Disclaimer: I own nothing of this brilliant world, only my OC's.


Blackened teeth, rotting like the face they sat in, gnawed at the muscled flank of a deer.

A predator had stalked the animal for hours, lurking behind it as it meandered about the forest grazing.

At times the deer had suspected its stalker. It would freeze, ears swiveling cautiously toward the sound of a suspicious snapping twig or the rustle of leaves. But, the animal's attention span was short and mostly it had remained oblivious to the raised crossbow moving through the trees. Circling nearer and nearer.

Oblivious up until the moment the air behind it whistled as something had shot swiftly towards it, and a sharp bolt had cracked through its skull, dropping the animal to the forest ground.

Hidden in the dense underbrush of that Georgia forest, Daryl had let out a relieved sigh when he heard the muffled thump of a body in the dirt. Relaxing his muscled arms so that the weighty crossbow he hefted dropped to his side; he had given his body a moment of rest. Fuckin' finally.

Unfortunately, while he recuperated, two other beings beat the hunter to his catch.

The first was a lone corpse. Drawn to the scent of newly spilled blood, it had stumbled upon the animal and immediately set upon feasting. If the monster had still possessed a fully functioning brain, it would have rejoiced in finding such an easy meal. With each tear from its putrid mouth, it poisoned the fresh meat.

Much like the deer it now devoured had been in the moments before its death, the corpse was oblivious to the approach of the steps of the second pair of feet that beat the hunter to his deer.

Small paces wove through the thinning trees that led from the quarry camp, carelessly rustling through the underbrush in search of solitude.

Jacqui needed space. Some time alone with her thoughts.

The trip to Atlanta had taken quite a toll on her, both body and mind. Even as she paced through the soft leaves of the forest on aching legs, away from camp and miles away from that dreadful deathtrap, she could still hear the groans of the dead. Echoing in the back of her head. Never could she have imagined this horrifying world she now lived in, where each step, no matter how cautious, seemed to bring her closer to death.

Her mind kept circling back to a moment in the back of the box truck, just as the sheriff had hit the gas pedal, when she swore she had heard a man yell for help. A strangled, pained yell. Merle.

At the time she had brushed the sound off as her imagination. Closing her eyes and turning away from the reaching hands of rotting corpses as Morales had slammed the back door of the truck closed, because there couldn't have been a man back there. They were all in the truck. All safe, against the odds.

But now she knew better. They had left him there to die, without a second glance over their shoulders, and that fact would haunt her the rest of her life. Which may not be that much longer, she thought as she picked at the small green leaves of a low hanging branch in her path.

The sounds of the dead groaning grew louder in her head, and she stopped for a moment. Small feet tapping anxiously as she stood, listening and wondering if she was beginning to lose her mind. Was that the sound of tearing flesh?

Then she saw it.

Only yards away, kneeling on the leafy forest floor as it ripped at the side of a dear with its blackened and bloody fingers, was one of the dead.

A scream tore from her throat, and Jacqui ran with all of her strength back towards the camp. Leaves and dust floating in the warm air in her wake.


Strong arms swung blunt objects with merciless force down on the body of the corpse. Beating it away from the shredded meat of the deer it had been chewing on, and on to its back in a cloud of blackened blood.

It lay there, groaning and reaching towards its assailants, while Rick and Shane muscled blow after blow. Each filling their strikes with fervent anger and frustration, although from vastly different causes.

Jacqui was now safely back in camp, huddled in the arms of Andrea and Amy. Allowing the blondes to calm her with gentle words. The two men of the law had passed her in their dash toward the sound of her scream, and Jacqui had gestured them toward the deceased intruder. Watching as they had sprinted down her recent path through the trees with weapons raised. Expressions deadly.

Dale had followed in the men's wake, toting an axe and a worried frown on his wrinkled face. They hadn't had an incident this close to camp in weeks, and it worried the retiree.

The axe fell on the neck of the squirming corpse, cleanly severing its head and causing its clawing limps to fall to its sides, useless.

"Isn't often that they wander up here, " Dale remarked to the sheriff that stood at his side. Reading the concern in the man's knitted brows.

Rick didn't respond, too absorbed in analyzing the corpse before him. His hands tightened around the crowbar he held as he glared down at the beaten body. This was much too close to his family for comfort, and the realization that nowhere would be safe forever in this strange world he had awoken to was yet again slapping him in the face. Just like it had when he had sat in the familiar living room of his old neighbors house with Morgan and his son, with the dead scratching tirelessly at the door.

As Dale and Shane discussed the potential migration habits of the dead, the sheriff's thoughts shifted to the duffle of guns that lie abandoned in Atlanta. They would need the firepower if this little group wanted to survive, Rick knew that. Especially if the dead were venturing so close. He needed to go back.

