A/N: Sorry about the extreme wait on this, I had not one, but two moves! But now I'm settled in my new apartment and ready to finish this guy off. :) Oh, jsyk, I started writing this during the s1 and 2 break, and that's where the canon branches off. Sophia never got lost, they never made it to the farm, etc.
I KNOW this is short but I feel bad for the wait so I'll give you this little bit before I finish off the rest – I suspect this will be maybe three more parts (rescue, comfort, recovery).
x
Well, I'm probably dead.
Back when the world ended, that was the single thought that kept Glenn moving. It's the reason he's still alive. It's the thing that pushes him forward when all reason and logic says stay put, don't try, it's too scary, too dangerous. Well, there's nothing to lose, he's probably dead either way. The fact that he accepted this is why he could make that idiotic attempt to escape that Walker infested pizzeria, why he pulled Rick out of that tank, why he kept going into Atlanta for supplies, over and over and over again. And, why he made it out each time. There was nothing to lose. He's probably dead. Might as well try.
He honestly thought he'd made his peace with death.
Glenn wakes with a panicked jolt, wanting to scramble to action but unable to remember exactly what that action should be - he'd been in the middle of something important. Then he remembers, and the anxiousness doubles, and becomes proper, all-out fear, and confusion. He's not dead. How is he not dead?
There's a smooth surface beneath him that's so aggressively cold it stings. He's obviously been laying there for a while, and every part of him that's making contact with the floor is eerily numb, the rest of him aching with the cold. He's shivering violently, uncontrollably, his fingernails a worryingly pale shade.
He tries to move, shifting around as much as his groggy, sore and beaten body will allow, clumsily rubbing at the numb side of his face with equally numb fingers.
He's in some kind of cooler, a realization that makes the odd, brown lumps around him make more sense: carcasses. It's a horror show - the inedible chunks of deer and rabbits and other, unidentified creatures that Glenn doesn't want to look too hard at, are piled everywhere; bones, skin, fur, heads and paws and rears. Glenn scrambles back with an exhale of surprise. The back of his head smacks against something - it gives immediately, before swinging back to hit him again. Feet. He follows the feet to ankles, legs - human. Humans hanging from hooks. After a moment of numb horror he sees that it's Scarecrow. Still wearing his bloodstained shirt, the throat wound is huge and gaping, frozen over.
The rest of them are here, too, up on the hooks and hanging like a group of nightmarishly grotesque marionettes. Glenn only realizes he's breathing too fast when it starts to hurt: even the air is cold, and his lungs are beginning to protest.
Cannibals. They're . . . they're not going to let that meat go to waste. Glenn feels a wave of nausea when he sees Merle up there, still in his grayed leather vest, which is more recognizable than his face after that shot to his jaw.
Why isn't Glenn dead?
Then again, his body is stiff with cold and isn't really cooperating with his commands to get up on his feet - maybe they left him in there to freeze to death, make him suffer through every second rather than just send him off with a quick shot to the head.
Jesus.
He doesn't want to die.
He could try to make it some kind of noble, say that he wants to die on his own terms, in a blaze of glory or whatever, but it's not the truth. It's just a crippling overwhelming fear, staring up at those bodies and feeling his own body's feeble, shivering efforts to keep alive.
The blood on his shirt has frozen, and is stuck to his skin in one awful, icy patch. He yanks it off and it stings, bad enough that he's blinking hard. If he starts crying now, though, he'll never stop. That'll be it, he'll just collapse and become another frozen corpse that they'll probably drag out to thaw so they can have some fun with him a few more times before they -
A wave of maddening helplessness hits him, he can't even finish the thought. He was so close, he doesn't know what else he can do, and he doesn't want to die, please, fuck.
Where is Daryl? The tiny, weak thing inside him that wants to pin hope on a rescue is asking. But there won't be a rescue at this point, he knows it. And that tiny, weak thing is useless here. He squashes it ruthlessly, and forces himself to start moving.
