NOTES: Apologies for such a long wait seem ridiculous so I'll just skip it :P So I want to remind everyone that this is set at the end of S1. I was a little surprised to look at my notes for this story and see how much the characters have changed in two seasons but I feel like they're basically in character as far as S1 goes.
They find the jeep about three days from Bessemer. Honestly, Rick had given up on finding any sign of them, and once he sees the slashed tires he's ready to write off the jeep as a particularly depressing tombstone.
"It's been ransacked," T-Dog says, jumping down from the back of the vehicle, expression sour.
There's a pause. No one wants to state the horrible, horrible obvious.
"Well, we better start looking!" Carl says into the silence. "Do you think they're still around here, Dad?"
Rick clears his throat. "Probably not," he says. "You know, we should keep moving forward. They obviously ran into some trouble here, so." His words die out there.
"So they wouldn't stick around," Shane says. "Both of them are too smart for that. We'll probably run into them up the road."
"Right," Carl nods, then narrows his gaze to the distance, as if he'll be able to spot them.
"This is bad," Shane mutters when Rick's climbed into the driver's seat of the Pontiac, Carl joining Lori in the mobile home.
"I know," Rick says.
"We shouldn'ta sent both of them. We're high and dry without them, man. I mean, I've done my fair share of hunting but nothing like what Daryl brought back. And only god knows how that kid pulled off his city trips like he did."
"I know," Rick says. But the thing that has him gripping the steering wheel isn't Glenn's quick hands and almost inhuman reflexes, or the piles of meat Daryl brings to the camp every night. It's Daryl's flustered, almost defensive reaction to Carl's admiration of his crossbow. Glenn's self-deprecating laughter, easy going nature. The packaging isn't spectacular on either men, but their cores, the moving, working bits, are a kind of solid gold. They're the kind of men Rick was relieved to have working under him back before - the kind of men who might make mistakes but who go about their actions in a sort of oblivious belief that the right thing to do is what anyone would do and they don't expect praise or get on power trips for being acknowledged.
Rick's missed their contribution, sure. But he's also missed them.
"We are screwed," Shane says, breaking the lingering silence by slamming his foot into the dash in a sudden rage. "Damn it. Damn it!"
Rick can only sigh.
They drive.
They stop, a little earlier than Rick would've liked, at Carl's insistence.
"We can't drive too far. They don't have a car, dad, remember?" Carl says sharply, spreading his arms to emphasize his point as he heads off into the forest with Andrea and Lori to search for any sign of the lost pair.
"I guess we'll set up camp here," Shane grouses. "There's a good place to hide the RV in the foliage a ways back. Whoever jumped Daryl probably has their eye on this whole strip of road."
Shane actually overestimated how good of a hiding place it would be; after grabbing Jim and Dale and the four of them working to clear out an area, it started to look like there might one day be room to hide an RV in the general area.
A sudden, howling blare of a car's horn. It's an alien, incredibly jarring sound nowadays, and the group exchanges a startled look at the noise. They all drop what they're carrying, rushing to the car.
Carol is standing on the top of the RV, waving both arms as if she needs to get their attention. "Walkers! Walkers, they're - "
"'The fuck is wrong with you?" Shane is yelling as he runs forward, using his momentum to scale the side of the RV in three furious steps. "You want to send them right for us?"
Carol immediately drops back, timid. She points off to the left. Rick grunts, crawling up onto the RV, and once he's there he sees there's no need to wait for the binoculars. The herd that's approaching is so large it's visible to the naked eye as soon as he clears the trees.
It defies all logic. It's a gigantic group, as if all of Atlanta spilled out at once. The walkers span the horizon, bobbing in jerky but sure movements. It undead parade goes on for what seems like miles, the closest about thirty feet from the start of the forest. Shock gives way to fear, and Rick reaches out behind him, blindly, as if Lori and Carl will materialize within reaching distance.
"The trees," Carol says. "I told Sophia to climb up, off the ground. I think we might make it if we're in the trees."