Crunching in the underbrush jolted the lean man from his plotting. In a flash of silver Rick drew his gun from his hip holster and turned toward the offending noise. Stepping in front of Dale like a shield.

At his shoulder he felt Shane do the same. The broader man raised his rifle to his eye and aggressively widened his stance to cover his partner's side. Ready for an attack as the pair watched something on two legs weave through the trees into the clearing.

"Motherfucker stole my kill… Ya think we could salvage any of the bits he didn't chew?" Came a gravelly deep woods Georgia accent.

Both lawmen lowered their weapons as they watched a dirty and sweat drenched Daryl Dixon begin kicking angrily at the body of the offending corpse. A colorful stream of curses pouring from his mouth as Dale tried to calm him down. To no avail.

This must be the brother, Rick thought, cocking a thin eyebrow and evaluating the man as he raised his weapon and shot a bolt through the head of the decapitated walker, murmuring something like: "Fuck, don't ya'll know you gotta get the brain?"

Cut-off flannel, rough accent, and a weighty looking crossbow. He looked every bit like one of those redneck criminals the sheriff and Shane would have found fighting out back of one of the local dive-bars before the turn. High as a kite and twice as drunk. Not exactly the type of character he wanted in close quarters with his son... But even as the harsh judgments crossed his mind, Rick felt an intense guilt creeping into his body. Shrouding his biases. No matter who this man was, the world had changed and evened the playing field when Rick had accidentally abandoned his brother to die.

A fact that the already enraged hunter was still ignorant to.

"Merle!" Daryl called as he strode toward camp with a line of recently killed squirrels swinging over his shoulder, "Get yer ugly ass out here, I caught us some squirrel!" Ice blue eyes darted around the site, looking for the familiar grey head and black leather that always marked his brother. Where is that asshole.

As Shane and Rick sped after the angry bowman, preparing for outrage, across the camp two heads shot to attention at the sound of the hunter's voice.

Glenn's fist shot out and struck Quinn's roughly branded shoulder with panicked force. "He's back!" he whispered, brown eyes widening as they met the gaze of the freckled woman at his side. Looking to her for their next move.

Her mouth was set in a grim line, brows furrowed and eyes confident. A calm contrast to the waves of wild hair that fell unbound around her face and down the sailor's back. She carefully finished screwing on the final black metal piece of her handgun she'd been cleaning, the silencer, before leaping out of the back of her Subaru. Drawing Glenn to jump to her shoulder with a jerk of her head as she strode towards the rapidly raising voices sounding from the other side of the RV.

"You did what?!" Daryl…

The sailor broke into a sprint with the sound of feet scuffling in the dirt. A fight.

Black boots skidding as she rounded the side of the RV, Quinn had barely a moment to evaluate the scene before choosing her course of action.

Three men yelling.

Rick. Shane. Daryl. Daryl in a chokehold. Shane had Daryl in a chokehold. I'll kill him.

Quinn kicked with the full force of her body into the back of the deputy's left knee, while simultaneously pulling him backwards by wrapping a strong arm around his neck. Throwing him to the ground on his back and forcing him to release his grip on the hunter due to sheer shock of the attack.

The crowd of survivors that had gathered as the three men argued gasped with shock at the sailor's sudden and explosive intervention.

Freshly cleaned handgun aimed at the broad man's head as he lay in the settling dust, the sailor growled, "Touch him again and I thread a bullet between your brows." Her aim unflinching even as she heard Lori make a noise of protest from somewhere over her shoulder.

Shane raised his hands in defeat from his place on the ground, eyes wide with shock as he looked up at the mess of curly hair and freckles that had seemed to drop from the clear blue Georgia sky.

Daryl had been dragged to his knees by the deputy's grip as the larger man had been thrown backwards. He knelt in the dirt a couple feet away from the man, panting heavily as air finally filled his lungs again. He brought a hand up to rub his now bruised and reddened throat, eyes locked on the barrel of a large silver handgun that was now pointed at his head.

"Let's all just calm down and talk about this like civilized people," ordered Rick from the other end of the silver handgun, head cocked as he glanced between the sailor and the hunter. "Can we do that?" he continued, voice slightly pleading as his eyes lingered on the silenced weapon pointed at his partner's curly head.

"Dunno Quickdraw, can we? I'm not the man trying to strangle folks." Quinn hissed back, furious glare never leaving the deputy in the dirt, not willing to back down so easily.

A soft chirping whistle drew her attention to the hunter knelt nearby.

"I'm good, Lee. I'm good." Daryl muttered quietly, only for the sailor, waiting to see the soft blue of her eyes and the taut line of her arms relax the weapon to her side before swiftly pushing himself off the ground.