Of course the freezer door is locked, and the metal handle is nearly vindictive, Glenn hissing in pain at the cold as it cuts through the numbness of his palm. Glenn shakes his hand and tries to regroup, taking in his options.
There are extra hooks in the back, and only takes about a minute of fiddling with them to figure out how to get one down. It takes another five minutes to actually do it, Glenn's fingers have stiffened in a useless little curl, fumbling with the screw and latch.
But he manages, and he also manages to tug the jeans and shirts and jackets off some of the bodies of the bigger men. He slides the extra layers over his own clothes. It's not enough, he's still shivering in wild, disabling bursts. He piles the bits of animal that still have fur, swallowing hard on his own disgust, huddling under them.
He figures it's working when it actually feels like it doesn't, when it feels a whole lot worse, as his body starts to become warm enough to actually register just how cold it is in there.
He hugs the large metal hook to his chest, waiting for someone to open the door, and can't stop that tiny voice from pitifully wondering, once again, where Daryl is.
x
Daryl never made a habit of pets. There was those feral cats that sometimes gave birth under their porch, but they weren't no pets any more than rats or sparrows, and none of the Dixons got sentimental about their squirmy, yowling presence.
But he didn't make a habit of torturin' em, neither. Merle sometimes did, and Daryl knew instinctively that it was something he should never talk about, something he should never consciously think about, if he could help it - how he'd find those animals all skinned and tortured and pinned to trees in the woods that made up their backyard. Cut open while they was still struggling to get away, dissected. It was just Merle's way and Daryl didn't have any right to judge. They were just squirrels and rabbits, you'd have to be some kind of city girl to shed a tear over a fucking squirrel.
But he could tell, down in his gut, that there was something dark going on there, the same kind of instinctive, whispered warning, the same kind that made the deers he tracked freeze if he was too loud. Danger. And he can see that darkness, that queer, unsettling danger, playing out again, here, in this warped fucking army camp.
And it's not something that Daryl can afford to avert his eyes and ignore. Glenn ain't a rabbit.
"What's wrong, baby brother?" Merle says, so smug he's dripping with it. "Look like you're about ready to throw a tantrum."
Daryl just grunts, giving his brother a dark look. Normally he'd say something, tell him to shut up or fuck off, but he's too preoccupied, so tense and aware with his plans that he's gripping his crossbow's strap uncomfortably tight.
Merle can tell immediately, of course.
"Somethin' on your mind? You know you can always share with old Merle," he says. Then, when Daryl doesn't respond, "if you want a turn with that chink, just say the word."
"You know that ain't it," Daryl snarls, angry enough to stomp wild and loud as he hurries ahead of Merle. Loud enough to scare any possible game off. That's okay. He didn't ask Merle along cause he thought it'd make for an effective hunting trip. Merle's never been patient, quiet or cool-headed enough for actual hunting.
"Right, right," Merle finally drops the smug teasing, voice going all gravely and serious. "I almost forgot. You want that kid to have a run of the place."
"You know that ain't it neither!" Daryl barks out over his shoulder. Come on, Merle. Please.
Merle scoffs. "I barely got you a pass. Skinny thing like that chink? You're dreaming, boy."
Daryl had bought that, at first. But he's been watching, he knows the men's routines, now. He sees how they defer to Merle's whims, he's got them jumping to his beat, licked right into shape. He has more pull than he's saying. And Daryl can tell, even though Merle doesn't go into that room and do those - fucking perverted things to Glenn, he gets some enjoyment out of inflicting it on him, on someone. Glenn's in that back room cause Merle's run out of rabbits to torture.
"Merle." Daryl lets it show in his face, how he's not playing this game anymore. How he's grown tired of it, too old to go along with it. He's aware of his crossbow, hot and comforting in his palm.
Merle narrows his eyes. Calculating. He ain't a hunter but he ain't stupid. Taking in the distance Daryl created between the two of them, how it's far enough for Daryl to aim and shot his bow before Merle could stop him. How they're three miles from that building, no one to hear his angry hollers but a few random Walkers.
