Groaning metal, splintering glass, and the sizzle of air escaping from the melting tires drowned out the roar of the fire. Choking plumes of gray smoke and bright orange flames twisted together as they stretched up towards the sky.
A buzz of uncertainty hung over the yard. Even Daryl found himself looking around in confusion.
Some sorta bullshit is definitely going down, he realized as the hair on the back of his neck trembled.
Some serious shit by the looks of it.
And I gotta feeling it gotta do with that sumbitch who was outside my cell earlier.
Daryl didn't know who all the clown was. He was just some giggling asshole who gave him a playing card with HA written on it.
All he had been able to recall Mule telling him about the "pasty-faced freak" was that he was the single most dangerous monster any of her family ever faced, that he lived to create chaos and confusion, and had no problem whatsoever in killing kids.
Looking at the wreckage of the SUV confirmed how much the sumbitch liked creating chaos and confusion.
The walkers in the yard were the only ones not affected by what was going on. They continued to whine and groan, straining against the chains that bound them to concrete girders and huge blocks of stone, and reaching out with blackened fingers for those who could slack their ever-present hunger.
Only one of them disjointed figures stood out to Daryl. A boy, about Carl's age, hung on a small section of fence nearest the entrance to the Sanctuary. One eye was missing while the other had a bloodstained piece of cloth covering it.
If it wasn't that he knew Carl was safely back in Alexandria with Rick, he'd have thought it was him hanging there.
Who'n hell is this kid?
And was it this clown and not Negan who killed him?
Mule wouldn't be with the asshole if he killed kids, he realized as shouts started to sound above the roar of the fire. Nah, she'd have taken his ass down if he did that.
Daryl had no love for the asshole. He believed him capable of a whole lotta shit. Especially after what the sumbitch did to Glenn and Abraham.
However, he didn't think him capable of this.
People started pouring out from the Sanctuary. In the absence of an emergency response system — another casualty of the shit world they were living in — people came together and did whatever they could to save their home.
Survival was the law of the land.
Many of the people formed a line to fight the fire.
Others helped those hurt when the SUV blew up.
Part of Daryl wanted to see the flames consume everyone and everything in its path.
However, the other part of him, the one still capable of rational thought, didn't want to see innocent people suffer.
We all suffered enough, he decided as a familiar voice sounded above the commotion.
"Goddamn it, you fat bastard! His ass isn't supposed to be fucking out here!"
Daryl whipped his head around and saw Negan stalking over to where a boy about nine or ten stood on the steps of the Sanctuary, watching the flames with wide eyes.
"I couldn't stop him!" Fat Joey tried to explain as he came puffing down the steps. "He said he needed to find you or Fin!"
Negan mumbled a few inarticulate things. Daryl's waited for the asshole to haul off and hit the sweating man with the bat he clenched in one hand. When he didn't, he blinked.
What the...?
He also didn't berate the boy as he expected, either. No, the asshole spoke to him in an almost reasonable tone. A fatherly one, he realized, eyes narrowing. And he did it, Daryl saw with even more surprise, while signing to him.
"I told you that you can't leave the Sanctuary. Not unless either me or Fin are with you." The kid signed something back. "No, you're going to go with Fat Joey's ass inside and stay the fuck there until me or Fin come and get you."
The kid signed something else, his face set in the same way that Mule's did when she took up some notion.
"You're too small to help with this shit."
The kid frowned, clearly not liking being told he couldn't help fight the fire, but not arguing the point further. Negan signaled Fat Joey who came forward quickly to collect him.
"Get him the fuck back inside and don't let him out of your fucking sight."
"You want me to take him to your room?"
"You get him the fuck into the safe room that Fin set up for when shit went down," he told him. "And don't let him the fuck out of it unless me or Fin say to."
"I won't let anything happen to him, boss," Fat Joey promised as he took hold of the boy's arm. "I'll make sure he's kept safe."
