This wasn't supposed to be ready, yet (are you noticing a trend, here?). But yet again it just sort of fell out of my head and before I knew it, it was done. Falling hard for a fandom can do that to someone, I guess! We're entering a very dark area, here- in a story about the relationship between Daryl and Merle, some dark spots are inevitable. I hope you enjoy following them through those shadows, and wait to see if they make it out the other side again.

Oh, and the folk song featured here is older than dirt, so keep the copyright bloodhounds at bay, my friends! Do review and enjoy. More later (probably sooner than intended, the way things have been going with this!)

Basswood Cage:

A day later, Daryl sat on a folding chair outside a tent at the outskirts of the emergency shelter. Stone-faced and suspicious, he watched people come and go all around him. After so much time alone in abandoned, empty places, his senses reeled at all the movement.

His thoughts were racing underneath the hard face he tried to put forward to the people walking by. He was in a completely different world from anything he'd ever known before.

To begin with, the shelter was huge— like some kind of jumbled, makeshift city. There were hundreds of people packed in tight. The camp surrounded a small charter school—pretty much swallowed the building with swarms of tents.

He and Merle settled in outside the perimeter fence, in an overflow area. The soldiers wouldn't let them bring their weapons inside—and they weren't too interested in cozying up to everyone in there, anyway. So they'd put up one of those FEMA tents at the outskirts of camp. They parked the bikes right next to it. When they did, Merle turned to him, putting down the kickstand.

"We stay a night," Merle had said.

"Two if there's any half-decent pussy."

Merle… Merle was caught up in the throes of one of the blackest moods Daryl had ever seen. It had grown and grown over the last day like a swelling storm front.

No one else would have noticed the difference from Merle's normal bluster, but Daryl could see it in his face. In the way he carried his shoulders. The tightness in his jaw. His flinty eyes.

Daryl knew the look in those eyes. He had firsthand experience of what it meant, and he had the scars to prove it.

And worst of all, Merle hadn't really lashed out at him yet. Not with words, not with fists. There was nothing beyond the usual, toothless barbs that were a part of Merle's natural way of speaking. And more than anything else, it was this that set Daryl's mind on edge. Something was simmering inside him—something dark and savage. It churned and seethed beneath the surface, but never came to boil.

When it did, it'd be bad.

"This place is a goddamned pen for fucking farm animals," Merle told him the night before, when they were putting up the tent. He was hammering the stakes into the ground with strong, savage bursts—as if he was trying to murder the ground beneath them.

"When the shit comes down this'll be a high-density fucking feed lot. These assholes'll be like chickens ready to get plucked—climbing all over each other and shittin' themselves and peckin' out each other's goddamned eyes."

He plowed the last stake into the ground, swinging the hammer hard and letting out a little grunt at the back of his throat when it made contact.

"It'll happen any day now. You just wait and see, little brother."

And when Merle looked up at him, it seemed like he might be looking forward to it.

Daryl hated crowds. They raised his hackles in the best of circumstances. And now… all those eyes looking at him as they went by… it put him on edge. He was wary of these people—town people, like Merle said in the Thompson garage. Put-together, educated people who were used to living and working in groups.

And he keenly felt the disgust in their faces when they looked at him. It pierced through him deep to the bone. He could see himself reflected in their eyes—a dirty redneck with a lot of scars and a very sharp knife on his belt. A string of dead squirrels and rabbits hanging on the tent pole beside him. A dim-witted, dangerous man.

A bad man.

Everyone gave him a wide berth, and avoided meeting his eyes.

And he had trouble meeting their eyes, too. He wanted to take advantage of his time here—wanted to gather some information about what on earth had happened to cause this strange, terrible disaster.

But the damned truth was that he didn't know how to talk to anyone.

And so he sat, alone, and thought. Watched people pass by. There was a sense of danger growing in his gut—something inside him warning that it was more dangerous here than it had been in town. More dangerous by far than facing the legions the dead on their own.

So spending the days here was very hard. And the nighttime hours had been the hardest of all. He couldn't rest—woke up over and over again from the constant sounds of life around him. People coughing. Bodies shifting on cots. Quiet murmurs of conversation. Footfalls on the hardpack dirt outside. A crying baby somewhere in the distance. People breathing, talking, moving.

