what we gotta do, a walking dead fanfic

what we gotta do

Daryl doesn't know how he got himself into this situation. How he got Beth into this situation.

Well, he does. But he's not quite ready to admit it's his fault, even though he knows full well it is.

It's all his fault. If they'd just stuck to the trees, he thinks. If they hadn't stopped at the crossroads. If they hadn't expended all their energy trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the funeral home.

If, if, if…

He's still not sure how it devolved into this, though.

He and Beth are on their knees inside a desolate, dusty cabin. The heat of a crackling flame in the fireplace at their backs. The cold steel of guns pressed to their foreheads. The sharp bite of the ropes bounding their hands tightly together behind them.

And they're trapped. Outnumbered, six to two. Outgunned by double that.

There is no conceivable way to escape this. Not without doing what these men are demanding of them.

He reckons his very first mistake was stepping away from that candlelit table and Beth's wide, knowing blue eyes. His second mistake was opening the damn door to all those Walkers. His third mistake was telling her to leave without him.

After that, everything is a blur of fuck-ups and bad decisions. He can't even count all the mistakes he made.

The road. The car. The men dressed in police uniforms. One was already dead by the time Daryl reached her—a knife through the throat. Beth's knife. It left her defenseless, completely helpless to the will of the remaining man who was trying to shove her into the trunk. But once Daryl crept up from behind and shot a bolt through the assailant's head and got Beth free, he was stupid enough to think they'd escaped. He was stupid enough to think that running far away from that ominous car and those strange men dressed in uniforms and the herd of Walkers drawn by the noise would keep them safe.

He was stupid enough to think anywhere was safe.

Not in this world. Not with these people. The dead were a threat that he could handle. That Beth could handle.

The living, though?

That was a threat neither of them could prepare for. Unpredictable. Unwavering. Ruthless in their thirst for blood. Their hunger for something that no longer existed.

He can barely remember running. He remembers Beth being unsteady. He remembers half-carrying her for miles. He remembers thinking that they should be disappearing into the cover of the trees, but following the road despite his better instincts because, God forbid, what if there were more of them waiting in the woods. He remembers how warm she was against him, how trusting she was. How she leaned against him for support and pleaded for him to stop wasting so much energy on her. But he also remembers refusing to stop. He remembers insisting that they keep going, keep walking, keep running whenever they can. Because that herd of Walkers was still trailing after them, and though he probably could've dispersed them, he was more afraid of the living people who could've been following right behind.

He remembers wanting nothing more than to put miles and miles of distance between them and that goddamn car. He remembers the desperate urge to get Beth away from all that, even though they'd left all their food and supplies behind, save for her little backpack. He remembers the terror that welled up inside him at the thought of taking her into the darkness of the woods, with no idea of where or when or how the next threat might rear its ugly head.

He remembers stopping at the crossroads as the first hints of sunrise began to break through the darkness. He remembers being so sweaty and breathless and exhausted that he wasn't sure he could take so much as another step forward. And how Beth was just as exhausted, just as breathless, just as hopeless. How they'd both collapsed on the gravel in a seemingly quiet spot, much like they had after running from the horrors of the fallen prison.

He remembers seeing the pained and terrified expression on her face, and how he thought it was because of her sore ankle and the dehydration. Then his eyes drifted over to see what she saw.

A group of men emerging from the woods. Surrounding them on all sides. Armed with weapons and nefarious grins.

He heard a deep voice booming out, "Claimed!"

And he knew. He knew what it meant. Even if he didn't really know what it meant.

Even in this life—one that had slowly become so far separated from his past—he recognized them. He knew what they were. Who they were. What they wanted. He'd known a dozen other shitbags just like them before The Turn. Hell, he'd been raised by one just like them. And he knew for a fact that nothing, not even the dead coming back to life and feasting on the living, would change who they were and what they wanted.

Beth seemed to know this, too. At the very least, she knew they weren't good people.