"You better hope nothing happens to him. If something does..." Negan dropped his voice an octave. "It will be Lucille for you. You fucking understand me?"
Fat Joey blanched and nodded. "Yes, boss."
"Good." He indicated the Sanctuary with the bat in his hand. "Now, get him the fuck inside."
Fat Joey led the boy away a second before another, smaller explosion sent more debris into the air.
"What the shit?" Negan turned to look at the burning vehicle. "Haven't you fucks got that fucking fire under control yet?"
"We're doing our best," one of the men grunted. "Might have to let this shit burn itself out."
"Just make fucking sure that it doesn't spread to the Sanctuary."
He turned then to look at Daryl. "Well, looks like you have gotten a momentary reprieve."
"Is Mule safe?"
Daryl saw the dangerous glint to his eye but ignored it. It didn't matter what happened to him. Long as Mule and the others were safe, he'd take whatever punishment Negan wanted to hand out.
"Don't you fucking worry about her cute li'l ass, hunter fuck."
"I asked you if her ass is safe."
"It's none of your goddamn business if she's safe or not."
Daryl made to climb out of the back of the truck he'd been loaded into but a handful of assault rifles aimed at him stopped him. He glared at them but remained seated.
"Where'n hell is Mule?" He demanded. "Is she somewhere safe?"
"Why the fuck do you..." Negan began but Daryl cut him off.
"Ain't got time for no long-winded debate." He nodded towards the burning car. "Whoever done this shit is doing it to get at Mule's ass. Now, is she somewhere safe or not?"
The fuel tank of the second SUV exploded, preventing Negan from answering his question. Smoke and flames rose from the wreckage and mingled with that pouring off the first.
The last thing that Daryl heard before his head slammed against the bench opposite the one he sat on was a high-pitched laugh…
...
Near a door that led out to a small alley, two men watched and waited for the signal that'd tell them to go. Neither could claim total investment in this particular plan. Not that either of them would confess such to the man behind it.
Telling the Joker how bad a plan of his was was about as dumb as grabbing a live electrical wire with your bare hand.
Course, one had a minimal chance of surviving the shock they'd get from the wire.
There'd be no such thing with the Joker.
The taller of the two men shifted after several long minutes and glanced over at the second.
"You really think the boss is gonna convince Fenix to call the Bat here with this plan of his?"
The man grunted and shifted the assault rifle in his right hand to his left.
"Yup."
Short and to the point. Bob didn't waste time on words. He said what he needed and that was the end of it. Joe appreciated that. Especially since the leader of this band of shitheads liked to hear himself talk. He talks more than the Joker.
Not that he'd tell him that, of course.
"Why now, though?" He shook his head. "He's left five bodies at this point for her to find and nothing."
"So?"
"So, if she ain't cracked by now, what makes him think she will?"
"'Cause none of those brats been laid out in her bed. Or look like that deaf brat she took in."
"I suppose." Joe was still skeptical about this working where all the other attempts failed. "Whatcha think he's got planned for when Batsy gets here?"
"Something special."
"Oh, yea?" He spat a stream of tobacco into a nearby garbage can. "Got any ideas about what?"
"Heard he plans to bury the birds in special coffins he had built before leaving Gotham."
Joe's eyebrows shot up to his hairline at that information.
"He's gonna bury 'em?"
"Yup."
"Alive?"
Bob shook a smoke out of a pack he produced from his back pocket.
"Yup."
Joe felt a chill creep over him. Being buried alive terrified him almost as much as being burned alive or drowning. Ain't no way for anyone to die, he thought, shuddering. If he had to choose between slowly suffocating in a small box, being submerged in water —or battery acid, knowing the boss — and cooked like a steak on a grill, he'd choose suffocation. Won't be as painful as the other two ways.
A loud explosion shook him from his morbid thoughts.
"There's the signal."
"Yup." Bob indicated the woman unconscious at his feet. "Let's get her back to the Funhouse."