It was so overwhelming that he woke up with a headache.

And Merle—Merle spent all day pacing around inside the tent like an animal in a cage. Since they'd got up that morning, he'd stopped talking pretty much altogether. He just fidgeted. Tapping his feet. Rapping his fingers against his jeans. Grinding his teeth in that way he had whenever he got jumpy.

Daryl couldn't understand it. It was almost—almost as if he was angry that they hadn't been killed back in town.

He shook the thought off, turning his attention outwards again. There was an old man down the way strumming on an old guitar. He was singing old-time songs in fragments—on an off, in fits and starts that echoed down the makeshift walkways to where Daryl sat:

"Well, what is this that I can't see with an icy hand taken hold on me?"

The music was sweet and it pulled Daryl in. So things weren't all bad. Sitting here, listening to that weathered old voice—it meant he could steal some time to think. It would give him something to focus on other than Merle pacing around in the tent at his back.

"Oh I am Death, none can excel—I hold the keys to heaven or hell."

Sitting there, listening, he thought it might be time to finish the wood carving he'd been working on all week. He'd take it out in the quiet hours while he kept watch at night. Or when Merle was away doing whatever it was that Merle did.

After a long pause, strumming and humming to himself absently while picking out chords, the old man continued.

"Oh Death," someone would pray, "Could you wait to cull me another day?"

When they'd fled the house, Daryl only brought along two things that weren't absolute necessities. A small block of basswood to work with, and an old, beat up paperback—Watership Down. He'd had it since he was a little kid. He reached into his bag for the basswood carving while the next verse flowed over him.

"The children pray, and the preacher preach—But time and mercy are out of your reach."

He blew the bits of wood dust away as he settled in to work. When Merle saw the carving, he'd sniffed at Daryl, laughed about him wasting his time making useless little toys. But it was soothing. It passed the time. And he figured that when he started getting low on arrows, he might just be able to make some more this way.

"For I am Death—I come to take the soul—I leave the body and leave it cold,"

He'd been working on wood for years—pretty much taught himself how to do it. Sometimes he carved chains. Other times he fretted small boxes with geometric designs. But this time—this time he carved a jackrabbit in a cage. Sitting outside the tent, he held it in his hands. Over a week into the work, it was almost finished. He looked it over with a quiet sense of satisfaction.

"I drop the flesh right off the frame—Dirt and worm both have their claim."

Earlier, he'd wandered around the charter school hallways—uncomfortable and tightly packed with people–and found the wood shop. He grabbed the sandpaper he needed to smooth the edges, and a little linseed oil to protect the wood.

"Oh Death, Oh Death please consider my age, and please don't take me at this stage."

And it was wonderful, really—delightful to stop worrying for a while, stop scanning the horizon constantly and just make something. He tried to stop thinking. Sanded and smoothed all morning, carefully, and worked in the oil with a rag. Watched it bring out the warm, golden colors from within the grain.

"My wealth is all at your command—if you but move your icy hand."

The singing stopped and started with the old man's whims. Sometimes for ten minutes at a stretch. He was in no hurry, and neither was Daryl. For once, he didn't notice much of the activity around him. He was engrossed.

But when a very young boy tripped into view, running down the path between tents, it was impossible to miss the flurry of commotion. He was full to overbrimming with that inexhaustible vigor young kids always seem to have. He was a small hurricane of little-boy energy.

And when he caught sight of Daryl, he stopped in his tracks, staring at the little rabbit in the cage.

"Woahhh!" he exclaimed, grinning with a completely open, unreserved delight.

"The old and young—the rich and poor, are all alike to me, you know."

He ran up to Daryl's side. Had to be about five years old. He was holding a board book in one hand. Clearly the one favorite that he'd been allowed to bring with him.

Without thinking, Daryl smiled at him—it was hard to resist the delight on that face. So he held the carving out for the kid to see, flat on his palm. The boy reached out for it very carefully—touched the bars gently with one tiny finger.