"Dad! Dad! We found him! Daryl! We found Daryl, Dad!"
Carl is crashing through the bushes, running excitedly. Rick barely has the presence of mind to go for the ladder of the RV rather than just jumping from the roof. "Where's your mother?"
"She's with Daryl! Someone beat him up real bad, dad. He's tied to a tree. Don't know where Glenn is but - "
"Okay," Rick says, forcing himself to keep a level head. To process the new information. Daryl's alive? He's restrained. This is adding up in his head, time they might not have, time they're losing as he stands there and talks. "Okay. Go with Shane. Shane is going to get you somewhere safe. Tell me exactly where Daryl and your mother are."
They're past the small ravine, about thirty feet in, toward the south. He sees Lori first, she's taking her time with the knot, nodding and talking to Daryl in a calming voice. Andrea is kneeling beside her, working at a second set of ropes.
"Walkers," Rick says, and grabs the first section of rope he can reach, yanking out his pocket knife and cutting through it.
Andrea looks up sharply. "How close?"
"Not sure. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. We need to get up in the trees. Andrea, go spot us a good climbing tree. Something that can support us all night if it has to." She takes off immediately and Lori's eyes are wide and obviously panicked but she keeps working on that knot.
Rick finally cuts through the rope and maybe part of him forgot that someone was actually restrained by it - Daryl falling forward limply takes him by complete surprise.
"Jesus!" he says, surging forward to catch him.
"He took quite a beating," Lori murmurs, as Rick takes the near-unconscious man in. "He's kind of delirious."
Rick's first, very useless thought, is that this man needs a doctor. Blood has caked below Daryl's nose and over his lips. His eyes are glassy, unseeing slits, there's a bump on his head that's angry and swollen and very worrying. There's no sign of sweat, either, despite the ridiculous Georgia heat. Just how long was he tied to this tree . . . ?
"Hey! This way!" Andrea comes running, but only about half way before hightailing it back the way she came, leading them to the tree.
"Hurry. I'll be right behind you," Rick says, and Lori grunts as she takes Daryl's weight, struggling to move forward. Daryl's obviously been restrained for some time, and will need water if they're going to end up in that tree for longer than a day, which might easily be the case. If he's gotten to the point of no longer sweating, a day might be enough to do him in. No cups, but Rick yanks off his shirt, soaks it in the ravine. Worst case, Daryl can suck some of the moisture from the fabric.
"Nnuug,"
It's lucky - a lot of walkers are silent when they approach. Rick jumps to his feet, takes a few steps back, out of her immediate reach, and looks at the thing that used to be a woman. She approaches eagerly, but clumsily, easy to dodge, and he can see four more walkers breaking through the trees. Five. Six. Better chances running than fighting. He turns and moves as fast as he can, trying to ignore the excited moans coming from the walkers that have caught wind of fresh meat.
Andrea and Lori are struggling to hoist Daryl up onto the second branch by the time he finds them. Andrea picked well, there's several thick, low hanging branches, but hoisting a fumbling, injured man several stories into the air is never going to be easy without an elevator. Rick practically grabs Daryl's deadweight from Lori, and she immediately begins scaling the tree. Draping the wet shirt over Daryl's shoulders, Rick grits his teeth, braces himself and hoists the man onto his back. Begins climbing.
He thinks it's a branch groaning at first, under the weight of two full grown men, but the scrabbling fingernails at his calf proves him wrong. Biting down on the wild, hysterical bout of terror, Rick kicks out once and continues climbing.
"Faster," Lori says, six branches above him. He can hear her barely restrained fear. "Climb, for the love of God!"
"Man, I can do it myself," Daryl mumbles in defensive delirium, reaching out a shaky hand, presumably to snag a branch.
Three branches higher and Rick's out of harm's way, and within reach of the pair above him - Andrea and Lori reach down, hoist some of Daryl's weight from Rick's shoulders, helping him prop on a branch of his own, leaning his weight against the body of the tree.