"What's the boss want with one of Negan's wives, anyway?"
"Does it matter?"
"No."
"Then let's go."
Joe hoisted the woman over his shoulder and followed Bob from the Sanctuary without another word.
…
Slade dove out-of-the-way a second before orange flames spewed from beneath the SUV. The force of the explosion sent the men — his, as well as a handful of Negan's — standing nearest to the vehicle flying in multiple directions.
Some hit the fence surrounding the yard of undead bastards while others bounced off railings and stairways.
Three of his men smashed into the wall of the Sanctuary as if they were little more than matchsticks before dropping down to the ground in a shower of glass and other debris.
Not a one moved.
Slade felt a scorching heat at his back as the SUV came slamming back down with enough force to make the pavement tremble beneath him.
What the hell just happened? The question rolled through his head as he propped himself up on an elbow. Am I under attack? Or is Negan?
Something told him it was them both.
Slade ignored the blinding pain shooting through his skull as he sat up. He had a second to roll out-of-the-way before one of the doors, blown off by a smaller implosion, tried to finish what Oliver Queen and so many others had failed at doing.
It slammed into the side of the building with enough force to splinter the plaster.
Shouts and panic-filled screams sounded above the sound of sizzling metal, popping plastic, and shattering glass. Smoke filled the yard and made it hard to see anything but his own hand in front of his face. Slade's ears rang. His head felt fuzzy. He was still alive, though. Whoever just tried to blow him into a billion pieces failed.
Like all the others who tried to get rid of him had.
He got to one knee as men and women poured out from the Sanctuary to fight the blaze. Many carried buckets and bags of sand. Some carried fire extinguishers they used to put out the blaze. The dry powder inside of the extinguishers would help smother the flames and prevent the fire from spreading to the main compound.
"Move them other goddamn vehicles before the fire can get to 'em!"
The speaker, whoever the hell he was, sounded as if he was talking from a hundred yards away and not three.
"Get those fucking boxes outta the path of the fire!"
Slade turned his head to see Negan sauntering in his direction, his precious bat slung over his shoulder, and a slight curl to his lips that grated on his already taut nerves.
If Slade didn't already have an idea about who was behind the bombings, he would think Negan the culprit.
The bastard wasn't above trying to get rid of him.
Especially since it meant he could keep Raya all to himself.
The serpent alive and well inside his head hissed as it slithered out of its cavern to torture him with images of Neganrunning his hands, his lips over his dove's small, tight body.
Short flashes soon became full-bodied visions of her beneath the bastard, moving under him, against him.
Damp skin, like honeyed cream, slid over sun-kissed gold.
Eyes nearly black with desire widened, and swollen lips, parted.
He could almost hear her breath, the catch, and release, the soft gasps, the slight whimpers stuck in her throat.
For a minute, he thought he could smell her, that haunting mix of jasmine, camellia, and gardenia that always made him think of their walks through her garden on those hot Australian nights right before his deployment to Lian Yu.
It was almost more than he could stand. Wasn't one man stealing away the affections of a woman he cared for enough?
Well, Negan wouldn't have the chance to use her as he did all the other women who crossed his path.
He'd see the bastard dead, first.
Negan was not behind the bombs, though. Of that, Slade was absolutely certain. He had no reason to get rid of him. He wouldn't even if it meant keeping Raya all to himself. Negan was all about deals that provided him with the things he and his people needed; wanted.
Eliminating him would end that deal. In a world where medications, munitions, and food supplies were hard to come by, killing off a supplier was beyond foolish.
Negan was many things, but even he admitted how fool was not one of them.
Beyond that, the car bombs were far too advanced an attack for a man like Negan. He preferred psychologically torturing his victims with long-winded diatribes, and childish threats before bludgeoning them to death with his bat.
No, there was only one person behind the bombing. One man who would enjoy the chaos it would cause. A man far more dangerous than the infected groaning from inside their steel enclosure or wandering about outside the Sanctuary.