"No wealth, no land, no silver, no gold—Nothing satisfies me but your soul."

Then he reached inbetween the thin bars of the cage and poked the jackrabbit on the nose. The jackrabbit wobbled.

And he looked up at Daryl. Seemed a little less excited—like something about the carving had bothered him.

"Aren't you gonna let him out?" the boy asked.

"Nah," Daryl said, quietly, "He's safe in there."

They looked at the rabbit, together. Somehow, Daryl didn't mind talking to the kid. So he ventured a little further.

"He's ok—it's his house."

"I'll lead your feet with me to walk, and lock your jaw so you can't talk,"

Through the bars, the boy petted the rabbit on the head with that single finger. Smiled a little smile.

"I'll veil your eyes so you can't see—this very hour come and go with me."

The boy was about to speak up again, but he didn't get to say whatever he was thinking. All at once, there was a flurry of movement. A woman rushed over and grabbed the boy's arm.

"Lucas!"

The word pierced through the moment and killed it instantly. Daryl's eyes darted up just as Lucas' mother tugged him away as fast as she could. And when she had the boy up in her arms, she practically ran away while pressing him against her chest.

Daryl watched them go until they were swallowed up by the tents and crowds.

When she'd looked at Daryl, it was with fear in her eyes. She'd seen Merle's bike at the side of the tent. The lightning bolt insignia there. The none-too-carefully concealed arsenal beyond that.

He could hardly blame her.

Daryl sighed. Felt the familiar burden of crushing humiliation—the one that always weighed down on him when he was around ordinary people.

The music trailed on and on. The old man's cracking voice melded with the intricate turns of the guitar.

"This very hour—come and go with me. This very hour—come and go with me."

Daryl tossed the basswood cage in his bag and went back into the tent. He didn't really want to look at it anymore.

And the voice echoed after him.

"This very hour—come and go with me."

Merle paced in the tent, flexing his hands. He was furious at everything—the air around him, the sounds outside. The press of idiots milling around outside. At Daryl, calmly making those intricate little wooden things Merle couldn't get his head around. No one ever taught him to do that. And he was really good at it. It made Merle want to beat him over the head with whatever came up handy.

Anxiety nipped at the inside of his chest like a swarm of trapped birds. His muscles ached.

He knew what was happening. He was already feeling the withdrawl. It was hitting him hard. And it was only going to get worse.

There was nothing he could do. He was powerless. Everything that remained of that special stash—the one Daryl hadn't known about until yesterday—all of it was miles away. It was lying on the nightstand in that godforsaken house.

If they'd died there… it would have ended. But they survived, and he had no plan for what to do next.

The familiar old itch stabbed and scrabbled at him with sharp claws. The angry something he never understood murmured incoherently in the back of his head. He didn't really care about plans. He just needed to do something.

When Daryl walked into the tent—eyes fixed on him with a wary, remote stare—Merle blew past him, ducking through the flap before Daryl could close it.

He went storming out into the camp to see what he could see.

Later, Daryl went out into camp himself, bag on his shoulder. He was hoping to replenish some of their supplies—find some food. See what he could find out about what was going on. So he ventured into that maze of tents. They seemed to crowd up close around him like some sort of strange, dense forest.

He passed a tent with a chair outside. Paused. A children's board book was resting on that chair—Lucas' board book. He listened a moment. No one was around. So, on a whim, he took the basswood cage out of his bag and left it there. Then he slipped away, unnoticed.

Finally, he asked some of the military men about what they knew. They were awkward, tense. Didn't want to talk to him. And Daryl had a sneaking feeling that it wasn't just because of the way he looked… something was up with them. And that sense of looming danger swelled larger at the back of his mind.

He listened to other people's conversations, and found the courage to ask some questions in the food lines. As it turned out, nobody knew anything about what had happened. It was a jumble of ridiculous theories. Vaccinations did it. Or some sort of biological warfare.

Pandemic disease, or the wrath of God.

There were only muddled rumors—rumors of safe houses and safe houses overrun. Only one thread remained constant in everyone's stories: stay away from Atlanta.

