Chapter Three- I can't, I can't stop crying

Rick drove towards his parent's house, trying to keep it together. He couldn't believe he'd just left Daryl. What if something happened? What if he was attacked, and he was alone?

He hit the steering wheel in frustration, hard enough to make his hand throb. But he didn't care. He relished the pain. It distracted him.

As Rick turned into his old subdivision, he heard a noise that sounded odd, so he looked out his window. What he saw made him slam on his brakes.

There were helicopters landing a few blocks over. It looked, from here, like they were going to the hospital. Had help arrived?

Rick started driving again, faster now, trying to get to his parents so they could get out of here. Part of him wanted to find out what was going on at the hospital, but he knew if the copters were there to help, they wouldn't be transporting healthy civilians. They had to have landed at the hospital for a purpose.

What other reason could there be?

No, he and his parents were on their own. It was up to them to find Carl and then get to Atlanta. Where Rick could be with Daryl again.

Shaking his head to clear it of his despair, Rick pulled into the driveway of his old house. It still brought fond memories to the forefront of his mind, despite his state right now. This house was inextricably tied to Daryl, and the two of them, together. Rick could never come home without thinking of the other man.

But he didn't have time for that. Now, he had to focus.

The front door opened, and his dad stepped out, followed by his mom. He watched as she turned and carefully set the deadbolt. He wondered if she'd ever be back to unlock it. Would they ever be able to come home?

Rick stepped out of his car to hug his mom, and met his dad's eyes.

"Thanks for coming, son. Where's Daryl?" his dad asked.

Rick couldn't help the stinging in his eyes. He covered it by rubbing the bridge of his nose before speaking. "Had to go get Merle. He'll meet us in Atlanta."

His dad's expression became cautious as he looked over his son, and he reached out a hand to pat Rick's shoulder, offering a timid smile. Rick couldn't even try to return it.

"He'll be fine; don't you worry, sweetheart, you'll be with him again in no time," his mom piped up, and her bolstering smile almost helped a bit.

Rick cleared his throat. "We should take both cars. You never know what could happen, and the last thing we need is to be stranded."

"Alright. We'll follow you," his dad said, and he and Rick's mom got in the car, while Rick hopped back in the jeep. He pulled out of the driveway, and led the way slowly out of town.

Rick's jeep ran out of gas after a few hours on the interstate. The roads were bumper to bumper, so Rick just drove his vehicle onto the shoulder, and got out. When he reached his parent's car, his mom opened her door, a worried expression on her face.

"What's wrong, honey? Out of gas?"

Rick nodded. "Yeah, and there's no chance of getting some out here. How're y'all doin'?"

His dad piped up. "It's at the half. We should make it to Atlanta before we run out. I hope, anyway."

"Alright. I'll grab my things and just ride with y'all," Rick said, and turned back to his jeep. His dad got out to help him, while his mom stayed with the car.

Rick loaded himself down with bags, and his dad did the same, all the while shooting him furtive glances. Rick noticed, though. "What's up, dad?"

His dad looked down, contemplating whether to say what was on his mind, Rick guessed. He looked back up and met Rick's eyes. "Daryl's gonna be alright, son. I know you're worried about him, and I am, too. I love that boy like my own, you know that."

Rick nodded slowly, his expression downcast. He didn't really want to talk about this. His dad needed to get it off his chest, though, it seemed.

"Daryl took me huntin' while you were trainin' for work, I think we told you. I've seen how that boy hunts. Nothin' is gonna get the best of him. You gotta believe that, son," his dad persisted.

Rick took a deep breath, and nodded firmly. He did know that. There was no one he'd rather have in a fight than Daryl.

God, he wished he were here.

"Thanks, Dad. C'mon, let's get back to Mom." Rick led the way back to the car, and quickly deposited his bags in the backseat, then sat down for a long ride.

Some eight hours later, Rick and his parents were finally seeing signs indicating they were just a couple of miles from turning off into Atlanta. They could feel the anticipation in the air, like a solid thing that weighed everyone down. The people around them were getting out of their cars, stretching and looking through the trees for glimpses of the safe haven before them.

Others were walking towards the city in groups, presumably haven broken down or run out of gas, and they were laden down with their belongings, expressions of exhaustion and cautious hope on their faces.

Rick's dad sighed from the backseat, having given up the driver's seat a few hours ago to Rick so he could take a nap. "How much longer do we have before we need gas?" he asked.

Rick didn't even need to look down, as he'd been checking the gauge obsessively for the last couple of hours. "Probably an hour at the rate we're goin'. The cars are movin' every coupla minutes, so I can't turn the car off. Takes too much gas to start it up again."

They kept their voices low, as Beth was fast asleep next to Rick, her head resting on her window.

Out of nowhere, a loud boom rent the air. And then the screaming started.

Rick looked out the window quickly, and shock pervaded his body. "Mom, wake up! Dad, d'you see that?"

Rick saw his mom jerk awake out of the corner of his eye, but he was already getting out of the car. He heard the back door open behind him, but his eyes fixed were on the sky.

Fire rose above the trees, and Rick watched as helicopters flew above them and sped away.

What the fuck was going on?

