that you can prey on." Samara smiled sharply, her eyes cutting him like knives. "Just remember to cook it first."
Silence encompassed the trio.
Rick really should have seen this coming. The marshal wasn't someone that tolerated attacks on her person—verbal or otherwise—and neither was Daryl. And from the manner she glowered at him from even before introducing them, he knew there was going to be friction between these two.
Daryl's expression remained unchanged, but his eyes said everything. His arctic blues darkened with a myriad of emotions that were nowhere near positive. They slid towards Rick with an intensity that broached on hostility. The man was containing himself from lashing out judging from his harsh grip on the crossbow.
"You best keep her away from me, Grimes. Otherwise, your friend ain't gonna last long." With one last glare he turned back to his patrol.
Rick massaged his brow. Not a minute in meeting one of the group and Samara already pissed someone off. This was a fantastic start.
He nudged her forward with a bit more force than usual making her blatant scowl turn on him. Once inside the house, they headed towards the kitchen. Shane wasn't on the couch anymore and neither was the shotgun. Rick saw that the back door was open, the most likely location of the deputy.
He motioned to Samara to sit at the table as he searched the food duffle for some canned goods for her. The dog crawled underneath the table and laid down on the cool tiles having already eaten his meal.
"Samara, if we're goin' to live together here, I suggest you don't antagonize the others. I'm more tolerant than they are." Plus, after spending days with her, he was used to her callous character. Partially because he'd already seen the worst she could do and partially because he knew better than to rise to her jeers since they seemed to entertain her.
"Here." He placed a can of tomato soup in front of her and the marshal wasted no time digging into it. Rick sat in the chair beside her and continued. "Look, I'm not tellin' you what to do. I only need to know that I can trust you not to cause problems. My family has gone through enough. You creatin' more ain't somethin' I will put up with."
Samara paused in her eating. Was he threatening her? "What are you going to do, sheriff? Force me out?"
Rick remained silent as he thought on his reply. Either way, his no nonsense expression said it all. "I don't think you want me to answer that."
Samara's lips quirked wryly. My my, the sheriff is finally starting to learn.
"You've changed…"
"Like you said, we have to adapt, right?"
"I think I'm starting to like you, sheriff." Her smirk grew. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad one."
I don't either. As she was more preoccupied with chugging the soup down her throat, Rick's attention was drawn to her tattooed arms. When they had rested at the RV park he had noticed ink on her arms, but coupled with the slight dizziness and the fading sun he hadn't caught a good glimpse. On her right was a giant dreamcatcher that encompassed her upper arm with smaller dreamcatchers, feathers, bones and marbles hanging from the main one; he even saw a few small skulls in there. On her right arm was a henna band circled around the middle of her upper arm. It was as wide as his middle finger.
His eyes slid to her shoulder when it twitched. That's right…she had been injured before the accident. "How's your shoulder?"
She swallowed the soup's contents and licked her tomato juice covered lips. "It's fine. Healed up a week ago. I still get phantom pains, but nothing too serious." Besides, the soreness her whole body was experiencing overshadowed any other injury.
Their conversation was interrupted when Shane entered the kitchen. He froze once he saw Rick sitting at the table with a foreign woman eating their food.
"What the—Who the hell is this?!"
Samara swallowed the thick liquid. "Hmm…this is going to be fun."
Samara was seated at the end of the table facing the entrance of the kitchen and was now eyeing the occupants of the room with moderate interest, having finished her breakfast a while ago. Everyone was present, even the hunter. Half of them were watching her openly and the other half consisted of Daryl, Lori and Shane were subtlety giving her suspicious looks.
Maybe it's because of the guns…or the face.
Alistair had come out from underneath the table once the prospect of human kindness showed itself and was currently being cooed over by the two children. He seemed to be enjoying the attention that he had been deprived of for almost two months and a half.
Rick was facing the group and explaining her presence here. Initially, Rick introduced Samara to everyone. Shane Walsh was the sheriff's best friend and former deputy, Dale Horvath was the old man, Andrea the blonde woman, Carol Peletier was the other mother of the group and Sophia was her daughter, T-Dog was the African-American, Glenn was the Asian young man and she already knew who Grimes' family and the hunter were. Rick had introduced her as the woman that brought him to Atlanta and Samara could see some of their faces light up with recognition. It alerted her when Rick's friend, Shane, was now regarding her guardedly and with a knowing light, only this knowledge seemed to darken his mood and tighten his grip on the shotgun.
