Sometimes they say this should feel something like fire You're losing your light,
'Til it burns you and you can't,
No, you can't remain the same
Stay the same, stay the same, stay the same
I can't change
Everything that was yours just does not exist
So don't even try to say
Sorry for the things in life you might have missed
- "Fire" by Sleeping with Sirens
Daryl
Goddamn son of a bitch, Daryl cursed as his head gave another painful throb. He silently reprimanded himself for not watching his feet; he'd been hunting and tracking for so long that he no longer had to look where he was walking. I was fuckin' wrong. He sat against a tree as everyone bustled around him; he'd moved to help, but Carol had immediately ordered him to sit his ass back down. He hated the feeling of uselessness, which was exactly what he was when he was injured. At least, the others made him so. He knew it was because they didn't want him injuring himself further, but in the back of his head, he was complaining that he wasn't that hurt.
A wave of dizziness passed over him as he turned his head too quickly. Pressing a hand to the uninjured side, Daryl sat still and waited for the sound again, but it never came. He thought he heard the pounding of footsteps off in the distance, but with everyone clangin' and bangin' around, it was impossible to tell. Besides, they would tell him he'd gone nuts if he bothered to tell them. He rolled his eyes and lifted his hand to his mouth to chew on the side of his thumbnail, a habit that signified he was deep in thought. He watched Rick talk with Shane, both them standing defensively. Obviously whatever they were talking about wasn't good. Like I care. Carol was helping Lori prepare a small dinner over the fire they'd built. Andrea was standing guard with her trusty rifle—with which she'd actually shot at him one time in the past—and Dale was sitting on a log next to Carl and Sophia. And there was Daryl, sitting up against a tree by himself.
Daryl felt more alone now as he watched the group interact with one another. They all got along splendidly, while he was and always had been the outcast. When Merle was here, he at least had someone to talk to. Now, the only reason these people looked to him was for food. He guaranteed that, without him, these survivors would have never lasted as long as they had. He was an essential part of the group, but only when it came to survival. None of them actually sought his friendship or his opinion about anything, and why would he want to befriend these people? They all judged him before they even knew him, thought he was just some dumb hick who drank cheap whiskey. But had he done anything to disprove them of those theories? He only spoke when he was spoken to, which wasn't often in itself. The only time any of them—usually it was Rick—asked for his input, it was what to make of tracks in the path or what kind of animals inhabited the area.
He could act like it didn't bother him all he wanted; deep down, he knew it did, and every time even felt that splinter into his heart, Merle was in the back of his head, patronizing.
"Yer a Dixon, boy. Dixons don't need nobody. You don't need nobody. 'Cept ol' Merle, but he gone now, ain't he? Look'it ya, gettin' yer panties in a twist jus' 'cause these pricks won't let ya join in playtime. Yer not one o' them, lil' brother. Ain't never were, ain't gonna be. They don't care 'bout ya; no one but Merle did that. Look'it, can't even bind yer wound good. They don't care 'bout you. Yer trailer-park trash to them, worthless. Only thing yer good at is keepin' 'em fed and even then ya barely get a thank ya. Ye'll see, lil' brother, they'll abandon ya soon as opportunity strikes."
Daryl blinked and he was back with the Atlanta survivors in the woods. They were setting up the tents they'd packed, and T-Dog, regardless of receiving a harsh glare from Daryl, offered to set up Daryl's tent. He'd never say it out loud, but he and T-Dog were getting along better now that Merle was physically gone. Their relationship couldn't be termed as friendship, though; perhaps, tolerable was a better word. Merle's voice was still in the back of his head, though, chastising him for "makin' nice with a nigger".
"Ain't right," Merle would say. "Our kinds ain't meant to mix."
T-Dog made small talk as he set up the tent, talking about his family before the world went to shit. Daryl listened quietly, but he never responded except with a small, barely audible grunt of acknowledgement here and there. T-Dog didn't expect much more out of him, and he was fine with Daryl's silence. As long as he wasn't spewing derogatory words in his direction, Daryl was okay in T-Dog's book, unlike his bigoted older brother. The younger Dixon was much more pleasant to be around, regardless of the fact that he kept to himself. With Merle gone, he didn't get the hateful sneers and jeers and snide, racist comments. Granted, he still felt guilty and responsible for what happened to Merle, but he'd stopped thinking about it shortly after the group had been forced to vacate the area. It was silently agreed that Merle was probably dead—or undead—since he most likely couldn't survive with only one hand. Daryl, on the other hand, was persistent in believing his brother was still alive, and neither Rick nor the others had the heart to discourage him. As long as he didn't go running off into the woods while he was basically concussed, they were glad for his reluctance to let that hope die. It meant there was at least some hope left, for one of them leastwise.
