Disclaimer: I own nothing of this brilliant world, only my OC's.
Thwack!
Darkness fell behind his eyes, blinding him to the waking world.
His ears hummed with ambient noise as he toppled back into his own mind. Deafened to anything but his memories.
He could hear a sound, a familiar feminine voice, calling his name through the darkness. Drawing forth a face from his memories he had not dared to think of in decades.
He had been in love once.
When he was still that young proud sailor he would now barely recognize. Who he was desperately striving to be again.
And she had loved him.
Full hips, voluptuous curves and golden brown skin that almost glinted in the sunlight. Barely ever covered by more then a pair of cut-off jean shorts and the smallest triangle swimsuit top a man could imagine.
Bless that Florida summer.
Black hair that cascaded down her back in waves, like the Atlantic at midnight, would tickle his nose while she moved rhythmically against him in one of those sweaty Cuban clubs. Smelling like coconuts and pure desire.
Lila.
He had loved her.
Loved the way his hands fit around her waist when he pulled her into his chest. Loved the way she cooed his name in that flitting Latina accent, and loved it even more when she screamed ecstasy in the dark humid air of those nights spent together, for all of his squadron to hear.
The way she smiled, the soft musical tinkling of her laugh and the way her dark brown eyes turned to molten chocolate when he touched her just right. Lord.
But most of all he had loved that little half-smirk she got when she caught him in uniform. That little expression of satisfaction as her eyes would rake up and down his pressed dress-fatigues. He was hers. And she was proud.
Lila.
He remembered standing on the deck of that matte gray ship, scratching uncomfortably at the wool collar of his dress uniform, looking down at the sea of faces on the dock. The whole city, it would seem, had swarmed to see off their Navy boys.
His gray gaze had searched each face. Looking for that ripple of black hair, and those breathtaking chocolate eyes.
His little golden angel, floating slightly back from the jostling crowd, had raised a blue handkerchief above her head and waved it slowly. Black hair swaying with the gesture. Tears flowing gently from her eyes. He could almost make out the words her soft pink lips were saying as he had squinted into that bright Florida sun.
I love you, Merle.
He could almost hear it now, echoing in his head like a long forgotten song just breaching the surface again.
Her perfect voice saying his name.
Merle...Merle…
"Merle!"
The face of his beautiful Lila dissolved as the sound of Glenn's voice yelling his name smashed through the walls of his subconscious. Bringing his senses sharply back to his body, so that his head pounded with piercing pain and the sun clawed at his eyes behind their lids. Rousing him at last.
As he slowly rolled onto his back from the splayed position he had found himself in, clutching his throbbing head, Merle heard the Korean kid mutter, "Oh thank god, you didn't kill him."
Squinting against the late afternoon sun, the vet peered at the little group huddled above him, trying to remember what the fuck what going on. Five familiar faces met his gray eyes, all looking down at him with expressions ranging from concern to mild annoyance. One stranger stood amongst them, a man in a full sheriff's uniform. Oh, right.
The events leading up to his brief blackout swam to the front of his mind.
That damned sheriff had drawn half of the city's dead to the building they were now stuck in with an idiotic display of horsemanship. The poor beast had been eviscerated almost immediately, forcing the man to flee into an abandoned National Guard tank.
So, naturally Glenn had decided that their little group needed to play rescue crew to the asshat cowboy, and they had quickly formulated a plan to extract him from the tank and get him to the roof. Ignoring the fact that they would then definitely be trapped in the damned building.
When they had successfully pulled off this mission, with no small amount of skill preformed by the Asian kid as he had woven fearlessly through corpses to reach their target, Merle had decided to give Officer Friendly here a piece of his mind. Who the fuck rides a horse through a corpse-infested city? Might as well ring the damned dinner bell.
That had apparently gone less well then the vet had hoped. Going off of the pounding of his head and the pain around his right eye socket, Merle assumed that the sheriff had offered him a heavy slug to the face in response to the stream of insults and attacks the vet had thrown his way. The rusty metal pipe sticking out of the roof near his head must have caused the rest of the pain. Being punched and then tumbling head first onto solid metal was more than enough to knock a man out. Well fuck me.