"Stay here!" Rick yelled, and started running towards the trees. He heard his dad shout something, but didn't know what he said. He didn't bother to wait and find out what it was.

He just ran.

As he breached the tree line along the interstate, the fire disappeared momentarily. About a hundred yard in, the city came into view, and Rick stopped in his tracks, stumbling.

He fell to his knees, unable to stand under the despair that wracked his heart. The city was in ruins.

No. Carl.

For the first time since this day started, he felt true, unadulterated fear for himself and his family. What were they supposed to do if the very people that were supposed to help them, protect them, instead blew them to smithereens?

For those helicopters in the skies, the ones that Rick guessed dropped the bombs, weren't from a foreign country. If a foreign nation were going to attack, they wouldn't use short range, and relatively slow, transportation like a copter provided.

They'd been bombed by their own government. There was no other explanation.

Were they told to go to Atlanta so that more people could be taken out at once? Where was the sense in that?

Shaking his head, Rick's thoughts fell on his brother. What if he had decided to stay? What if he heard the reports, and turned around to come back?

What if he was burning in the city right now?

A groan of pain escaped Rick's mouth, but it wasn't physical pain that gripped his chest and squeezed. It was the pain of a brother, who feared for the life of the person he was supposed to protect. It was his job, as a big brother, to look out for Carl.

And he'd failed.

Rick's breath stuttered as he thought of the other person he'd vowed to protect. Daryl.

Daryl, who was looking for his brother. Daryl, who was coming to the city to find them.

Fuck.

Rick stood up on shaky legs, and when he turned to go back to the interstate, he saw faces all around him. Frightened, no, terrified, people, staring at the city.

Everyone was lost.

Rick got back to the car, and saw his parents were still standing next to it, searching for him. Their anxious expressions fell on him, and he couldn't hold back the fear in his voice.

"The city is gone. It's gone."

Daryl parked his old truck at the cabin, and grabbed his crossbow, shotgun, and a bag of supplies before stepping outside. Dried leaves cracked under his feet as he stepped towards the woods surrounding him. He decided to go east. His brother preferred to stay near a natural water source when he hunted, and the river that way ran for a few miles.

He stepped over fallen logs and branches, keeping his tread quiet and even. He knew these woods better than probably anyone, save Merle. Bastard was born for the woods. All Dixons were, at one time.

Even his dad would take them hunting sometimes, before their Ma died. Then he changed. He'd always been a bastard, but after she was gone, he'd turned into a drunk, abusive bastard with a short temper.

Daryl still loved the woods, though. They reminded him of better days, and brought a peace that was almost impossible to find in the city. The only time Daryl felt that kind of tranquility outside of the woods was when he was with Rick.

Rick.

Fuck, he missed him already. He was used to having Rick's uneven and loud steps next to his in the woods. He wanted to turn around and berate him for being an oaf, and have Rick tease him back.

But he couldn't, because Rick wasn't here.

Daryl thought of those…things. Those zombies, or whatever the fuck they were. He hoped Rick could handle himself. He knew the man could shoot. He was a damn good shot, in fact. He was just too nice, sometimes.

And Daryl had forgotten to mention his suspicions that you had to hit them in the head. Fuck, he was such an idiot. He didn't know if his guess was right, but seeing as how that undead fucker that had almost gotten Rick didn't stay down until Daryl's bike had crushed it's skull, he didn't know what else to think.

Unless you had to run all of them over. He snorted without humor. They'd run outta vehicles real quick if that were the case.

Hours passed, and before Daryl knew it, night was falling. He decided to set up camp and start again first thing in the morning.

He passed the night half-asleep, keeping one ear out for anything approaching his tent. Nothing did, thankfully.

Daryl rose with the sun, and set out again. This time he yelled for Merle, hoping that nothing else heard his shouts. He'd just have to deal with anything that came at him.

An hour later, something did. Daryl's voice was getting a bit hoarse from yelling, and he'd just leaned against a tree for a short break when he heard the snapping of twigs and the shuffle-shuffle of an uncoordinated walk a few yards to his right.

He raised his crossbow, thinking the shotgun was too loud, and kept it pointed towards the noise. Around the group of trees in front of him, he saw a shadow move. Keeping his crossbow trained on the spot, he moved closer slowly, cautiously.

And then it rounded the corner, and Daryl fought the urge to scream.

It used to be woman. She wore a long, yellow dress, which was ripped in places, probably from branches and such. And her face… it was hanging off.

Her jaw was only bone and blood, and she had holes in her cheeks, as if she'd had an animal gnaw on them. She staggered towards him, letting out a guttural moan, arms outstretched.

Daryl danced out of her way, and pulled the trigger, aiming for her head. The arrow pierced her skull, and she fell.

He held his breath as he watched her, and let it out slowly when she didn't move again.

He retrieved his arrow, as he only had a dozen, and cleaned it with the rag in his pocket before loading it back on his bow.

And then he continued his search.

Maybe it was because for a time in his life, he felt like he was fighting a battle everyday, but he didn't find it that hard to adapt to fighting for survival. The only thing that was jarring, really, was not having the people he loved there with him. Merle. Carol. Beth, Jimmy, and Carl.