Rick collapses against the tree, lets out a shaky, panting breath and doesn't look down.
x
They don't seem to know what to do with Glenn. "Ain't no faggot," they mutter now and again. But they also don't see the point in killing him right away - not when they already have so much other meat, courtesy of Glenn himself. Want to be able to ration it out, eat something fresh.
"Too bad Merle's boy never made it back."
Glenn must've reacted, and Pillsbury must've noticed, because he laughs. "Miss your little buddy?"
Glenn just stares into the distance.
"You wanna know where your friend is?" Pillsbury asks. "Suck my dick."
It takes Glenn a moment to realize that no, that wasn't an insult. The man is literally offering a trade, and is so sure Glenn is going to agree that he's already pulling himself out of his pants, presenting his flaccid cock for Glenn to, presumably, put in his mouth. Some of the men guffaw, turn away from the scene, and others watch with bored disinterest.
Glenn literally suppresses the urge to hurl, panic welling up as he shakes his head, inching backward. But Pillsbury's got the idea in his head now and immediately begins pursuing. In seconds he's got a handful of Glenn's hair in a painfully tight grasp, shaking him when Glenn tenses, trying to pull away.
"Boy, just open your mouth before I knock your teeth out," Pillsbury says, yanking Glenn's head back cruelly. It's almost involuntary, though, how tightly Glenn's lips are pressed together. A denial Glenn just can't surrender, not willingly.
Pillsbury sighs heavily, as though his life is very difficult, and fumbles with his free hand, grabbing for his gun. "You know we got a pool going," he says, cocking it, pressing it to the side of Glenn's head. "Me and the guys. Most of em think you'll taste like Kung Pao chicken. But I have my money on Sweet and Sour pork. We can find out tonight if you want."
The man is obviously not bluffing, would obviously be more than happy to put a bullet in Glenn's head, and Glenn unclenches his jaw. He does his best to make his mind go completely blank, but it doesn't quite work. This violation is new, and oddly intimate. The fact that he's not restrained at all, and could physically retaliate - bite down, shove Pillsbury away, kick and fight - makes it worse than before, worse than being physically overpowered and held down. Being a willing participant in this passivity, parting his lips and taking it as long as Pillsbury wants it. Eyes closed tight and hands resting in his lap. He gags, and it's a good enough excuse for his eyes to grow wet.
"Good boy," Pillsbury grunts, voice all tense with pleasure. He thrusts harder, deep and in, and Glenn fights to breathe, to keep from gagging, and his struggles make Pillsbury moan, and Glenn . . .
Glenn dry heaves when it's over, trying to purge his stomach of Pillsbury's rancid seed, and the man laughs as he watches. Zips himself back up.
"You know that boy's dead, right?" he says from somewhere behind Glenn, over the sound of Glenn's desperate, shaking gasps for air, which are really just barely kept in check sobs. "Went wandering out into the forest in the dead of night, walkers were on him in a second."
Glenn freezes, and he's just. Just broken enough, just beaten enough - he doesn't even believe Pillsbury, is sure that Pillsbury doesn't know any better than Glenn about where Daryl is, but hearing it like that, after . . . after that. Glenn vomits, and can't stop the broken sobs that follow.
x
Andrea's branch is the closest to Daryl, she's actually within arm's reach and can help press the fabric to Daryl's lips. He grunts in annoyance at first, until the moisture is forced into his mouth. Then he seems to cotton on to the idea, swallowing desperately.
It's around three in the morning when Daryl seems to gain full awareness.
"How many are down there?" he asks, voice so rough it reminds Rick of a driving on rims on a gravel road.
"Don't know." Lori's voice sleepy voice is a surprise from Rick's left. It's dark, and it's disconcerting that he can no longer make her out.
"How long we been up here?"
"Eight hours, maybe," Andrea says. "How long were you tied to that tree?"
"Dunno," Daryl says.
