Note: I want to thank everyone who has reviewed and read this. I love writing this, because it's pretty much autobiographical. I'm a country girl, who knows a lot about horses and guns. So, I based my character off of myself, and that makes her even easier to write for, and to love!

This chapter, I brought Daryl in as his own character, while still writing for Shan's journal. They'll be apart for a while, but I think you guys will like reading the meltdown of the world, and how Daryl deals with it. I will also be going into why he is so hard, later in the seasons. :)

So far, this is pre-season 1. So, enjoy!

Chapter 2: Atlanta or Bust

A fist shot through the window of Dennis Outdoors. An arm followed, pushing the hand to the brass doorknob, where it turned the locks, and left. The door was soon pushed open, and Daryl Dixon pushed his way through, his shotgun barrel leading the way, as he checked the store out. He had been through Hell, already. His face was covered in dirt and blood, and his once clean work shirt was now void of its sleeves and the green color was a deep and menacing color of rust. He had killed more people today than he ever thought possible, and he wasn't completely convinced that the people were dead. However, after what he had seen, he couldn't take a chance. Before he shot her, he watched an old lady, with half a body; tear a man apart like he was some sort of candy.

He limped his way through the store, smirking at the fact that the shelves had really been left alone. These dumb city motherfuckers hadn't even thought to grab guns, or ammo. Either that, or they hadn't had time. Either way, he had all the guns and ammo he needed, right under his nose. He quickly turned and ran to the door, as best he could on a torn up leg. He turned the locks, and then looked around the store again, his head racing.

No one really knew what happened, in Atlanta. No one really knew if the sickness, or madness transcended Atlanta, or if it was a local event. All the people knew was that they had to run. They had to get out. They had to get away from these people, who needed no weapons to kill everyone in sight. Daryl, however, had run right into the Lion's den. He didn't have a choice. He had nothing, but a gunshot wound to the thigh, blood on his hands, and an old hunting knife. He needed something with more firepower, but that he could carry ammo for easily. He began looking at the glass cases behind the checkout counter, going through the guns with his mind. Most of them were single shot, or had huge plugs in them. At best, they would hold three or four shells, meaning he would have to carry a ton of extra ammo on him. He sighed, placing his hands on his hips, as he continued through the guns.

It was then that he caught a glimpse of the bow rack. He narrowed his eyes, pulling away from the guns and walking toward it. He thought of the pros and cons of carrying a bow. The one pro that came to mind was re-usable ammo. He reached his hand up, pushing some of them aside on the cord that held them to the wall. When he reached what he was looking for, he smirked, pulling it down and holding it in his hands, like a trophy. It was a Horton crossbow. It had a red-dot scope, and a quiver that held twelve bolts.

"Hell yeah…" he whispered, looking through the scope for a couple of seconds. He looked toward the door as more of the 'sick' people walked by. If he didn't hurry, he would be trapped in this damn shop, and there were too many windows for his comfort. He fumbled around, grabbing a hand full of bolts from a box below the bow rack. One by one, he slid them into the quiver, and began looking around for supplies of any other use.

Once he had tracked down the provisions, and some bottles of water, he stuffed all of his supplies into a hunting backpack, and stumbled back over to the gun case, grabbing a few handguns and some random ammo. He had to leave Atlanta, or he risked being stuck there, after dark. He was in survival, never once thinking back to the farm…

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I stared out into the yard. My eyes were cold, and I could feel my body growing rigid with fear and determination. The longer I sat here, the more willing I was to put a bullet in every person's head until I found Daryl Dixon. He was one of four people I knew, on this planet. Two of those four were dead; making him the only thing I had left in the world. I shook myself from the shock that I seemed to be in, looking around the yard. I didn't even remember stopping out here. I didn't remember feeling the need to, but I guess my legs just wouldn't carry me any further than the front steps.