Daryl stayed by his tree for most of the night, but Carol carried a plate of food over to him when it was time to eat. He nodded shortly and sat up to eat. He listened to the conversation buzzing around the group; what their plan of action would be, where they would camp for the next few nights until they found a place a little more permanent. Shane provided that they'd need to find a place to scavenge from; their stores were running low, and with Daryl injured, they needed another source of food and fast.
"We're just gonna have to ration until we can find a department store or somethin'. I doubt there's anythin' close by. We'll head out early in the mornin' and continue lookin'. It's the only bet we have at this point," Rick answered. He looked around the group; every one of them had lost a significant amount of weight since they'd left their last semi-permanent station. It was an abandoned farm not too far off from where their current location, and the former owners had left their food stores intact. There had been enough supplies to last them for at least a few weeks before they had to go out and scavenge. There were enough bedrooms so everyone could enjoy a good night's sleep on a comfortable bed, and the water heater was still working. It was paradise, but it all seemed too good to be true. About two weeks in, a horde of walkers just passing through, drawn by some noise that the survivors hadn't heard, came upon the property and overran it, forcing the survivors out of their heaven and back out into the wild. They'd brought as much non-perishable food and water that they could pack, and it had lasted for three days, up until now when a daily inventory was taken.
"We need to get outta these woods. Ain't safe," Shane argued. Daryl watched silently as Shane went off on yet another power trip. The former cop had been doing that a lot lately, questioning Rick's decisions as if Rick were a child instead of a grown man. Daryl didn't much care for either cop, but he trusted Rick knew what he was doing. He'd been a cop, for God's sake, and Daryl trusted him to keep them safe. So far, he'd done a hell of a job. A few close calls, but nonetheless, Rick had done just what he'd promised he'd do.
Shane, on the other hand, was farther down on Daryl's list of favorite people. The man was abrasive and forceful, and he had a problem with keeping his mouth shut. More than once Daryl found himself tempted to pop Shane right in his jaw, maybe break it, but he held back every time, knowing that fighting within the group was the last thing any of them needed. Before Rick came back, when it was believed he was dead, Daryl knew what Shane and Lori were doing. Once or twice while he was on a hunt, he'd stumble across them in the woods and he'd leave them be. It wasn't any of his business what went on between them, and frankly, he didn't care enough to know. But once that affair began to endanger the group, Daryl would be one of the first to throw himself into the mix to keep everyone safe.
Sometime later, everyone began packing up to head off to bed. Daryl glanced back at his tent. He wouldn't be able to get into it without help or feeling dizzy if he did it himself.
"I'll take first watch," he spoke. Rick stopped and looked to him. "Won't sleep with this headache anyways." Rick nodded and followed Lori into the ten they shared with their ten-year-old son, Carl. The sounds of zippers closing surrounded Daryl as he sat back against the tree. T-Dog walked up to him and sat on a log beside him. Daryl didn't say anything, but he was curious.
"I'll sit with ya. If somethin' happens, ya gonna need someone who can actually stand to take 'em out." T-Dog smiled crookedly and a corner of Daryl's lip twitched, but that was as far as his smile got.
The two men sat in the silence as the night closed in around them. Sounds of nocturnal animals could be heard as they foraged for food. Neither Daryl nor T-Dog engaged each other in conversation, and Daryl was just fine with that. He could listen for any alien sounds better if they stayed silent. The silence stretched throughout the night until Shane emerged from his tent to take second watch. Without a word or a glance at either men in front of Daryl's tent, Shane crouched by the fire's edge. Sparing T-Dog a glance, Daryl nodded and T-Dog stood and helped Daryl into his tent. Daryl gave another nod of thanks and goodnight, and T-Dog gave a salute before the tent zipped closed.
Daryl lay awake staring at the ceiling of his tent for some time. He could hear Shane sniffing occasionally outside at the fire, and for the briefest of moments, he considered crawling back outside to join him. Then he scoffed to himself and rolled over to face the wall. He'd die first before he ever sat side-by-side with Shane—as friends. The word was alien to him. The only friend he had was his crossbow; the weapon hadn't ever let him down, unlike every person that ever walked into his life. With these people, he was surviving. Nothing more, nothing less.