The consistent throbbing of his head and the dizziness that could only mean he had suffered a concussion forced the vet to stay on the rooftop as the little group strived to find an escape from their building. Sheriff's orders, but he had obeyed when he had seen the pleading looks in the other's eyes. Reminding him of that raspy request he had gotten back at the quarry. Don't be stupid, sailor.
He had spent most of that time leaning against the short wall that lined the edges of the roof, looking over the side of the building to keep an eye on the swarms of walkers out front. Squinting against the bright sun that only worsened his headache.
When the sheriff and Glenn had journeyed out into the jungle of dead, spattered in innards, T-dog had come up to the roof to watch their progress and share the escape plan with the vet. Merle had to admit; the idea with the corpse covered trench coats was pretty damn clever.
That vantage point allowed Merle and T to watch the pair even as they had been forced into a sprint when the sky had opened up and water began to pour down in sheets in the classic southern fashion. Helpless to do anything but stare, wide eyed and mouths gaping, as the sheriff and the delivery boy fought through the crowd of dead in the deluge to their goal.
The harsh blaring of a car alarm had echoed eerily off the buildings of the deserted city. Alerting the odd couple on the rooftop that it was time for their final descent.
With a bit of bitching, the vet allowed the large black man to help him down the endless flights of stairs. Grumbling as T occasionally joked about how much less of an atrocious ass he was now that Quinn was around, as they descended flight after flight.
The bottom level of the building had just been compromised as the pair came skidding out of the stairwell. Corpses were clambering through the shattered glass of the storefront with a chorus of hungry groans. Rotting hands reaching towards the sound and smell of the living.
The pair dashed across the tile floor, footsteps like a siren to the dead as they ran, T leading the way so that he could wrench open the heavy door to the loading bay and their escape.
But the large man didn't look back when he saw the open and waiting bed of the box truck. Even as the veteran had stumbled, dizzy from his pounding head.
Didn't look back as he sprinted across the loading bay to leap into the truck between Jacqui and Morales. Even as Merle had kicked and thrashed with his weighty hunting knife at the walkers threatening to spill through the doorway, down on one knee and barely conscious next to the heavy bay door.
Didn't look back as Andrea hollered at the sheriff to: "Floor it!" Even as the old sailor had yelled in pain as a corpse's dead teeth had torn at the skin of his hand as he had slammed the heavy door shut.
And that had been their downfall. When the world goes to hell, you always… always look back.
Fingers bleeding as he turned on his heels just in time to see the box truck peel out of the bay, ignorant to his absence, Merle cursed under his breath. Knowing what he had to do and thanking whatever god that watched over him that he had sharpened his best knife that morning.
He drew a familiar blue handkerchief from his back pocket, the material worn soft from years of traveling in pockets, and twisted it into a rope. He placed the cloth in his mouth like the bit of a stallion's reins. Grimacing down at the blood dripping from his hand as his jaw clamped against the fabric.
In one motion the veteran brought his knife down on his wrist, the full strength of his body coiled into the strike. His anguished cry was barely muffled through his teeth clenched around the handkerchief, bouncing off the concrete of the bay, drowning him in his own pain as it reverberated in his ears.
As darkness again began to shroud his consciousness, his body struggling with the shock and blood loss from his field amputation, he could see that lovely golden brown face smiling down at him. His little angel willing the life to stay in his body with her chocolate eyes.
Lila.
Now, he could only pray that he had acted quickly enough.
Thin clouds shrouded the afternoon sun, but that did not stop the waves of sweltering air that drifted through the camp. A breeze that added to the sweat dripping from the survivors, rather than drying it.
They were gathered in a semi circle near the fire pit, those recently returned mingled amongst those who had remained. All listening intently to the southern drawl of the newly introduced Rick Grimes as he told the story of the run, waiting to learn why the group had returned one man down.
When it came time for that explanation, the sheriff allowed T-dog to share the stage with him. Hoping that a certain fearsome freckled woman would be less likely to snap on a man she knew well.