—Had the sheriff revealed more to him than the others?
"Samara is livin' two houses down and I expect that ya'll respect that. There is enough room for all of us here, so there shouldn't be any problems."
After, he told them about the accident and how Samara wandered over here. The marshal's finger curled into a fist underneath the table as she spotted several looks of sympathy. She didn't want their damn pity! They would feel otherwise if they knew how easy it would have been for her to kill them while they slept.
"Samara will be joinin' us in searchin' the houses."
"If you've been here for the past two days why haven't you looked around?" Shane addressed her from his position against the kitchen counter.
"I wasn't exactly in any state to investigate." She thought that was pretty obvious. Between a concussion and spasming muscles, leaving the bed was a nightmare she did not attempt. She had been like a beached whale, twitching everywhere.
"That doesn't matter, we're gonna do it today." Rick interrupted. "As I've said last night, we're gonna split into groups and search through as many houses as we can. We'll be lookin' for canned goods and supplies, and more importantly, makin' sure this place is secure and that no walkers are inside like they were in this one."
"This is gonna be dangerous so keep your eyes open and stay alert. Keep in mind that we'll be spreadin' out into these houses after we secure them, so look them over. If you see one you like, keep it in mind."
Samara watched the sheriff with a faint smirk. He really took his role as leader seriously.
"Carol, you'll remain here with the kids."
"Can't I help?" Carl asked with hopeful intonation from his position next to Alistair.
Lori placed her hand firmly atop his head. "Absolutely not."
"Not this time, Carl." Rick would never in his right mind let his son wander on unsecure grounds.
He returned his attention to the others. "Just like yesterday, we'll divide into three teams. Myself, Lori and T-Dog will be one team. Shane, Dale and Andrea will be another. And the last team will be Daryl, Glenn and Samara."
Once Samara heard that she would be placed with the hillbilly, all semblance of indifference was lost. Before she could even protest, Rick continued.
"Whatever differences you might have, you put them aside today. We all need to be focused right now." That was specifically addressed to her. "Sound good?"
With a reluctant grunt, she conceded. Fine, she could be civil…for now.
"Alright. I'm gonna get guns for those that don't already have one from the RV. Everyone else spread out. I'll meet you halfway."
Rick exited the RV with the gun duffle in hand. There were enough handguns for the search parties.
The sheriff's mind reeled back to Samara. He was neither thrilled nor disgruntled to have her here. Those feelings of treading on a thin wire that he associated with her returned, and he could only hope that Samara would not do anything drastic like last time. That was his primary concern in regards to her.
Another fear bloomed inside him, one that had been brewing from last night. The marshal had too easily slipped into their house and if she had wanted to, she could have killed them before anyone understood what was going on and run off with their belongings. She had every reason to, she had no supplies, no transport and no protection, and they had it all. If Rick hadn't met her on that farmhouse, his fears might have become real and nobody could say that his worries were unjustified. He might have an outline of the marshal's values and personality, but she was still capable of switching tactics if they contributed to her survival and that made Rick's stomach clench nauseatingly.
Rick loathed unpredictability, especially now in this new world. He had to be extra careful with her. Thoughts of asking Shane to also keep watch on her swam through his head when something caught his eye. He didn't spot it when the group first arrived here because of the overgrown shrubbery hiding it and the fading sun, but there was definitely a sign underneath the plants.
As Rick moved the bush to the side, his hand froze. Not only his hand, but his entire being.
Blue eyes widen in primitive terror.
On the dirtied white board was written in red paint (blood?)—
All dead
Do not enter
"Oh…shit."
Samara, Alistair, Daryl and Glenn took the initiative and walked further up the street. Shane's team took the eastern side of the lane, while Rick's team the western. For now, the trio and animal was inspecting the front yards of the houses.
Whenever Samara wasn't scrutinizing the residences, she was watching the hunter. Every move he made attracted her undivided attention. She didn't trust him, plain and simple. All her instincts flared into 'fight or flight' mode around him. Professional experience taught her to be wary of his kind.
Why the hell did Grimes pair her off with him? A blind man could see that she did not want to be around this man and yet, he still did it. If he believed that in this way she would come to some understanding with the hunter, then he was dead wrong. She had no intention of doing that.
Daryl felt probing eyes stare into his back. This wasn't the first time someone ogled him like a zoo animal or a possible threat. He didn't like it one bit and the urge to snap at the woman was just sizzling on his tongue.