The next morning, the group headed out early. T-Dog, once again, had Daryl's arm over his shoulder and was helping the other man walk. T-Dog was thankful that Daryl had nothing nasty to say, unlike his brother, who, if he was here instead of Daryl, would be spewing out racist words and phrases. Hell, Merle probably wouldn't let T-Dog anywhere near him. The younger Dixon was obviously better company than his brother.
The group traveled northwest for quite some time, stopping only for bathroom breaks—which were frequent in the case of Lori—and sips of water, which was also running low. The sun was high in the sky when the group stopped yet again for Lori. Daryl bit back a groan of annoyance. T-Dog leaned him against a tree so they could both catch their breath. Lori returned a few moments later, buttoning up her jeans, and Rick took a minute to pass around the water jug. Daryl waved it away and waited for T-Dog to finish. Then they pressed on again.
It was nearing sunset when the group drew closer to the edge of the woods. Through the trees, a massive structure could be seen, and Rick stopped the group to evaluate the area. Just feet ahead, the woods merged into a large clearing where, smack in the middle, sat what looked like a former military base. There were cement walls on all sides and barbed wire coiled across the top. A sliding chain-link fence acted as the entrance, and behind it, Rick could barely make out the shapes of people milling about the space inside. Shane stepped up beside his friend. Without looking at him, Rick asked the taller man's opinion.
"It looks safe, secure. But what about the people inside? Might not be lookin' to make friends," Shane replied, keeping his voice low.
"Not harm in tryin'. Maybe they'll be a little more sympathetic once they see we're hurt with children. Five minute break, and then we'll hit it."
Rick stood, discussing their plan further with Shane, while everyone else took a seat for a few minutes. Daryl remained standing, with T-Dog's shoulder as a crutch. He looked on as Shane and Rick talked with their hands. It didn't seem like an angry argument, just an excited one. Both men were trying to get their points across, talking over each other. Daryl himself wasn't sure how he felt about this military base. Shane was right—these people might not be too friendly upon the arrival of a bunch of strangers. They could be vicious, kill their men, take their women and children. On the other hand, though, Rick was right, too—they wouldn't truly know unless they tried. But was it worth the risk? In this new age, no one could be trusted. Who knew if these people wouldn't attack them as soon as they were within range? Or, if they did let them inside, that they wouldn't forcefully disarm them, take their supplies, and lock them up somewhere to get picked apart by walkers?
"All right, everyone," Shane called a short time later. "Let's saddle up." The group rose at once and T-Dog resumed his position beside Daryl. Then they headed out into the sunlight.
Daryl hobbled along with T at the back of the pack. Ahead, at the base, he saw a few people standing guard on the towers. Their voices carried across the bare land, calling out warnings to whoever else was inside. A sense of dread fell over the group, as if they suddenly realized that there was a very good chance that they were outnumbered. Daryl looked around at his fellow survivors; they all bore the same worried look. Ahead, Shane exchanged a look with Rick. More people appeared at the tops of the towers, a few with binoculars. Rick placed a hand on his sidearm cautiously, but he didn't remove it.
As the survivors drew closer, they could now easily see that each person on the tower had some sort of long-range weapon trained on them. Mostly there were bows, but Daryl spotted a couple sniper-rifles with suppressors as well.
"Hold it right there!" a feminine voice called from one of the towers. The survivors stopped, hearing the familiar cocking of guns. Daryl peered up into the sunlight; a sniper rifle was trained right on Rick's head. "Drop your weapons and step away from them!" Rick shared another look with Shane and gave a small nod. Holding up his free hand, he pulled his sidearm out of its holster and tossed it away. He glanced back at the others to do the same. Quickly, they disarmed and took three large steps away from the discarded weapons.
"Now what do you want?" the voice called again. Rick held his hands up.
"Please," he replied. "We're injured, and we have children. We're not lookin' for trouble. Only some rest and some medical help."
"You best turn yourselves around now!"
"Please! We…we've been travelin' nonstop for four days! We're low on supplies. One of ours, he hit his head! Won't stop bleedin' and we can't stitch it! Please. Our children can't go much longer without some rest and water."
There was a pregnant pause and each survivor was on the tip of his toes. There was movement on the towers, but the sun was far too bright in its setting that Rick couldn't clearly see what was going on. Suddenly someone appeared at the chain-link fence, a loaded rifle in her hands. Daryl squinted against the sun and used his hand as a visor. The barrel of the rifle was stuck through one of the holes in the fence and pointed at Rick.