Long legs making quick work of the distance between them, the hunter moved to stand next to the freckled woman, bumping his forearm against her offered limb when he reached her. Both stood tall, heads high and eyes defiant, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, aggressively staring down the pair of lawmen.

Rick had lowered his weapon as well. Although cautiously. The sheriff had watched the redneck and the Navy officer settle into an intimidating pose, snarls plastered on their faces, and had raised his hands in a show of peace after pulling his partner to his feet. He didn't want to further aggravate the situation. Especially when teamwork would soon be crucial. He would need the sailor on his side.

Apparently civility would be harder to achieve then he had anticipated, Rick thought as he examined the two survivors before him. Probably shouldn't have threatened the man whose brother you already may have killed…

Glenn, realizing the fight was now over, stepped away from his place in front of the crowd. He had been carefully keeping them from interfering and potentially getting hurt, subtly positioning himself between them and the action after he had darted out from behind the RV following the sailor.

He joined the quartet of ruffled warriors now standing somewhat peacefully in pairs facing one another. Creating a bridge of sorts, feeling like Switzerland in an international negotiation. Although he wasn't exactly neutral, the young Korean thought, smiling to himself from his spot at Quinn's side.

"So what's the plan?" he said quietly as he dropped a hand on both the sheriff and the sailor's shoulders, drawing a slight smirk from the lips of his favorite SEAL.

"Tell us where to look an' were gone," came the voice of the hunter, still strained from the recent impact on his neck. Brows drawn, shadowing his dirty face while he glared at the sheriff. Fingers clenched around his crossbow with anger and anticipation.

"He'll show you." A shrill voice stated from behind the group, "Isn't that right?" Lori continued, thin arms crossed over her chest as her eyes searched the face of her husband. Disapproval evident.

Rick nodded, examining the dirt and grass around his feet as he responded, "I'm going back."


Five pairs of feet jumped from the box truck onto the cracking concrete of an empty parking lot. Their landing the only sound besides the buzz of insects and the distant growls of the dead lurking in the city streets.

The stillness of Atlanta was shocking. Although all present had experienced it before, the lack of life caught them off guard. The world was still now. The only movements were made in stealth, or by the dead. Such a contrast to the former bustle of this metropolis.

Five pairs of eyes scanned the area carefully as the little group gathered by the side of the truck. Weapons raised and ready while they talked through their next steps.

A rescue and an extraction mission.

Quinn examined the sheriff at her side with a dark eyebrow cocked. The man wanted to do the mission that was closest first? There wasn't this sort of time to waste while Merle could be lying in that damn loading bay dying, the sailor thought as she adjusted the thick strap of her snow rifle across her chest.

Luckily before she snapped at the lawman, or worse Daryl had attacked him, Glenn piped up. Assuring Rick that the loading bay was nearer and therefor should be the first mission.

That wasn't quite true, Quinn knew because she had spent most of the truck ride staring at her map, but it was so slight a lie that Glenn seemed to tell it convincingly. For once in his life. The sailor gave his shoulder a little squeeze of appreciation as Rick began talking them through the entry plan she had helped him formulate earlier.

In and out, real quick. Try not to waste any ammo.

They had to find Merle, fast.

Breaking into a quiet jog with weapons up and heads swiveling, the group fell into line.

Glenn in the lead with his borrowed silenced handgun, and Quinn close to his shoulder with both knives drawn and ready. Carefully guarding his back. They moved in practiced synchronized motions, once again the reliable run-team they had been.

Daryl paced at the sailor's heels, his crossbow moving with the swivel of his head. Missing nothing as they weaved through street after street. Piercing gaze looking for signs of his brother at every turn.

T-dog and Rick brought up the rear; neither as naturally attentive as those they followed. Too distracted by the groans of the dead that seemed to grow loader with every step. And with the anticipation of seeing the older Dixon again. Let him be alive, god please let him be alive.

The team was fortunate that only three corpses had ventured near enough to notice them in their run from the parking lot to the metal garage door of the loading bay.

All had been easily dispatched by a pair of flashing knives at the front of the line. Each a small distraction from Quinn's growing worry as they neared where the veteran had been abandoned.

The bay door was closed. A fact that reassured them that there was hope for Merle yet, as T-dog stated firmly that it had been open when the truck had pulled away. He could be safe inside.

The five sweaty and anxious survivors stood before the metal barrier, picturing what lay behind.

After a moment of hesitation, his damp face searching those of his companions as if to ask: 'you ready?' T-dog wrenched open the door of the bay.

It made a string of metallic clacking sounds as it spun back into the ceiling, masking the footfalls of the group as they ran inside. A little to loud for their comfort.

Empty.

Quinn deflated as she glanced around the gray concrete garage bay, searching for signs of the veteran and finding none.