With fear in her eyes, she looked over at him and whispered, "What do we do?"

And he didn't have time to tell her that he sensed these men had bigger plans. Or that they were beyond dangerous. He didn't have time to admit that he had no plan for this, didn't even have the first clue as to how he could keep her safe.

All he could tell her through his thirst-cracked throat was, "Do what we gotta do. Whatever it might be."

First thing the men did was knock him out with a hard blow to the back of his head. They moved fast and without restraint. Didn't even give him a chance to push himself up to his feet, let alone to pull his crossbow round in front of him. Despite his obvious exhaustion, they still knew he was a threat.

He reckons they also knew that he'd never bend to their will so long as he was conscious at Beth's side. So it made sense when he woke up in a dingy little cabin, lying on his side in the corner with a sore head and his hands tied behind his back. His crossbow nowhere to be seen, same as her knife.

And, as much as he hated to admit it, it also made sense when he saw Beth tied up just the same. Several feet away. Trembling from head to toe. On her knees in front of a man with greasy hair, bloodstained clothes, and a bow and quiver of arrows on his back. Silent tears pouring down her cheeks as the fucker ran his grubby fingers through her hair and held a pistol to her head.

Daryl knew it was a bad idea to pull himself to his feet. To stagger forward and growl a threat of death at the man. But he'd been running on bad ideas all night, and now he was out of self-control.

But just as he was about to charge forward and slam himself into the greasy-haired man, a strong hand gripped him by the shoulder and forced him back down to his knees. He was too weak to do anything other than comply. Especially once he looked around and saw the other four men, all armed and able-bodied and ready to kill him at a moment's notice. Six of them in total. Too many for him to take on his own.

With a soft whimper and his gaze locked on Beth's terrified blue eyes, he dropped to the floor.

The next thing he knew, he was crouched beside her. On his knees. Sweaty and teary-eyed and trembling with fear. Just as helpless. Just as defenseless.

Just as victim to their mercy as her.

And the worst part was that he knew there was no mercy to be found. Not with these men.

"Now you listen here."

The silver-haired leader is speaking, his tone full of smug confidence that Daryl is certain hasn't been rightfully earned.

"Y'all are gonna calm down an' do what we say. Quit fightin' the inevitable. 'Less ya want these pretty li'l brains sprayed all over the wall."

He's smiling. A sick, wicked grin that makes Daryl's stomach turn. Makes his heart plummet down to his feet. He's so close to Beth that their arms are touching, and he can feel her trembling beside him. He can hear her shallow breaths and the stifled sobs caught in her throat.

"I'm Joe," the leader introduces himself, holding out his hands like there's something to be proud of when he speaks his own name. And he's got Daryl's crossbow on his back. "And these are my guys. An' we been out here a while, ya know. Been deprived of good company—a good-lookin' woman's hard to come by these days."

He winks at Daryl as though they're on the same team. It makes the fury boil red-hot in Daryl's belly, but he bites down hard on his lower lip, resisting the urge to spit back an insult.

"Know what's even harder to come by?" Joe asks rhetorically, raising his eyebrows. There's a repulsive smile on his face that sets every nerve in Daryl's body on edge. "A good-lookin' couple. Some real entertainment… if ya catch my drift."

To his surprise, Beth speaks, her voice shaky and defiant. "We're not a couple. We were just passin' through—there's a group, they have a car. They tried to kidnap me. We were runnin' from 'em. From the herd of Walkers they attracted. We can't—"

"Shut it, blondie." The greasy-haired man is raising his pistol again, pointing it straight at Beth's head, pressing the barrel to the wrinkled skin between her eyes, and whatever else she was about to say falls away on parted lips. She stares up at him in fear, though her eyes catch Daryl's for just a brief second.

He can interpret the look in her eyes. That pleading look. The unspoken "what now?" on her face. The wordless "what am I supposed to do?!"

He has no solution. No response to give her. He's never felt more useless than he does now. Never felt more helpless.