"How many of ya are there?" she asked, her voice slightly muffled by the butt of the gun.
"Eleven, with two kids. And one pregnant woman," Rick replied, a relieved sigh leaving his mouth. The woman looked around the group with narrowed eyes, her gaze settling suspiciously on Daryl, with his head wrapped and a leer on his face. Slowly pulling the gun from the fence, she flipped the safety and slung the weapon over her shoulder.
"You'll leave your weapons. They'll be confiscated. All of you put your hands on your heads and walk slowly. Any o' you so much as make any sort o' move you'll be shot on sight. Y'hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am," Rick replied. Shane clenched his jaw as he watched Rick step forward. The chain-link fence was slowly pulled open and Rick stepped through, his hands on the back of his head. The weapons on the towers were still trained on the newcomers as each of them stepped into the base. Daryl slowly hobbled behind T, his hands held painfully to his head. After being held up for so long, he barely had the strength to stand on his own. He fell to his knees once he was inside, and the woman immediately had the safety flipped and the rifle pointed at him again.
Rick held out a hand to her as he cautiously stepped over to Daryl. "Wait. He's the one who hit his head. Hasn't been standin' on his own for a few days. His strength prob'ly gave out. He needs medical help immediately."
"I'll be callin' the shots," the woman fired back. Rick snapped his mouth shut. "What happened?"
"Uh, I don't really…"
"Was on a hunt, wasn't watchin' my footin', took a little tumble down a slope and bumped my head on a rock. Wanna know what I was wearin' too?" Daryl replied weakly, a hand pressed lightly to his spinning head. The woman lowered her gun slowly and glanced back at a couple of her companions. She ordered them to bring Daryl to the infirmary and that she'd be there soon. Two large men stepped forward and each grabbed underneath Daryl's arms. He didn't have the strength to struggle, even though he wasn't too keen on being manhandled. Instead, he let them carry him off so he could finally catch a wink of sleep, if he was lucky.
He was placed in an empty bed and given painkillers, which took effect quickly. He was fast asleep in minutes.
Angela
Angela assessed the newcomers in front of her. Thin, pale, and weak, they put up no fight whatsoever when they were patted down. The children shook and huddled beside their mothers, watching each stranger with wide eyes. She kept her rifle close as the bulky man with the buzz cut shot a warning look at one of her men. Her eyes slightly narrowed. He'd be a troublemaker; she could tell already. The other man, the skinny cop, was compliant, letting the men check and double-check him for hidden weapons. When everything was confiscated, the men then went outside the gate to fetch the weapons the newcomers had tossed aside.
She stood with her fists on her hips, watching each person closely. The smart-mouthed redneck had been taken to the infirmary, and once she was finished in her assessment of these people, she'd be heading straight there to make sure no funny business went down.
"I want these people separated into two empty cabins. Keep the families together, and I want a watch on both twenty-four-seven. If they need to go somewhere, I want escorts. None of them go anywhere without a guard. Understood?" she ordered. The men chorused their affirmatives. Angela pointed at Rick. "You, come with me. I want some info on your injured friend."
Rick nodded and fell into step beside her as they headed towards the infirmary. Rick kept his hand on his holster, despite its emptiness. Angela was wary of the man walking beside her, a tight grip on the strap on her rifle.
"He hit his head like he said?" she asked, wanting to pick apart every single detail. She'd be damned if she let a small error in detail cost her the lives of the people inside the base.
Rick nodded and reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Yeah. He came limpin' back after that hunt. I guess he misjudged a step and fell down into a ravine. We bandaged it as best we could, but it was still bleedin' a bit. Name's Rick Grimes." Angela glanced cautiously down at the hand he suddenly thrust in her direction and slowly reached forward to shake it.
"Angela Warren. Where you from?"
"King County, Georgia, originally. I was in a coma until a couple of weeks ago. I was a sheriff's deputy, got shot on the job. Guess I was out through the beginning of this mess."
"Then you're lucky. It was chaos when this all started. The military didn't even know what to do. People looting and fighting for working cars when they couldn't even get into the city. Then they napalmed the shit out of Atlanta, destroyed all chance of a refugee center."
"Where were you when it happened?" Rick asked. Angela pursed her lips. How much could she tell this man?