"I don't suppose you know where Glenn is," Rick says. He actually didn't want to ask it, not while he was in a spot so helpless to do anything about the answer, but it came out anyway.
There's a long, long pause.
"Oh," Lori suddenly says, her shaking voice breaking the silence.
"No - I mean," Daryl clears his throat. "He ain't dead, last I saw. He's in a bad spot."
Rick waits for elaboration.
"'Bout ten miles from here," is all he gets.
"The same kind of spot you were in?" Andrea asks.
"Worse," Daryl says, with a sudden stab of anger. "It's - this freaky ass group, calls themselves the Hunters. They jumped us, took our stuff. Glenn is still with them, far as I know. They get their kicks outta - hurtin people. Eating people, sometimes. Dunno. I dunno how he's doing."
"Eating people?" Andrea sounds horrified. "Did they take 'zombie apocalypse' as a challenge or something?"
"I don't know what those fuckers think," Daryl growls out, and the defensive edge doesn't make sense until after about thirty minutes of relative silence, when Daryl mutters, "Merle's with 'em."
Another long, long silence where the only sound is the sluggish steps of hundreds of dead bodies below their feet. Finally, Rick clears his throat. "Think they'll be able to survive this?"
Daryl's quiet. Nothing else is said until the walkers trickle down to a handful of stumbling, confused loners.
x
There are Walkers. Glenn had started to forget that. He stares numbly at the grayed, chipped fingers clawing at his barred window. There must be a lot of them out there. With fewer people, Glenn reflects, it would be harder to keep a closer watch. All it would take is an hour or so slip, for someone skip out on watch, or fall asleep.
He hears rising panic in the world outside his door.
"How'd they get this close?"
"A goddamn herd of em!"
"Rich and Marty are still out there -"
"Don't you open that door - !"
"Fuck - "
He listens to the rapid fire, the men shouting back and forth. He hears the screams. He knows when they're inside. The awkward, dragging shuffle of a Walker is distinctive- this plodding but determined pace. He listens to them start to mill around. Bodies pressing into every available space. Greedy hands and teeth grabbing anything they find in their way.
Eventually the screams stop.
It takes the herd a while longer to meander to the back of the building, where Glenn's room is. He hears them just outside the door, and stares at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn. Waits for the door to start to crack under the weight of hundreds of pressing, hungry bodies.
But by the time the sun's risen, the shuffling herd has dissipated.
Silence.
Eerie, overwhelming silence.
He stands up, feeling a distinct distance from the movements, just observing his hand on the door impassively, as he observed the entire massacre.
The living area is unrecognizable, and the front door is barely hanging on by one hinge. It falls off when Glenn brushes against it on the way out.
He can't seem to focus on anything, not on the ground ahead of him or the road beyond that or the wide open space of the fields. His eyes glaze over them impassively. He needs something, something that's not here, but he doesn't know what it is, where it is, won't know until it's shoved in his face, because he does not have the presence of mind to start looking, or even think. To remember just why it was he so desperately wanted to escape that room, or why he should be happy that he's succeeded.
x
"Everyone here?"
"We're still looking for Dale, but - Daryl? What are you - "
"Got some unfinished business," Daryl snarls, yanking his bike off the bed of the truck.
"We can't head out yet, we've got to finish the head count and - "
"Then catch up when you can," Daryl says, straddling the bike.
"Daryl, you really shouldn't be driving on your own yet," Lori says cautiously, "If you just wait a few minutes we can take the cars - "
He doesn't bother to wait. About ten miles out, Daryl's vision tunnels on the road ahead of him, and he only accelerates, driving reckless enough that if it weren't the end of the world he'd be long dead by the time he reached that hell hole, that familiar building sticking out of that empty field.
It's surrounded by bodies, and Daryl sees -
Glenn. Right there. Sitting like he's playing with the dirt of the driveway, but there. No mistaking it.