Shoulders tensed and back, callused hands clasped around her rifle and resting against the duel leather knife sheaths at her back, Quinn listened to the two men before her weave their tale in silence. Blue eyes lighting a wildfire in each man's face as she glared intently from under sharply drawn dark eyebrows.
Guilt seeped into their bodies as the line of her mouth grew thinner and dropped word by word into a frown of wordless disapproval.
"We didn't notice until it was too late." T muttered, eyes on his feet as he brought a large hand up to rub the back of his baldhead.
"The dead had swarmed in the streets and closed off our path back, we didn't have a choice but to leave." Rick continued, meeting the sailor's gaze. The sheriff felt remarkably guilty, but he believed he had made the right decision. He had needed to get these people to safety, and he had. Mostly.
The group began to buzz as the survivors murmured to one another, discussing the fate of the man that had been left behind and theorizing the reaction the younger Dixon would have to this news. The hunter had still not returned and was clueless to the happenings of the run.
The gossipers expected fury.
Quinn remained silent, glaring gaze cold as she contemplated the two men in front of her, freezing them like statues in her sights. Even as the others started to mill about behind them.
One simple lesson had been beaten into her brain, day after day, month after month, and year after year. From the time she could barely walk, to her first day at the Academy. Even in her last official mission before the outbreak, someone had always spoken the simple phrase that had defined leadership for her. Reminded her of that golden rule. Never leave a man behind. Not even if they've been mortally wounded, or lost a limb, or hell not even if they're dead. Quinn and her team had dragged men miles over sand and snow, bleeding or unconscious, anything to bring them home.
She could read from the sheriff's body language and the tactics he had used in the escape plan that he must be an intelligent man, and a capable leader. He seemed like the type that she could grow to respect, maybe even follow. But, as she stood in front of him and T, hands clenching in carefully controlled anger around her rifle, she wondered how any civilian could possibly hope to survive in this world if they couldn't even think to look back over their shoulder.
The SEAL promised herself in that moment that she would double her observation efforts, if the rest couldn't be trusted to keep track of their own people, damn it she would do it for them. She could practically hear her dad's rough voice growling: Quinny, if the whole damned world is doing it wrong, then you better go do it right.
A feminine voice from over her shoulder muttered, "At least it was only that redneck."
The statement broke through her thoughts and almost instantaneously pushed her anger over the boiling point. She flicked her long wavy ponytail over her shoulder, deciding that she had stayed silent too long.
"Listen to me, all of you." Quinn rasped, raising her voice and breaking her silence as her blue eyes floated over the faces around her from under fiercely glaring brows. "In my world, the world of orders and uniforms. Of war and death. This does not happen. This cannot happen. Do you know why?" The sailor paused, examining expressions of the survivors. All had fallen silent at her words.
"Because men die." She continued, stepping toward Rick and T as she growled, "You have to look back. You always have to look back. No matter how dark the oncoming horizon or how bloody the path you came from, you look over your shoulder and you bring all your men home. No matter who they are, or if they slow you down. If you don't, your numbers will dwindle until you are all gone. Do you understand?"
Rick and T were both nodding. Guilt plastered on their faces. The woman, who had muttered against Merle, was now glowing beet red in embarrassment under her blonde hair. Andrea.
"We don't leave people to be eaten alive." Quinn rasped quietly, only to Rick. Eyes softening as she met his gaze. She found nothing but regret and honesty in his thin face, and explained, "When Daryl comes back we're going back for him."
The sailor sighed, bringing a hand up to rub her temples in frustration, concern for both the hunter and the vet growing by the second as she offered the sheriff a final message before treading toward her Subaru, "And don't expect him be as delicate as me when he finds out about all this, Rick, you all may have just murdered his brother after all."
Quick footsteps followed her across the grass as she headed for her vehicle, tailing her as she cut smoothly through the camp. The sailor knew it was Glenn even before he reached her, accustomed to his steps as he was almost always at her side.
