Disclaimer: Randomcat23 does not own The Walking Dead.


The Last Train Out of Georgia


Daryl glared at the battery operated clock. He swiveled to the hotel room door and back again, the red numbers ticking forward too quickly. Sadistically.

It was the last operating electronic in the room. The microwave was dead. The television, a blank screen. All the lights had gone out a week ago. All except the emergency ones that barely lit up the grey hallway when Daryl squinted through the peep hole.

He paced through the collection of beer bottles and food wrappers.

The clock read 3:30 pm.

He had forty-five minutes to get out of here, forty-five minutes before the last train in Georgia pulled out of the station.


It had collapsed quickly, like a house of cards. They were fools for not seeing how fragile society was. The dead had popped out of the ground hungry and the government promised safety in the city. Merle and Daryl had followed the instructions to come to Atlanta and were given a room and rations while the military fought for stability.

Then the lights went out and the gun shots started.

Then Merle disappeared into the night with their buddy Marty, both high as a kite, leaving Daryl to pace a trench in the hotel floor. He chain smoked while more and more dead folk lumbered past the windows. Merle never came back. There was more than cigarette butts on the floor, but Daryl ignored the tears and the empty bottles.

And the holes in the drywall.

He would have looked for Merle, but had no idea where he went. So just like he had his entire life, Daryl stayed put and waited for guidance.

Then the static broke and the radio whispered about the train. What couldn't have been more than ten seconds stretched into hours, the gaps between the words plummeting his gut only to swoop in for the save with the next broken detail.

Leaving...Renegade Statio...uesday at 4:05 pm.

The broadcast had finished strong. It went off like a bomb in his head, destroying his lethargic huffing on the floor. Everything around him that was fine only seconds ago was now disgusting and choking. There was nothing left for him in this hotel room.

Daryl had blinked at the calendar posted on the wall, pretending he didn't see the erratic slashes through the days spent alone.

It was Sunday.

The train left in two days.


The train would leave in a half hour.

Daryl snarled, "Fuck you, Merle."

After the broadcast he had gathered all his goods by the door, careful to not block the entry just in case Merle made it back. He stared at the pile through an alcoholic haze: his crossbow and bolts, a backpack, rope, handkerchief, knives. With a clarity brought on by adrenaline, he also thought to grab food, some water, but mostly a backup plan, alcohol. If he failed, he wanted to go out buzzed and hot and angry.

With one last glare at the clock and the absence of his brother, Daryl bit back an angry sob and slung his crossbow over his shoulder. It was a game of minutes. How many times growing up had Merle showed up at just the last second to save Daryl from getting sucker punched or stabbed? Then again, how many times had Merle failed to show up at all? Guilt and debt slowed down his motions as he held out hope.

Once there was nothing left to adjust, Daryl sighed heavily, "Asshole."

There were muffled cries in the hallway when he exited the room, lips smacking, eyes stinging. Behind more than one door came nothing but deathly silence. As he took off down the hallway the alcoholic buzz seeped further and further into his mind, forced away but always simmering just below his skin.

The contents in his stomach sloshed as he descended the stairs. Rusty smears coated the cinder brick wall. Daryl pushed through the crooked emergency exit door without looking back.

The world outside was much like he expected, gray and quiet. It was too quiet for how many people milled around the street. He shouldered his supply bag and swayed, matching the crowd in front of him with bent necks. A lady in blue overalls turned, reached for him, and let out a hungry groan.

Another clap of sobriety hit Daryl like a brick. Just as the person-thing-lunged, Daryl sent it flying backward with a kick. Five more of the sick fuckers approached. Their dead eyes latched onto him.

A wisp of memory struck him, another static lifesaver: ... hit the head.

Recovered, the first creature snapped at his forearm. Daryl stopped its attack with a bone-cracking stab to the head. Two bolts finished off the other closest people-corpses. Daryl grabbed the bolt shafts and sprinted.

By some stroke of luck their hotel was on the outskirts of Atlanta, just beyond what could be called the down town area. Out here there were less hipsters and sky scrapers, more doctors' offices and dreams of suburbia. The station was only about a mile away as the crow flied. He tore through roads that had become used car parking lots, ignoring the screams and the bloody mess on more than one corner.

He forced his eyes forward to the train yard, afraid to look back.

Four lines of tracks went into the station and then disappeared beyond the horizon and buildings. Only one track was occupied.

The engine gleamed silver and red. It was an impressive machine; it probably carried rich folk across the country at one time. Behind it, one matching passenger coach was followed by a hodgepodge of cars. Rusty cattle transports, open top coal cars, box cars, combining for eleven total.

Once he spotted the engine some of the adrenaline wore off and the muscle ache kicked in. Daryl noted a handful of sick fuckers-the walking dead-making their way in his direction and shifted closer to the train. He ducked behind a stack of crates. While catching his breath, he surveyed the area further.

A pair of fences ran parallel to the tracks, the first one easily climbable with all the crates stacked against it. More crates and barrels filled the space between the fences. Without a watch he had no idea how much time was left. He sucked in a breath and climbed.

The fence rattled under him. He easily dropped from the fence, to a barrel, to the ground. Daryl weaved through the piles of forgotten supplies. As he got closer to the second fence, muffled chatter reached his ears and he glimpsed movement near the train cars. The smell of smoke wafted from the engine.

Out of nowhere gunfire shot through the air and yells followed, a sick version of lightning and thunder. He threw himself behind a dead truck. Another gunshot clanged off metal. By the time he peeked over the truck's hood, two rounds of the staccato had come and gone.

Two gun-toting men swaggered along the side of the train. Someone's squeak in an open car was silenced with a bullet. Daryl flinched. Knees bent, he crawled closer to get a better look. Just as he reached the second fence another round of shots fired and then there was silence.

The two gunmen laid dead and someone was plucking up their weapons. Whoever he was climbed back into the train cockpit, spat out the window and sounded the horn.

The train jerked, the couplings clicking together down the train like a wave. And then it moved. A chug, a huff, and the train caught stride. The last moving transportation out of this city. Daryl gaped at it.

"Shit!"

Daryl threw his stuff over the second fence, scratching his arm in the process.

The train picked up steam.

"Hey!" Desperation pitched his voice high. It got lost in the chugging of the wheels and the tinkling bottles in his bag.

His plea was answered by a snarl. A walking corpse with a slack jaw fumbled for his sleeve. Daryl kicked the body away and clambered over the fence.

"Never gonna make that passenger car."

Car after car rolled out of reach as the train sped up. Daryl watched as it blew up bodies in its path. More of the dead pinched in from the other direction as he huffed and sprinted, picking out the last box car as his best bet. The roar of the train was deafening. His eyes watered from the dust cloud kicked up by the spinning wheels. Foot by foot the train flew past, a blur of metal and paint.

He aimed for the opening and jumped with a grunt.

His hands found purchase on the door and yanked his body along with the train. Something jabbed his knee and for a split second his entire lower half hung suspended over the wheels. Grunting, he swung the bruised knee over the edge and lifted himself onto the dark platform.

The fences whizzed by and disappeared. The urban train yard melted into the distance. He was just about to laugh out of relief, when he spun inward and the prettiest pair of blue eyes met his, followed by the world's runner up. Daryl instinctively snarled even as the two people backed further into shadow.

"Who the fuck are you?" A voice growled from the other side.

Turning toward the threatening tone, Daryl was greeted by the long barrel of a rifle. He cursed, instantly regretting his choice of car.


Author's Note: Hi! Quarantine has given me a lot of time to write and thankfully the muse has taken advantage of the free time. Thanks for reading! Any feedback is greatly appreciated.