A man with a bone-white face, blood-red grin, and a high-pitched cackle that echoed for miles.
The Joker was a large reason for why he wanted to get his daughter somewhere safe. He saw for himself just what the bastard was capable of the night Matthew Berkeley held Raya hostage on a bridge connecting old Gotham with new...
...
Gotham
The clown danced around in a circle, arms spread wide as he cackled with almost maniacal glee. Slade tuned him out. He could kill the bastard after he killed Matthew Berkeley. He attenuated himself to the sound of his heartbeat and turned his focus to the woman with the knife against her throat.
His index finger slid over the trigger as if it was the creamy flesh of the woman being held prisoner by her father.
All it would take was a simple squeeze and she'd be free of the man who tormented her for much of her life.
He took a split second to breathe, and then instinctively, and without pause, applied the right amount of pressure to that trigger.
The shot rang out over the bridge.
Matthew Berkeley was dead before his body hit the ground...
...
He got rid of Matthew Berkeley that night, but the Joker managed to escape before he could get a second shot lined up. Not killing the clown was one of the promises he failed to keep to Raya.
I will see to it that he dies this time, he swore. He will not escape me again.
Slade went to stand, but something hard slammed into the back of his head.
The force of the blow pitched him face first on the ground and sent pain shrieking through his brain. He struggled to hang on to consciousness. Rough hands rolled him on his back.
He cracked his eyelid open just enough to make out a blurry figure leaning over him. The rank odor of sweat, unwashed clothes, and cigarette smoke invaded his nostrils and almost made him gag.
"The shithead is alive but took a helluva bump to the back of the head," the man pronounced in a deep voice. "Gonna have to get him to Doc Carson. He gonna need stitches to close that shit."
"That'll please the boss to hear."
"Can't help that." The man grunted. "What about the other two standing there with his ass when the damn thing blew up? You check 'em?"
"Yup."
"And?"
"Dead as doornails."
Rage and a small amount of regret boiled beneath Slade's skin at hearing his men had all been killed. It was the nature of their profession. Death was something they accepted. It came with the job description.
That didn't mean he didn't lament their loss.
Both of them had wives waiting back at the Foundry for them. Both had children under the age of ten. Children who would grow up without a father, he realized as rough hands checked him for other injuries.
Children like Christopher Kent, who never got a chance to meet either the man who sired him or the one who'd have raised him as his flesh-and-blood son because they got murdered before he was born.
The reminder sent a slimy swirl of guilt to join the pain tearing at his head.
"Either of 'em looks like they gonna turn?" he heard another man ask. "'Cause you know the rules."
"We made sure the poor bastards can't turn."
"Good."
A pair of scuffed boots appeared next to Slade's head then. He tried to focus on them through the haze clouding his vision but couldn't get his eye to obey his demand.
"Is that that Wilson fuck?"
That voice was enough to tell him who the owner of the boots was. His pulse kicked, and he tried to push himself up but didn't have the strength to do more than curl his fingers on the concrete.
"Yeah, boss."
"What the fuck happened?"
"Looks like someone rigged his vehicles to blow," the third voice said. "Found these goddamn playing cards scattered all over the place."
"Joker playing cards?" Someone scoffed. "Who the fuck has a deck of nothing but joker playing cards?"
"Oh, well, allow me to answer that, gentlemen."
That voice slid across Slade's already sensitive nerves and electrified them. It could have been any one of the other women who lived there at the Sanctuary that had spoken.
Yet Slade knew who it was.
Rose...
His heart started to beat a hard tattoo against his ribcage. Anticipation sang through his veins. He tried to lift his head, to look at his daughter, but pain exploded before he even got his skull an inch off the ground.
The last thing he heard was Rose saying, "My mother is very well acquainted with the man who uses those playing cards as his calling cards," before darkness claimed him.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this week has been kind to you!