Then Merle relaxes. Smiles.
Daryl's frustration flares up at this, and Merle either playing like he ain't got a worry, or actually figuring a way out of this. I'm the one with the weapon, asshole. Not that that would impress Merle - not that anything Daryl does, or ever did, impressed Merle.
"So let's talk," Merle says, and Daryl's upended.
"I ain't playing, Merle."
"Oh, I can see that. So little Daryl's finally standing up for yourself," he says. "'Bout time."
Daryl just snarls, not sure what Merle's planning.
"So you want my men to keep their hands off your boy," Merle says. "I think we can swing that."
Daryl considers him for one heart pounding moment, only aware of how little he wanted to shot his brother until the relief washes over him that he might not have to. Maybe Merle can listen to reason, after all? "Really, Merle?"
Merle shrugs, over the top and arms spread wide, generously. "Didn't know it mattered that much to ya. But you've made yourself pretty clear."
Daryl hadn't even drawn his bow but he still feels like a heel. He drops his hand from the handle, and takes a step toward Merle. Much like every animal that Merle skinned, strung up and left for dead. He's a shit hunter but he ain't stupid.
x
The door screeches open so loudly Glenn can only wonder how he slept through it the first time.
"Fuckin freezin!" someone barks. Glenn shifts a bit to get a look. It's one of them Glenn's only seen once or twice before, a pale man that's fat in a soft way, round and harmless like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
Pillsbury curses again about the cold, rubbing at his arms. The freezer is pretty big, and Glenn eyes the distance Pillsbury is creating between himself and the door as he wanders deeper inside. Fuck, the door. He can see the kitchen area on the other side, lit up a bright, warm orange. His body is crying out for the warmth that open door promises, but he grits his teeth and waits. He'll be colder for a lot longer if he gets out that door and finds himself looking at a loaded barrel.
"Sorry, Paulie," Pillsbury says to one of the bodies, and grunts as he hoists it off the hook. He doesn't sound particularly sorry, almost amused, even. Glenn holds his breath. Pillsbury's close, a step out of arm's reach. A little closer. He can't take any chances, he only has one shot at this.
Pillsbury stumbles under the weight of the body he's carrying, right into Glenn's reach.
He doesn't think, just acts. He swings the hook - hoping to sink the metal into the meat of Pillsbury's calf. He misses. He swept Pillsbury off his foot, though, and he collapses hard and loud - "What the hell?" - and pinned by the body. Glenn scrambles to his feet, raises the hook into the air, ready -
- Pillsbury stares up at him, eyes moving wildly as he tries to register what's happening -
- a flash of Scarecrow's last moments, eyes wide and confused the exact same way -
Oh god, why is he hesitating? Less than a second later and the thought is, why did he hesitate because his moment of opportunity is over. Confusion is now rage.
"Fucker," Pillsbury snarls. He surges up, knocking both Glenn and the frozen body between them over, and grabs Glenn's wrist, squeezing harshly. "Fucking faggot." he snarls his rage again, shaking Glenn by his arm, as though he were a misbehaving toddler, until Glenn drops the hook. Glenn closes his eyes, ready for the blow. But instead he's yanked forward, jerked out - out the door, oh, fuck, it's so warm it hurts.
"Why did none of you assholes tell me you stuck the whore in here?"
"Thought he'd be a Popsicle by now," one of them laughs, Glenn barely listens, doesn't care. Pillsbury has a grip on his wrist that might actually snap it, but he doesn't care about that either. It's warm.
"This little shit attacked me from under a pile of spare deer parts," Pillsbury says, and the rest of them laugh harder. Pillsbury makes a dismissive noise, then yanks Glenn forward again, this time he ends up back to his old, cement room. Scarecrow and Wormtongue's blood is still pooled on the floor and sprayed across the wall. Whatever, Glenn will take anything that's above freezing.
"I'll deal with you later," Pillsbury promises, then slams the door shut behind him. Glenn sits, shell shocked. He's waiting for someone else to open the door before remembering no, he killed those ones.