Can't believe it was that easy, until he sees a walker's also spotted the kid, uncomfortably close, and who knows what's going through the kid's head cause he ain't moving or nothin as the walker gets closer and closer.
"Hey!" Daryl hollers so loud it nearly startles himself. He revs the engine, barreling off the road, the ride going bumpy as hell as he tears across the field. He grabs the first thing he can reach from the bag in the back, a crowbar, and smacks the walker with unnecessary force, ripping through its upper body in a messy chunk.
Daryl turns around sharp, sharper than his bike likes, she whines in protest as her rims scrape dirt. He lets her drop to the ground, engine still running, rushing toward the kid, who still hasn't looked his way.
This ain't right - there's something in Daryl's stomach, climbing up to his throat with a squeezing, warning grip. Glenn don't sit like that, all limp. No one sits like that.
Daryl kicks away the still struggling walker as an afterthought as he approaches. Slowly. After all that rush and hurry? But he can't help it. He's - he doesn't know what he'll see in Glenn's face. He's moving like a coward, like a child creeping slowly toward the lightswitch to make the boogiemen of the dark go away.
"Kid?" he asks, gruff. No response. Daryl drops down in front of him, one knee.
Glenn's injuries have healed, somewhat. There's a pale white line on his lip, a new scar. His eye seems to have healed. There's some new injuries, obviously fresh, but nothing terrible. Nothing that explains the black holes that are Glenn's stare.
Daryl feels suckerpunched, and doesn't bother to say anything else to bring Glenn back to earth. Afraid of what he might see when he does. Afraid that it won't even work.
The kid's sweating hard under several layers of clothes, and absolutely stinks of death. This is obviously how he survived the herd, but Daryl's not sure - that blank, emptiness in his face, how did Glenn have the presence of mind to pull that off? Despite it all, Daryl can't help the admiring huff of laughter. Glenn and the roaches, scrambling and hanging on by the edge, but they'll be the only things left, Daryl's sure of it.
The convoy is loud, he hears it coming a while before he sees it, and Daryl waits til they're right up on him before standing, making eye contact with Rick and shaking his head. No.
The cop gets it, when the group disembarks, Rick and Shane are the only one to walk over to this side.
"He bit?" Shane asks, keeping his distance, eying the rest of the crew, making sure they don't wander over.
Fuckin - Daryl hadn't even thought of it. Jesus, is he?
Thorough and sure, he presses his hands against Glenn's skin, feeling for any mark through the layers of fabric
If he'd been thinking, he woulda known the rough touch would be the thing to break the daze Glenn's settled into. He wasn't, though.
"No - " Glenn gasps, just short of a wail, panicking, yanking himself away from Daryl, moving desperate and wild, like he doesn't expect to be listened to. "No, no - "
"Fuck - kid - " Daryl growls, trying to grab him again, but suddenly Rick's there, grabbing one of Glenn's flailing arms holding it steady.
"Sorry, Glenn, but we gotta check," Rick says, voice calm, but Glenn ain't hearin it. Can't hear it. And when the sheriff starts to lift Glenn's shirt, Glenn loses what little he had. In a wild flurry of arms and legs, he breaks free of Rick and scrambles back, curling in on himself defensively, desperately.
"Trying to hide a bite?" Shane asks, soft.
"No," Daryl barks, annoyed at having to say it. "Kid probably don't even know if he's bit or not."
"Need a hand?" Andrea's voice is a sudden surprise from road. Daryl's shoulders hunch in defense. This don't need an audience, but here they come, one after another.
"You found Glenn, right?" Sophia calls, voice excited.
"Stay back! We're good," Rick yells without turning to look, running a frustrated hand through his hair as he contemplates Glenn's shaking form.
"I'll check him," Daryl snarls, not liking the look in either man's eye, not the way Rick manhandled the kid and not the way Shane would do it, neither. Not liking the way Glenn's sitting, like an animal in a trap, not liking the fact that assholes hurt and hurt and hurt him til the kid's higher thought couldn't stand it, had to scurry away to survive.