When the young man fell into stride with her, Quinn flung an arm around his shoulders and drew him into her side. Guilt and grief were emanating from his body and the sailor wanted to quash both as best she could.
"I didn't know until we made it here. I would have gone back, Quinn." He said softly, brown eyes meeting her own as he brought a hand up to run through his hair as the other clutched his cap, honest as ever. That was one of the many things she adored about this kid, he couldn't lie.
"I know," she replied, giving his shoulders a little squeeze as a slight smile ghosted over her freckled face.
She pulled the hatchback of her car open and gestured for Glenn to sit as she began to rummage through her collection of weaponry, supplies, and ammunition. Looking for her cleaning kit. He perched near the bumper, and when Quinn held out a small hand he immediately pulled her silenced handgun from his waistband and placed it in her palm.
Settling in the back of the vehicle next to Glenn, she rasped, "So now tell me what happened from your eyes."
As he relayed his perspective of events, lying back in the vehicle so that he could contemplate the black interior as he strained his memory for every detail, she began the meditative process of disassembly and cleaning.
The rest of the survivors trickled back to their own tasks, those freshly returned from the run chatting quietly with those who had stayed. All shaken from the commanding rasps that still floated in their minds, and not daring to raise their voices too much.
Quinn had made the fear of loss real for them all again.
In the RV Amy and Andrea clung together, Dale close by their sides, as Andrea recounted her version of the events of the run in dramatic tones. Her younger sister's arms tightening around her with every mention of walkers and near-death experience. The older blonde's eyes would occasionally dart to the Subaru through the RV window, as the woman couldn't help but feel guilty about her words against Merle. He may be a crude and unrefined man, but he was one of them. And they had left him to die.
Her hands shook slightly as she pondered the reaction of the younger Dixon again; Andrea very much doubted he would be forgiving. The unrefined were often unforgiving, she thought.
A child's laughter echoed through the camp.
Carl Grimes didn't let the mood of the group dampen his spirits. A smile was stretched wide on his young face.
He hadn't really understood the context of the sailor's words enough to be shaken. He was too happy to give in to the somberness of the adults, happier than he had been since the outbreak, clinging to his father as the little family sat together in their tent. They talked happily, huddled close together around a large photo album. Mother and son staring at Rick with eyes full of joy and wonder, still in shock.
Seated on the hood of his jeep alone, the deputy reflected none of this joy; occasionally shooting blatantly angry looks at the Grimes' family tent.
He was watching the love of his life slip out of his grasp, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. How the fuck was Rick Grimes alive? He had felt the man's wrist back in that hospital, for god's sake. Shane ran a hand through his curly hair, knowing he should be happy with his best friend's sudden resurrection.
But right now he wanted him dead. Dead like he had been. Dead like he should be.
The large man grunted with frustration as he tore his eyes away from the tent and glanced toward the Subaru.
The sailor was not happy with him, Shane thought as he examined Glenn's legs hanging out of the back of the black vehicle he knew hid the woman. He had made a bad call in keeping her here, the deputy could admit it, and she was going to let him hear that. It was only a matter of time. He sighed, next time he would listen. Shane owed the sailor that, owed her obedience for his own stupidity. You may have gotten a man killed today, Walsh.
A few hours passed of quiet voices floating in the heavy humid air, as the survivors hid from the sun in their tents and vehicles. Allowing them some time to recuperate from the day's excitement.
Some planning the re-entry trip, some trying to forget that one was necessary.
Just as they had all been lulled off of their guard by the heat and the low hum of friends murmuring together, a scream tore through the quarry.
A woman's scream.
Followed by the rustling of leaves and underbrush from the tree line.
Sheriff and deputy shot toward the sound, finding each other and falling into a familiar step as they paced side by side. Weapons raised.
It took me a while to decide how I wanted to handle Merle, and how I wrote this will shape aspects of both Daryl and Quinn in this piece.
Also, I decided to hold off the Daryl scene until the next chapter, I think it ties in better with how I want to write the return trip to Atlanta.
Expect action, Quinn doesn't take well to her favorite delivery boy's capture.
Best,
GC