Joe chuckles, low and cold. He shakes his head and pulls a pistol from the waistband of his jeans. Cocks the hammer back and presses the tip of the barrel straight to Daryl's forehead.

"You think yer girlfriend can lie her way outta this?" He asks, smirking like it's all a joke to him. "Think she can sweet talk y'all out of another sticky situation just 'cause she's young an' pretty?"

Daryl swallows hard. His mouth is bone-dry and he can't stop himself trembling. Nonetheless, he meets Joe's gaze with narrowed eyes, staring up at him past the barrel of the gun.

"She's not lying," he growls. "We's just try'na survive. Holed up in some funeral home fer a couple days. Got ambushed by a couple guys dressed like cops. Barely made it out. Ain't got nothin' y'all would want. Ain't even got enough fer ourselves. I'll tell ya where the car is. The supplies. I'll take ya to 'em myself if ya let us go."

At that, Joe tilts his head back and lets out a laugh. It echoes around the empty cabin, bouncing off bare walls and sending a cold shock through Daryl's bones. A couple of the other men join in the laughter. Just as cold. Just as mirthless.

Joe clucks his tongue and shakes his head, glancing around to his cohorts with amusement. "Y'all believe this? Y'all wanna see what kinda stupid trap he thinks he can lead us into?" He chuckles and looks back to Daryl, eyes narrowing. Leaning in just the slightest bit, pressing the cold barrel of the gun to his forehead just a little harder. "'Cause I sure as fuck don't."

Daryl swallows hard and forces himself to meet Joe's beady eyes. Forces every last bit of himself to be calm. To be reasonable. To talk to this man like he might've talked to Merle's tweaker buddies, or the bloodthirsty biker gangs they'd encountered time and time again, or even his old man.

"Listen, man," he rasps in defeat. "You want blood. I get it."

Joe's eyebrows rise up damn near to his hairline. He appears pleasantly surprised for a brief moment. Doesn't even offer a glance in Beth's direction—and for that, Daryl is grateful.

So he keeps talking.

"Take it from me. Let her go an' take it all from me."

Beth makes a choking sound and whispers out, "Daryl, no, I'm not gonna leave y—"

But the greasy-haired man holding a gun to her head quickly slaps her across the face with the barrel. She reels and staggers on her knees, though she doesn't waver or fall back. No more than a whimper of surprise escapes her lips. A bloom of red spreads across one cheek, blood leaking from a fresh cut and dribbling down to stain her cardigan.

Daryl fights the urge to lash out. He tightens his jaw and glares at the man. His eyes flicker across the other men, all heavily armed and ready to shoot, then back to Joe. His hands may be bound behind his back, but they're clenched into tight fists, and he's still trying to wriggle his fingers around enough to untie himself. Even though it's useless. He knows there's no way out of the elaborate knot bound around his wrists.

Joe cackles. A low, nefarious sound that reminds Daryl of his long-dead father.

A sound of pleasure amidst others' suffering.

It makes his blood run cold. Assures him that there really is no way out of this without shedding some blood or losing a life. Or, at the very least, losing what is left of his pride and dignity.

And that's fine, he thinks. He'll sacrifice all of that happily.

But what he won't sacrifice is Beth. Not her. Not her blood. Not her pride or her dignity. Not her life.

Not her.

So you do think there are still good people. Her words ring in his head like a warning bell. Like an alarm. Like a reminder of how fucking stupid he is. How badly he's fucked up. How horribly he's led her astray.

Because there is no discernible way out of this. Hell, he can't even figure a way out of this fucking cabin. The only door is at the front, guarded by two men. There are only two windows on either side, and one of them is boarded up—the other is draped with long, black, moth-eaten curtains, and one of the men is standing beside it. No more than a thin strip of early morning sunlight is able to slip through from outside, casting them all in shadows that flicker over dusty, splintered wood with every crackle of the fire at the back of the room. And if the brief glimpse outside is anything to go off of, this cabin is so deeply surrounded by woods and concealed by trees that there's no one around for miles. No one but the dead, and more of these men.