"So, Samara…" Glenn caught the woman's attention. "Which tribe did you belong to?"
Her eyebrows rose. "Tribe?" What is this, the Wild West?
"Uh…nation?" He didn't want to offend her or anything. While she didn't have that 'I'll-beat-you-bloody-if-you-speak-to-me' air around her like Daryl, there was still an intensity to her.
"The hell does it matter what tribe she's from, chinaman?" Daryl grunted from a few feet in front of the pair.
Samara gave the hunter a flat look and proceeded to answer the youngest of the three just to aggravate the redneck. "I'm Navajo."
Glenn gave Daryl a quick look before giving her a wry smile. "I'm Korean by the way."
"Good for you." She had thought that, that would be the end of their interaction, but Glenn kept giving her looks and opening his mouth then closing it halfway. It didn't take long for her to find it tiresome. "What?"
"Cool tattoos." He motioned to her arms with a smirk. "I always thought about getting one, but…recent events put a stop to that." As in, walkers eating the people working at the parlors. "Do they have any meaning?"
"Not really." Her hand unconsciously ghosted over the dreamcatcher. This one had been a product of her rebellious youth, something to piss her father off with. And it worked mightily. The henna band had been added many years later in India as a sign of marriage and hopeful fertility. Samara admitted it freely; she was a sucker for history, old traditions and cultures.
Glenn's voice brought her out of her quiet musings when he pointed to her neck, "Are those real fangs?"
She nodded. "Grizzly."
Daryl turned his head sideways and gave her a strange glance.
"Seriously?" Glenn's eyes widened and he smiled like a child on a sugar rush. "Did you fight one for them?"
She snorted. "Hell no. My five times great grandfather fought one and survived, minus an arm, an eye and an ear. Took its teeth as a trophy. Or so the story goes."
"Only you redskins are crazy enough to tackle a damn bear." Daryl shook his head.
Samara's eyebrow twitched.
"Well, I think that's awesome." Glenn said as he looked between the houses. "The only heirloom my family ever had was a grandfather clock. I hated it when I was a kid. It always kept me up at night."
Just when Samara thought he was done interrogating her—
"Is Alistair yours?"
"No." She sighed. "I found him a month and a half ago."
Glenn smiled at the canine beside him. He always favored dogs over any other animal. This was the first time in he didn't know how long he actually saw one. "He's one of those sheep dogs, right?"
"He was once, now he's a wendigo herder."
Daryl snorted under his breath at her term for the walkers.
"Wendigo?" Glenn's expression contorted in confusion.
"They're human eatin' monsters in their legends." Daryl answered.
Samara was rather surprised the redneck knew what a wendigo was. He didn't look like someone that graduated high school, let alone know about some Native American legend.
"I like walker better. It's got a ring to it." Glenn mused as he readjusted his cap. "So what does Alistair do?"
At this point, his questions were really starting to irritate Samara. She was here to search for undead, not pour out her life story.
"He acts as a decoy and bait." An idea then popped into her head, one that would guarantee silence. "He's also useful in other areas."
"Which are?" Glenn paused in his walk when the woman did. Her voice got strange all of the sudden. Smooth and low, almost purring.
Samara had a strange glint shining in her green eyes. "Well, if I ever run out of food, Alistair will come in handy." She took a slow step towards him. "But now that all you people are here, I guess he's safe." And another. "That is until the meat finally runs out."
"Meat?" His voice came out shakier that he would have liked. When the realization of what she was alluding to dawned on him, he took a step back, eyes wide. "Uh…I-I'm going to…go up ahead."
Samara snickered as Glenn almost tripped as he jogged past the hunter.
Daryl gave the young man an indiscernible look and then turned on the most likely suspect of this strange happening. "I've never seen the chinaman run that fast without a walker on his ass. What you tell him?"
She shrugged casually. "My plans on an all meat diet."
Before Daryl could ask what she meant, a booming sound made the four of them freeze in their tracks. They turned to where the source of the gun noise came from.
"Don't shoot! Don't fire guns!" Rick's distant panicked voice accompanied the gunshot. He was a small dot down the street that was approaching at a rapid pace.
Not four seconds later another round echoed throughout the empty street, this one louder than the first.
"Shit!" Daryl scowled. "Don't these people ever listen to a fuckin' word?"