"I was visiting my parents. It was my mom's birthday before it happened. Woke up to my brother shaking me, yelling at me that we had to go. Mom and Dad weren't quick enough. The biters swarmed the house and we just made it out the back door. Michael and I, we headed north out of Georgia, wound up here. The others kind of trickled in after and some we picked up on scavenges."
"How many of you are here?" Rick asked, looking impressively around the base.
"About a hundred." Rick's jaw dropped and Angela smirked slightly. She held the door open to the infirmary for him and followed him inside. "Down the hall on the left." Rick regarded her instructions with a nod and pushed the door open.
Daryl lay on the bed, fast asleep due to the heavy-duty painkillers. Nothing had been removed just yet, not even the bandage around his head that was beginning to bleed through. His fingers twitched beside his thigh. Probably dreaming, Angela thought.
"His name's Daryl. He and his brother came to the group early on, back when they were still at the quarry. Merle was…a problem, for lack of a better word, and we had an incident in Atlanta. He was left behind." Angela frowned and looked down at the sleeping Daryl. "Daryl wasn't too happy hearin' his brother was gone, and that day we went back into the city. I'd handcuffed him to a piece o' metal on the roof, but he was gone when we got there. He cut his hand off at the wrist."
Angela swallowed and began to unravel Daryl's head bandage. She grimaced when the stained gauze fell away to reveal a large, bloody gash. A small infection had begun to set in, pus bubbles surrounded the laceration. Angela discarded the bandage.
"He has a small infection. I think we've got some antibiotics to prevent it from getting any worse. I'm gonna have to stitch it, too, and we'll have to wake him up in a bit to make sure he doesn't slip into a coma."
"You think he has a concussion?" Rick asked, twirling his hat in his fingers. Angela shrugged.
"If he couldn't stand on his own, it's possible. He needs rest, and then I'll have to wake him up. He seems to be okay now, but just to be sure." Angela then reached for the bottle of antiseptic, as well as the first aid kit. Opening it, she pulled out a suture and a thread. She soaked a cotton ball in antiseptic and dabbed away at the gash until most of the dried blood and dirt was clear.
She stitched the wound skillfully and quickly, having been taught by Fred. He'd been busy taking inventory of the food stores in one of the empty cabins and had been unable to tend to the injured newcomer. Then she placed a hand on Daryl's shoulder and gave him a hard shake. He stirred but didn't wake, and Angela shook him again and again until he finally roused, spewing venom.
"The hell are you?" he growled, jerking out of Angela's grip. She rolled her eyes.
"My name is Angela. Your group has been taken in. You've hit your head pretty hard and I've just finished stitching it. You have a small infection and I have to keep you awake to be sure that you don't have a concussion and slip into a coma." Daryl gritted his teeth but stayed silent. His eyes found Rick in the corner.
"How are you feeling, Daryl?" Rick asked, stepping up beside the bed. Daryl lifted himself to his elbows.
"Like shit. Head hurts. Those painkillers did wonders, though. Got any more?"
"We have a few left. If the pain gets bad, then I'll give you more. Until then, we have to ration them. Now, since you clearly seem to be in working order, you should probably go back to sleep. I'll send someone to sit with you and wake you up continuously until we're sure you won't go comatose. C'mon, Rick, I'll show you around."
When Daryl slipped back into slumber, Angela led Rick out of the infirmary, closing the door to Daryl's room behind her. They walked back outside into the setting sun, which cast an orange glow across the interior of the base. Rick looked around; more of the survivors had come out and were gathered around a fire pit with a spit across it. They were roasting something that brought his mouth to water, but Angela led him away, down the main street. Cabins had been erected on both sides, and Angela took the time to explain each one. She avoided mentioning in which cabin they kept their food stores, as she wasn't too positive she could trust these people. She pointed to the cabin in which Rick's family had been placed, as well as where the others of his group would be staying.
Their camp was well-established, its residents wary but friendly. The guard posted stood tall and alert, pointing binoculars out over the landscape beyond the fort. The sun was nearly gone, the only light in the fort coming from the large fire in its interior's center. These people had made a stable life here, one that seemed sturdy enough to last a while.
Angela parted ways with Rick outside his family's cabin and headed back to the one she shared with Michael. On her way there, she saw the blonde with Rick's group exploring the grounds with Henry, one of the guards. They were talking animatedly, and Henry seemed the least bit suspicious of the newcomer. Smiling slightly, Angela stepped into the cabin and sat down on her bed with her clipboard to mark off the day's tasks.
Thoughts? :)
xx ZM