From her side she heard Daryl give a frustrated howl. The air around him seemed to crackle as he breathed deeply in an effort to calm himself. Making the hair at the back of her neck stand on end. Raw emotion. The lines of his grimace deepened with anger and grief as he glared around the room.

An empty room. How was that possible, she thought, the door leading into the bay from the main building appeared to be closed tightly. How could it be empty when there was no other escape? The sailor flipped her wild ponytail over her shoulder, scanning the room again in search of clues from under furrowed brows. There had to be something. She had to have missed something.

Not empty.

Letting out a chirping whistle as she went, Quinn paced toward a small object resting on the concrete in a pool of blood. She crouched at the side of the pool, peering at the thing near the middle. What the fuck.

A severed hand lie before her.

A sharp intake of air from close to her head alerted the sailor that Daryl had joined her at the edge of the pool. The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he examined the scene, trying to create a story that made it make sense.

He stretched out a bare arm and carefully plucked the hand from out of the blood, bringing it up to his face for closer inspection. Holding it by the thumb, he stated, "This is Merle's," as he glared at the marks of human teeth scrapped into the skin of the pinky and ring finger. "Looks like he got bit 'n cut it off to stop from turnin'," the hunter continued, holding the hand in front of Quinn's freckled nose so she could see the marks.

She hummed her response as she glanced from the hand to around the room and back. Looking something else.

The sailor found it a few feet away, the few drops of blood that meant Merle had left them a trail to follow after all. Blood can be such a reliable breadcrumb, she thought, mind wandering to that mission in the Syrian mountains for a moment as she adjusted the snow-camouflaged sniper rifle at her back. Red on the pure white of snow really pops.

She jerked her head in the direction of the drops, drawing the hunter's gaze. "Must 've worked," she rasped as the rest of the group gathered near the pool of blood, continuing, " Cause he's seemed to escaped."

While Quinn and Daryl traced the trail of blood, she heard Glenn exclaim, "He cut off his own fucking hand?!"

The outburst drew a snort from the hunter at her side; his ice blue eyes met hers as a small smirk formed on his lips. "Ain't nobody kill Merle, but Merle," he threw over his shoulder to the young Korean. Holding up the severed hand as evidence. "Now spread out 'n look for blood spots," the hunter growled.

After a moments silence as five pairs of eyes had scoured different parts of the floor for the trail, the sheriff called, "Over here!"

He was ahead of the sailor and Daryl, near the sidewall of the bay.

Heads rising to the sound of his call, the rest of the group flocked to Rick. Jogging over with expressions ranging from hope to concern.

Blue eyes widening and eyebrows shooting towards her hairline Quinn took in the scene before her. Broken glass and blood. He's losing too much blood.

There was a service entry door tucked away in this corner of the bay that had somehow slipped by her, she noticed, swearing under her breath. The glass window that made up the top half of the door was shattered into sharply jagged spikes along the sill. Some of which were tinted red with what could only be blood. Lots of blood.

"He must have punched through the glass to unlock it." T-dog stated, a large hand rubbing the back of his bald head as he grimaced at the mess.

Grabbing a handful of Daryl's flannel and dragging him along as she went, Quinn pushed through the little group to pull open the blood covered door. Merle's time was running out, she could feel it.

This action jolted the hunter out of his shock from finding so much of his brother's blood and he quickly moved to follow her as she rasped, "C'mon we can't afford this standing, we have to move. If this all is his then he's lost a lot of blood and he won't be able to get much farther on his own."

The blood drops were larger now then they had been in the bay, contrasting with the shiny white tile of the service hallway. Red on white really pops.

Occasionally Quinn would notice a smear of blood on the beige wallpaper, about at waist height, where Merle had stumbled into the wall for support. A shiver ran down her spine as she lightly touched the corner of one such stain with the point of a knife. There was too much blood.

Another door. This one undamaged and hanging open, a small pool of blood resting on the threshold.

Merle had stopped there.

It was a kitchen, with a menagerie of cookware, industrial ovens and a number of burners. The team fanned out and searched the little workspace for any signs of blood, looking carefully over shelves and countertops. Pots and pans.

Rick walked over to one of the burners, poking at what look like burnt meat caked around the metal. The lean man grimaced, gesturing to the charred material. "He cauterized the wound," Rick stated quietly.

Quinn felt a weight on her shoulder and glanced back to see Glenn leaning on her, a hand over his mouth as his face edged close to green.

"Jesus," He muttered, and the sailor reached a hand back to pat his nauseous head. Jesus is right.

A row of windows that lay in the wall adjacent to the burners drew her eye. One of which was open. She cocked an eyebrow and gestured Daryl in that direction with a slight incline of her head.

The hunter immediately moved to inspect the opening, peering carefully at the sill in search of blood. The window lead to a fire escape, the rusty metal ladder of which was pulled down as close to the ground as it would reach.

"He got out here."