There was no point in hanging around here. In the morning, he'd take Merle and head out.

But he did discover one thing—what they called the dead. Roamers. Lamebrains. Geeks. Walkers. But mostly that last one.

Walkers.

It was the only thing he learned from anyone in the entire shelter. And so, with that, the things—the dead things—had a name.

When Daryl made his way back to their tent, night was falling over the camp. The sky was a dark, hollow blue up above him.

A little up the way, he saw a women darting out into the road from her tent. That finely honed instinct immediately kicked up in the back of his mind. This is trouble, it said.

A sickeningly familiar arm darted out from inside the tent and tried to pull her back in.

She yanked it away, shouted.

"What part of get away from me don't you understand?"

She had a heavy accent—Daryl had no idea what sort it was. She had olive skin, and very long, black hair. It was pulled back behind her in a thick braid. She wore a dark blue sweatshirt with the words "Duke Astrophysics" on it. She was tall and lean. She would have been striking if she didn't look so angry.

And the figure—the person who grabbed her—stepped out of the tent. It was Merle.

Of course it was Merle.

Daryl ran for them. Dropped his bag on the ground, forgotten.

"Hey!" he shouted, closing fast and throwing his brother backwards. Merle snorted at him, chuckling to himself. The woman recoiled, standing there in the middle of the makeshift roadway. The look on her face—she was absolutely disgusted with whatever Merle had been saying to her.

People started crowding around the mouths of the tents, watching them. Merle saw them. Laughed awkwardly in their direction.

"Stand the fuck down, little brother," Merle said, "Go find one of your own."

Daryl grabbed his brother by the shoulders—tossed him down, hard. And Merle—he didn't react quickly enough, and crumpled. He was usually faster in a fight than that. An instant later, he was sprawled out on the dirt where Daryl had pushed him.

She stepped forward—looked down on Merle. Spat words down at him from where she stood.

"Get away from me and do not come back here, do you hear me?"

Daryl stood next to her, looked to Merle and back into her face.

He had no idea where she was from—just that she was from somewhere far away, and that meant he didn't understand her and she didn't understand him. The sweatshirt, her voice—even the way she stood there in the road—it all told him she was from an entirely different world from the one he knew.

And his shitty, cheap, ugly world should never have crossed into hers. That it had was an embarrassing mistake he needed to clear away as soon as possible. And the stares from all the tents around him crushed at his gut with that sinking feeling of humiliation, once more.

He swallowed it, looked down at his brother.

"Are we gonna have problem here, Merle?"

Merle pushed himself up. Looked around at everyone watching them. Put on his full bluster.

"Hell yes we got a fucking problem—this here uppity bitch don't know what she's missin'."

He stepped towards her again, and Daryl moved to block him. Shoved his brother into the street, grabbed his collar. Pressed in close to his face.

"Take a walk, Merle," he snarled.

Even face to face like that, Merle wasn't looking at Daryl. He was looking over his shoulder—at the woman standing behind him, silent with disgusted rage. And Merle… Merle looked angry enough to strike her. But Daryl wasn't going to let that happen.

And suddenly, Merle eased up. Raised his hands, that chuckle rolling along under his breath. His face didn't look quite right. He was pale, and sweaty. And his eyes—there wasn't much of anything behind his eyes.

"Fine, bro—fine. I'm out."

And Merle kept talking as he walked away.

"Fucking uppity bitch needs someone to show her what a real man can do," he said.

That night, Daryl lay on his cot, trying to sleep. His mind refused to quiet down and let him rest. Too many of his instincts were battling each other—each clamoring that they were in some different kind of danger that he was powerless stop.

So he stared up into the darkness, listening to his brother toss and turn and breathe on the cot across from him. Merle wasn't sleeping, either. If this had been some long ago hunting trip, he might have said something to his brother. They would have been able talk in the dark. But now… he couldn't think of anything to say to Merle, now.

They were in that fucking area of fucking uncertainty—the one he'd been thinking about while they rode through the country. They were surrounded by it. They were deep in its hazy fog.

The way things had gone, everything was spinning out of control. And the dead—the walkers—they were the easiest part of it all to deal with.