"Hey," he says, conscious of, and annoyed by, the hot stares of Rick and Shane as he bends down. Close, but not touching the terrified kid. "Hey. Sorry 'bout before, alright? We'll go slow this time. Alright?"
He don't expect Glenn to respond. Or to even hear. It's the same voice he used for his spooked mares, for the neighbor cat he had to free from the Dixon's barbwire fence.
"See? That don't hurt, right?" Daryl says, he's feeling down Glenn's arm. It's doing the trick, Glenn's relaxing somewhat under his touch. By the time he checks out his chest, down his stomach, the kid's sides, Daryl decides to risk getting the extra shirts off, over his head. Leaving Glenn the thin white undershirt, and when the shirts pop free of his head, messing with his hair, Glenn blinks rapidly, hard and almost coherent.
"Glenn?" Daryl tries. Keeps his hand on Glenn's shoulder. Glenn breathes a little harder, staring at Daryl curiously, like he just woke up, clearing his head. But he doesn't say a word, not until Daryl tries to coax him up onto his feet, to check his legs. "Yeah, there you go - "
"Daryl," Glenn suddenly says, dropping back down to the road, hard. "Oh, god. Daryl. I killed - killed him, I killed Merle. I'm sorry."
And the mindlessness is over, though Daryl kind wishes it hadn't broke. Not when it was replaced with this quiet, shaking sobbing. Crying like he's afraid of being overhead. "S-sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he keeps repeating in this shattered voice, staring at Daryl with absolute terror in his eyes.
Daryl feels cornered, backed into a wall. He can feel the other's stares, knows Glenn is too out of himself to know - what he's doing, in front of everyone. Doesn't know how to react. Doesn't know how to exercise this rage, doesn't know how to rip the world to pieces so that no one, no thing, witnesses this, this broken thing Glenn's become, the thing that his brother became, the thing that had to be put down -
"Stop!" He bites out, knows he sounds about three years old. "You ain't got anything to be sorry for. We gotta check for bites. Alright?"
Glenn nods, taking a gasping breath, visibly forcing his hysterics down. There's no way he actually listened to anything else Daryl said. He doesn't protest when Daryl checks the rest of him though. Nothing. Scratches, bruises, but no bites.
"We were worried," Rick says after Daryl announces it, and Rick's voice, his sudden appearance, visibly startles Glenn, who leans into Daryl's touch on instinct. Daryl, unused to contact, has to physically squash the urge to shove him back, away. Pushing the kid away at this point would be like crushing a baby bird in his open palm. Possible but unthinkable. The rest of them are coming down, now, shouting their relief to see Glenn alive, but Glenn's nowhere near ready for it, eyes flying over the group without seeing them, not really, panic rising.
The rest of the group stares in open shock when Daryl steps ahead of him, blocking the kid from view. "We setting up camp here?"
Shane looks to Rick, who shrugs. Might as well.
Normally, Daryl would be with them in the initial sweep of the building, making sure there's no stray walkers rotting away in any corners. But Glenn ain't letting go of his shirt. So instead he just leads Glenn through the building and up, onto the roof. Sets up his tent under the shade the previous occupants had rigged for watch.
They rest up there, Glenn sort of curling up into Daryl, all awkward elbows and knees. It's hot, too, but it could be worse. Glenn could be bit. Or the blankness could be back in his eyes.
"When can I see him, though?" Carl's voice drifts up from the ground below.
"We're going to have to be patient," Lori says, vaguely, voice growing muffled as they head back inside the building.
A long silence.
"You alright?" Daryl asks.
Glenn exhales slowly, and turns his face into Daryl's chest. "I didn't think you'd come back."
Eventually, the sun sets, and Glenn's warmth is a pleasant thing against his side. Eventually, Glenn gives himself up to guttural, hiccuping sobs. For now, Daryl just sweats it out.
x
NOT the end! But whew, not such a cruel chapter end, aha. Sorry about before, for real :P