Rick.

Sighing, he trudged further through the woods, calling his brother's name, until the sun set again. He ate from the woods, rather than digging into his supplies, because he had no idea how long they'd have to last him.

He set up camp again, irritation and worry pervading his mind, and tried to rest. He was up before the sun the next day, and this time moved further west than he had earlier. His guess that Merle was east was probably wrong, then.

Around midday, he heard a light crunch behind him, and turned just in time to see a grinning Merle behind him, who had obviously been preparing to pounce on him.

"Dammit, Merle. Where the hell you been?" he shouted, and Merle laughed.

"Aw, c'mon now, baby brother. You don't look too happy ta see me. Whatcha doin' out here anyway?" Merle replied, moving closer to Daryl.

Merle stopped in his tracks when Daryl raised his crossbow and pointed it at him. "What the hell? I weren't gon' hurt ya, Darlena—" he started, and snapped his mouth shut as Daryl pulled the trigger on his crossbow, and the arrow went whizzing by his head.

There was a thump, and then silence. Merle turned slowly on the spot, and spotted the undead thing that had been closing in on them while he'd been distracted with Daryl. He gulped, and turned back to Daryl.

"Got something' ta tell me, baby brother?"

Three hours later, Daryl had explained what was going on—as much as he could anyway, because really he didn't know what the fuck was happening himself—and they had gotten back to the cabin.

They went inside and packed up Merle's stuff, and, after much bitching from Merle, loaded his motorcycle onto Daryl's truck bed. Then they got in the truck and started towards town.

Merle was still in a bit of a disbelieving shock.

"You sure 'bout this, Daryl?" he asked.

Daryl took note that Merle had called him by his proper name in probably the first time in two decades. The last time he remembered him doing that, he'd broken his arm falling out a tree that Merle had dared him to climb, and his twelve-year-old big brother had called him by his name, apologizing his ass off.

"I'm sure, Merle. News says we need ta get to safety. 's why we're goin' to Atlanta," Daryl explained.

They were getting closer to the town, and Daryl was surprised by how deserted it was. In order to get to the interstate, they had to pass through it. Both men gazed out the windows at the lack of cars. But there were people walking around.

Daryl quickly noticed that they were more of those zombie fuckers. Merle realized it too, if his intake of breath was anything to go by.

"Hell, brother, let's kill these sons-a-bitches!" Merle shouted as he reached for his gun.

Daryl's hand shot out to stop him. "No. They're attracted to sound, ya dumbass. You shoot that, we'll be swarmed 'fore we can get outta town."

Merle huffed, but didn't argue. He still didn't really know what they were up against. Daryl figured once Merle had killed a few, he'd be more than ready to take down every last one he saw.

As they merged onto the interstate, Daryl noticed that there were cars and buses littering the sides of the road, lined up on the grass, and scattered over the pavement. There weren't enough to make it difficult to navigate through them, but it was still shocking.

People had run out of gas or broken down. And then what? They'd walked to Atlanta?

Daryl shook his head. It wasn't his problem. There was nothing he could do for those people.

A couple of hours passed, and Daryl took note of the quickly emptying tank. "Need gas," he muttered.

Merle looked over at him, and grinned. "No better place, Darlena. Plenty o' cars around. Let's see if any have some ta spare."

Daryl felt a moment of remorse at having to steal gas, but quickly shoved it away. He wasn't taking anything for the hell of it. This was about survival.

It was a different world now.

He stopped the truck and grabbed his crossbow. Merle followed with the pistol that Daryl had grabbed from the garage. Daryl grabbed the gas can and the hose he'd packed in case of a situation like this. Sometimes it helped having a shady past. He knew just how to steal if he needed to.

The first and only time he'd stolen gas, he'd been riding with Merle at night in their dad's truck, and it had run out of gas, because Merle was an idiot. They happened to stop near a bar, so Merle walked in and asked if there was a gas station nearby. When he learned there wasn't, he'd gone back outside to the fourteen-year-old Daryl, and explained what they had to do.

Daryl had snuck around back to steal the hose, and then he and Merle had taken gas from a couple of the cars in the parking lot. Luckily, they weren't caught.

Daryl remembered the exhilaration he'd felt, breaking the law. Even if all they'd stolen was gas, he'd still felt like a badass.

He didn't feel like that now.

Now, he just felt desperate.

They tried a few cars, and came up empty. Merle got distracted and started rummaging through the cars, but Daryl kept on. He had a goal to accomplish.

"Could jus' take the bike," Merle suggested.

Daryl rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Merle. Where're we gonna put our shit? And no way am I ridin' bitch," he bit out.

Merle laughed, and Daryl turned back to his task.

He had to get them out of this.

He found a beat up Chevy Cobalt, and, to his relief, got some gas out of it. He whooped in pleasure, and Merle started over towards him, his gaze fixed on Daryl. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, eyes wide.

"Brother! Get down!" Merle hissed, then he dropped down, out of Daryl's view.

Daryl's head whipped around, and he saw a whole crowd of those undead fuckers, at least three dozen.

Heading straight towards him.

Thanks for reading!