"What do you think happened?" Glenn stepped back to where Daryl was. He licked his dry lips nervously as his fingers kept clenching around the baseball bat. They couldn't see what was going on because they were a fair distance away from the rest and because the gunshot came from inside a house. The small team watched as Lori and T-Dog ran across the street to meet with the sheriff.
"Wendigos, most likely." Samara was also fuming. Don't these people realize that now every corpse in the estates will come out of hiding and follow that sound?
"Fuckin' Shane." The hunter spat on the ground. "That's his shotgun. Idiot must've seen a walker and gone Gung-Ho on it."
Samara brought a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. Not even an hour in meeting the group and she was already regretting not stealing a car and leaving in the middle of the night. "Gods, you people are stupid."
The hunter turned his angry gaze on her. "Don't put me in the same category as that asshole, squaw."
"Squaw?" A rather un-ladylike snort left her lips. "That's the best you can do, you inbred hillbilly?"
"What the hell crawled up your ass, woman?"
"Umm…g-guys?"
Neither Daryl nor Samara heard him. Their ears and eyes were only for each other.
"You're my problem, redneck!" She snarled. All that anger from her recent misfortune was starting to surface having found a good target to let it out on. It didn't matter if it wasn't this man's fault. The fatigue experienced from the accident had made her quite short-tempered which only worsened the situation. "Every damn turn I make, morons like you come out of the woodwork and fuck it all up!"
When Alistair—whimpering frantically—pawed her leg with vigor, Samara pushed him away with her foot.
"You crazy bitch!" Daryl was practically towering over her despite their almost identical height. "How is it my fault? Did you see me fire a fuckin' gun?!"
"Hey!" Glenn shouted at both of them, finally catching their attention.
"What!" Both shouted at the same time, scowls trained on the Asian man.
"Run!" Glenn shot past them back towards the others, Alistair on his tail.
Samara and Daryl watched with wide eyes how thirty undead walked out from between and inside the houses out into the open. They all had their milky ravenous eyes on them. Not even a heartbeat passed that they all began marching towards them, beyond excited at seeing the first fresh meal in months.
"Fuck me..." Samara whispered hoarsely as she skittered back and ran.
Daryl was of the same mind and passed her in his haste.
Samara's panic increased because running wasn't an activity that she was able to accomplish successfully at this point. The muscles on her lower half were working madly, making her back throb in excruciating pain.
Oh gods!
It wasn't just the wendigos at her back that she was worried about now but the ones coming from the sides and those in front.
"Everyone, we need to get out of here!" Rick shouted. He was shooting walkers as he ran. "Get everyone in the cars! T-Dog, Lori get Carol and the kids!"
Shane, Dale and Andrea had already come out of the house and when they saw the walkers, they ran. Dale and Shane opened fire, no longer caring about making noise. It wasn't like it mattered anymore.
Lori and T-Dog reached the house by now and Glenn along with Alistair almost reached them.
"Daryl, help Samara!" Rick yelled through the gunshots once he saw how far the marshal was from everyone. The walkers were just a few meters away from her and gaining.
Daryl looked behind him and gritted his teeth when he saw the woman lagging, pain marring her expression. Her running was a mix between a power jog and a limp, just a little bit faster than the walkers shamble.
"What the hell are you doin'?! Run!"
"I can't!" She yelled roughly as she shot off a couple of rounds into the wendigos behind her.
"Fuck!" He spat and ran back. As much as every instinct in his body was screaming at him to leave her behind, he couldn't. She was a hot-tempered asshole, but he couldn't leave her to get eaten by walkers just because of that. One of the main differences between Daryl and his older brother had been a sense of decency towards women. Even with all those guns on her, she was still female and in his mind, that made her the weaker of both sexes.
Not to mention it would put him at odds with the sheriff if his friend died.
Daryl let loose an arrow into the nearest walker and grabbed the woman's arm. If he had to drag her all the way to the cars he would, wounded as she was.
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, stop!" She screeched at the added pain the man was causing her by forcing her to run faster than her body allowed.
"We stop, we're both dead! So shut up and run!"
Rick and Shane remained behind and were picking off the walkers closer to the duo. Once they reached them, the sheriff and deputy covered them as they ran.
T-Dog, Lori, Carol and the kids were already at the cars and shouting to the others to move faster. Dale, Glenn, Alistair and Andrea were halfway there, the older man shooting the stragglers as he ran, paving a clean way for the men and Samara.