I looked out across the large pasture, seeing the horses grazing, like nothing was going on. I half expected, I guess, that the men would have killed the horses. Smirking, I stood, and grabbed my shotgun from the ground, along with my duffel bag and made my way toward the old barn, where Daryl kept his Franken-Harley. He and my father had built that stupid motorcycle from the ground up. It wasn't a complete Harley, but it had the emblem, which was enough to make Daryl feel important. That's what my dad was going for.

I grabbed the door handle to the barn, and with as much effort as I had left in me; I pulled the large door to the side. It creaked to a halt, and I stepped into the barn, looking around at all of the old tools and things. There was no sign that anyone had been in here, except the Franken-Harley was missing. Daryl…was alive. I couldn't go on that hope alone, but I had to think that he was the only soul on this planet who would be able to convince himself the damn thing would run. That hope, ended any shock that was still reverberating through my body.

Daryl wasn't here. He had killed the man in the kitchen, and taken off. He was on his way to something better, and he had done the grown up thing. He had left me behind. I'm glad. He would have been killed, along side of my parents, and I would be alone, forever. Sighing, I tightened my grip on the duffel bag and grabbed a bridle and rope that was hanging next to my head. I draped them around my neck, and stomped out of the barn. The determination in my bones made me forget that I didn't like horses. I didn't like to ride them. I tolerated them.

I slowly climbed the fence to the pasture, eyeing Daryl's Percheron carefully. The horse was huge, and it hated me. I could see it in its eyes. It was a damn demonic fiend, but it was my only means of locomotion. I had to ride this damn thing to safety, if it would let me. I began making kissing noises, holding my hand out as if I had food. Shockingly, it worked. The giant, black horse began making its way to me, and I smiled. I broke…a smile.

"Good boy…that's a good boy…", I cooed to the giant, hanging my duffle on the fence post, with my shotgun balanced within its handles. I pulled the bridle from around my neck and reached a hand out, softly stroking the nose of the horse as I climbed to the top of the high fence. This horses back was almost six feet tall, and I stood a meager five and half. Hopefully, he would be still, long enough for me to jump onto his wide back, "That's it. Nice and easy…"

I slowly slipped the bridle over his nose, and pulled it carefully behind his ears, which he allowed, making annoyed sounds. I had no saddle, which made me nervous, as I pulled the rope around behind his head, and slowly lifted a leg, and straddling him. His motion beneath me caused my breath to hitch, from the fear of falling. I pulled on the makeshift reign, lightly leading him closer to the fence. He obliged, and I smiled, again.

"That's a good boy. Good boy, Riot…", I cooed, reaching over to grab my duffel and shotgun. I threw the duffel onto my shoulder and placed the shotgun on my lap, before kicking Riot's sides a bit to make him gallop. And gallop he did. He took of in a speed that almost knocked me off of his back, and I leaned forward, terrified, as he jumped the fence. Daryl had always had trouble with him escaping and running off into the woods. He was a wild horse, at heart, but he was Daryl's pride and joy. I'm sure leaving him behind was the hardest thing he ever did. I'm sure that Daryl wasn't Daryl anymore, when hit the road.

When we touched down on the other side of the fence, I pulled the reigns tight, and Riot slowed down, giving me a breather as I thought of our destination. We could either ride into Atlanta, or look for supplies, or we could comb the woods, and take our chances. Sighing, I kicked his sides again, leading him to the road.

Atlanta or bust…

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Daryl slipped out of the store, limping badly on his bad leg. He wouldn't make it much farther, before infection would set in, if he didn't find somewhere for safety. Safety. Yeah right. There was no such thing as safety in this world anymore. The country is supposed to be safe, right? That was a big lie in everyone's face. His family had been massacred. Merle had taken off. God knows where he had ended up, and Daryl was left to fend for himself. He quickly limped over to his chopper, shoving some of the boxes of ammo in its saddlebags, while he positioned himself on the seat, bringing it to life with a roar. The people limping their way through the streets all turned, as if he had signaled for them, and with only a little difference in breathing, he sped past them, leaving Atlanta in the dust.