Stripped of his weapons, bound at the wrists, and kneeling before a bloodthirsty band of goons, Daryl can't possibly fathom a solution that ends in both him and Beth escaping with their lives.

"Now, see, that's where yer wrong," Joe drawls, pushing the barrel of his gun a little harder against Daryl's forehead. "I don't want blood. Not tonight. In fact, my boy over there already laid claim t'yer jailbait girlfriend." He gestures briefly with his other hand at one of the men standing guard near the door behind him and chuckles. "So, by all rights, she's his to do with as he pleases."

Daryl goes stiff and rigid. He can see Beth tensing from the corner of his eye. Her skin has turned pale, perspiring with cold sweat, clammy at the realization of what these men really want. He doesn't have to look to know she's clenching her thighs together and bracing herself for the very worst. He can sense it. He can feel her every movement, and hear her every shaky breath beside him.

She's strong. So fucking strong. And she's forcing herself to be stronger than she should ever have to be.

It makes Daryl angry. Angry enough to rip the gun out of Joe's hand and rip him apart right in front of his goons.

But he can't. He can't do anything he wishes he could.

All he can do is blink. Stiffen his spine. Glare up at Joe with unbreakable determination.

How the fuck is he gonna get them out of this? He's running through a thousand different possibilities in his head. But all of them end in bloodshed. And death. All of the possibilities end with him losing her. Or leaving her to defend herself without him. And he simply can't do that. Can't risk it.

I'm not gonna leave you!

Then Joe is talking again. His tone is still smug, but it's approaching reason. And Daryl is quickly realizing that these men don't plan on killing Beth. Or him.

At least… not yet.

"But, see, I don't think that's quite right." Joe is licking his lips, eyes shooting over to rake up and down Beth's form with a hunger that Daryl recognizes all too well—and he knows she recognizes it, too. That's why she's trembling so hard. "I think we should share this one. All of us. Think we should uh, well… how d'they say? Make the best out of a bad situation." He cackles maliciously, hand gripping the pistol pressed to Daryl's head a little harder.

One of the other men standing near the door barks out a cold laugh and says, "I wanna see that bitch gettin' fucked. I'll bet she's a virgin—pro'lly gonna squeal like a li'l pig soon as she's got a hard cock inside her."

Daryl can't react. Won't allow himself to. His whole body tightens and he can see Beth grimacing beside him in his periphery. Preparing herself for the worst.

Joe laughs along with the other man, and then they're all laughing. "I reckon yer right, Dan. She sure is the picture-perfect image of innocence, ain't she? Got virgin written all over her."

The man with the gun pressed to Beth's forehead grins and shifts his weight, hand tightening around the pistol. Finger hovering precariously over the trigger. He clears his throat and chances a glance at Daryl, eyes narrowed. "Wha'ddya say, asshole? You popped that cherry yet? Or you been keepin' her pure for us?"

Daryl has no words. No reaction. He's too disgusted and taken aback to respond. Can't even bear to think of what kind of repulsive answer would satisfy them.

All he can think of is her innocence. The way she looked back at him over a candlelit table. The way her brows knit together and her face fell slack and she whispered out a simple "oh" of realization.

She is the last beam of light in this dark world. She is his last beam of light. He can't bear to watch that light be dimmed. Or snuffed out. Can't even think about it.

He wants to defend her, wants to dissuade them all from the sick ideas forming in their heads. But he knows his protests will go unheard. Or worse, they'll earn him a punishment. And he can't risk being beaten too bloody. Can't risk being rendered unable to protect her.

Then Beth is speaking, her voice surprisingly steady and calm. "I'm not a virgin. Not pure. I fucked lots of guys before this. I'm nothin' special. Just another slut."

Daryl's eyes are going wide and his jaw is dropping before he can fully register what she's saying or doing. The other men have a similar reaction, their sick pleasure faltering for just a second as they all look at her.