There were too many walkers. Another twenty must have joined while everyone was running.
"Move!" Rick yelled. Samara was moving too slow and the walkers were not far behind.
"I'm trying!" Samara yelled back. Her vision was swimming and her head felt heavy. If Daryl wasn't holding onto her so firmly, she would have collapsed by now.
"Someone pick her up already and let's get the hell out of here!" Shane shouted as the head of a walker exploded from the force of his shotgun, spraying brain and blood on the other undead. The downed body made several walkers trip over it, creating a domino effect.
Daryl slung his crossbow over his shoulder and wasted no time in picking the woman up into a fireman's carry over his shoulders. Now that she was finally off the pavement, they could all move faster, but it left him wholly unprotected. If any walkers appeared in front of the hunter, he wouldn't be able to grab his crossbow or any other weapon.
A car engine suddenly rumbled through the street and the iron gates flew open as Shane's car made contact with them. T-Dog was behind the wheel, driving right into the walkers, mowing down as many as he could. This provided the others with enough time to reach the convoy safely.
"Get in the cars and go!"
Rick departed from the group to his respective car while Shane headed for Carol's car and Daryl for his truck. He lowered the woman on the ground and opened the passenger side. With a harsh shove he threw her into the car, ignoring her howl of pain and the foul curses directed at him. He really couldn't give a shit what she called him right now. Daryl climbed into the driver seat and started the engine. Sweat was pouring down his forehead in abundance.
T-Dog was turning the car over and heading back towards the convoy. The front side of the car was splattered with blackish blood and bits of rotten flesh, the windshield was cracked and the bumper was dragging on the concrete, creating sizzling sparks.
The sheriff's car was already speeding down the road and the RV was also in motion. Carol's car was not far behind and T-Dog was just a few seconds from reaching the street. The truck's engine came to life and Daryl wasted no time in putting the old car in motion. The occupants of the truck jerked with the abrupt movement and Samara almost hit her head on the dashboard.
"Watch what you're doing, you dick." She grumbled disconnectedly.
"Shut up." Daryl growled at her.
The convoy reached the highway and veered left. It didn't really matter which way they were heading as long as it was far away from the Wiltshire Estates.
Once the car was steady, Samara swayed in her seat. Her vision at this point was similar to a kaleidoscope; there wasn't anything that she was able to focus on properly, colors all blended like a painter's pallet. A growing churning feeling was left in her stomach as the adrenaline drained from her body. Surprisingly, she couldn't feel the soreness in her muscles anymore.
With a groan, the woman grabbed the handle for the side window and tried to shift it. The window stopped a few inches in.
An anxious whimper escaped from between her lips. "Stop the car."
"Why?" Daryl gave her a look and saw the paleness on her face.
"Just stop the fucking car!" A hand came up and covered her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out and he could hear a bubbling heave in her throat.
With a disgusted grimace, Daryl did as told. He would rather not let this happen inside his truck.
With frenzied jerks, Samara opened the side door and hurled her breakfast on the warm concrete.
The cars in front slowed to a stop once they realized that Daryl's truck wasn't following anymore. T-Dog having caught up from behind, stopped beside Daryl's window.
"Why'd you stop?" There was a wheeze to his voice. The events of today wore him out. And the fact that he drove head on into a pile of walkers left him weak in his seat.
Daryl motioned towards the vomiting woman. T-Dog grimaced at the guttural sounds that were coming out of her.
"She didn't get bit, did she?"
"No. Just go on ahead, we'll follow."
"Alright, man. If you're sure." T-Dog drove forward to inform the others of the temporary delay.
The marshal finally straightened out after a few minutes of dry heaving and closed the door. Small chunks of tomato were dripping down her hair ends and the stinging stench of vomit encompassed the interior of the truck. Daryl scooted closer to the door in hopes of getting away from the foul odor.
"Are you still here?" He asked as he lowered the window and stuck his head out. The woman was wavering like a sheet in the wind and she didn't seem all that aware of her surroundings.
Half-closed pale green eyes slid towards him. The hunter was barely distinguishable in her vision. Dark eyebrows rose up in faint surprise.
"I forgot…my night-vision…goggles."
Samara's eyes rolled back into her head and Daryl didn't prevent her forehead from making contact with the dashboard.
Daryl's frowning visage turned back towards the road.
Jesus Christ…If she's dead, this is not my fault.