It wasn't even an hour later that he came out of the city to find a huge traffic jam. The traffic was going the wrong way. Idiots were trying to get into Atlanta. Atlanta was gone. Didn't these people know anything? They were driving right to their own death sentence. He drove his way down the side of the road, slowing his pace, as he saw a lot of children running around in between the cars. The cars themselves looked like campsites. People had pulled out lawn chairs and food, and were eating their way through the stress. He stopped, however, at the sight of a little boy. The little boy couldn't have been over eight years old, and was wrapped around the waist of a bulky looking man. The man looked like he had some sort of authority, here…like a cop.

"Can I help you, man?" the cop asked, looking Daryl in the eyes. He didn't even realize that he was staring. He shook his head, looking down at his bike, before looking back up at the face in front of him.

"What's…What's goin' on?", he asked him, his voice soft.

"Somthin's goin' around. We heard there's a refuge center in Atlanta…"

"Nah. Atlanta's gone, man." Daryl said sadly, trying to keep his voice down. There was no use in starting mass panic here, with all the kids. However, the woman standing near the cop stepped forward. Her face held anger, as she shot dagger eyes at Daryl.

"How dare you come here and say that to us. How the hell do you know anything about…"

"Lori…Calm it down. The man's obviously been through Hell, and he came from that way. Maybe he knows…", the man spoke up, placing a hand on 'Lori's' arm.

"Or maybe he doesn't know shit! He could be like all the cops around here…"

"Not a cop…", Daryl spoke up, quietly, which caused Lori's shoulders to fall in surrender. She ran her hands through her hair and walked back over to the little boy, who now looked terrified. Daryl was sorry for scaring the kid. That was never his intention, but he owed nothing to these people, "I just came from there. Those people…the sick ones? They're all in the streets, eatin' folks and tearin' shit up. I barely got out. If there was a center, I figure it's moved, or gon'"

"You got any idea what's goin' on?", the man asked, looking Daryl over, and seeing the gunshot wound to his thigh. He narrowed his eyes, as if sizing Daryl up.

"No more than you…", Daryl answered, snaking his hand down to the hilt of his hunting knife, slowly. He didn't like the way the man was looking at him, until the man extended a hand.

"My name's Shane."

Daryl looked down at his hand, before back up at his face. He didn't want to know any of these people. They weren't his problem. They weren't his responsibility, and what he knew about the land would be an asset to them, MAKING them his responsibility. However, the hospitable side of his personality came through, and he took Shane's hand, gripping it. At least he wouldn't be truly alone…

"Daryl…"

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I met my first Walker outside of Atlanta. It was the beginning of the end of my sanity, and it was the moment I grew up. I grew up fast…in the land of the Walking Dead.

Riot galloped down the large highways, passing empty cars and dead bodies the whole way. Some of the bodies were still inside the cars, and some of them were lying in ditches to the side. Riot could tell something was going on. His muscles were tense, and he jerked, veering off to the side, here and there. He was nervous, and I slowed him to a stop, turning him in a circular pace, as I looked around us; my hand on the shotgun.

That was when I saw her.

Her head was held on by a piece of muscle, moving from side to side, like a spring. Though, as she walked closer to us, I could see her mouth snapping. I couldn't tell, in that moment, if she was after Riot, or myself.

"Ma'am…stop…", I said, idiotically addressing her as if she was still alive. I didn't want to have to shoot her. I wanted her to live. I wanted her to change, and get better, as if she was just sick, "Please stop. Ma'am?! MA'AM!"

Riot began pacing more nervously, and I did the only thing I could, to protect myself. I raised my shotgun, and fired, blowing her head from what was left of her neck. As she hit the grown, I raised my hand to my mouth and let out a shaky breath. I killed a woman. I did. Me. I had no one to cry to about it. I had no one to tell me that I was any less of a terrible person for it. I had killed her.

Deciding that I couldn't stop, I kicked Riot's sides and we took off again.

3 I loved writing this chapter, for more development of not only Daryl, but Shan.