He knows it's a ruse. He knows she's trying to play it cool. Trying to diffuse their ill intentions. But all the same, it sounds wrong pouring from her lips. He can see her trembling, still. He can see the way she's swallowing hard and forcing herself to lie. He can only pray that the other men can't tell she's lying.

But he's got a bad feeling they can.

Joe chortles. "'S that so, princess? 'Cause ya sure don't look like no slut to me."

Beth doesn't even hesitate as she responds, "Looks can be deceiving. But that don't mean I won't give you what you want."

Daryl is almost certain he's the only one who can decipher the look in her eyes. Her face is stone cold, her glare icy. Her voice is steady and certain, but he can spot the wariness in her expression. The fear. The desperation.

He can hear it in her tone.

"I'll do whatever you want," she promises, gazing up at Joe and the other man. "I'll suck your dicks, let you fuck me—come inside me. Whatever you want. Just let Daryl go. You don't want him. He's not part of this. I can give you what you want. I'll give you whatever you want… if you just let him leave."

Daryl can barely stifle the choking sound in his throat. He can't help but look over at Beth, reeling with shock. But she's still stoic. Staring up at the men with determination and the slightest hint of guile. She won't even chance a glance over at him for fear of breaking whatever character she's suddenly playing.

Does she really think he'd ever let that happen? Does she think he'd leave her here to suffer at the hands of these sick bastards?

He chokes out on a half-breath, "Beth, don't—"

But it's quickly cut off by Joe's cold laughter. And then the other men are joining in, guffawing and grinning and eyeballing Beth with a fresh, ravenous hunger in their eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart," Joe croons, his mouth set in a crooked smile. "You think that's all we want?"

The man with the gun pressed to Beth's head laughs along with Joe and shakes his head, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "We was gonna get that no matter what. Y'think we needed yer permission? Stupid bitch."

Daryl bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, the taste of copper on his tongue. Beth seems unfazed, but he can feel her trembling harder than ever.

Joe clucks his tongue and shakes his head, admonishing the other man, "Now, Len, that's no way ta speak to a lady." He cracks a malevolent smile and winks at Beth as he adds, "Even if she is a self-proclaimed slut." He laughs coldly, and the other man—Len—laughs with him.

Then Joe is lowering his gun from Daryl's head, crouching down to eye-level with him and studying his face for a second. Daryl presses his lips into a thin scowl, glaring back murderously. But it only proves to make Joe smile a little wider.

He lowers his voice and says, "It's Daryl, right?"

Daryl doesn't respond, but that seems to be all the answer Joe needs. He waves his gun towards Beth and continues, "And this is Beth?"

Beth's eyes are flicking cautiously towards Daryl, but she's not answering, either. Her chest is rising and falling with shallow breaths, inhaling and exhaling through dry, chapped lips.

Joe chuckles lowly, studying them both with narrowed eyes and a threatening sort of curiosity. Like he's imagining all the different ways he can torture them.

Daryl is almost wishing he'd just kill them both and get it over with already. His heart is pounding inside his chest erratically, and his limbs are full of unspent energy; the dire need to reach out and hit someone, to break free, to let all this fury and fear out in the only way he knows how. The ropes are digging into his wrists tighter and tighter as he discreetly pushes against them.

"Listen, Daryl," Joe drawls. "Man to man… you know what it's like out here, right? How hard it is to get by. How truly challenging it is to have all your needs met when you're not even sure where yer next meal's gonna come from." His lips are quirked up in a sick smirk of satisfaction. "A man's got certain needs—needs that the ladyfolks don't quite understand. And I'll be the first to admit that the world before had us all a li'l spoiled. Didn't it? Nudie mags an' internet porn. Strip clubs an' hookers an' sex hotlines an' what-have-you. But those are all things of the past. Nowadays… a man's gotta take pleasure wherever he can find it. And as far as I'm concerned, pleasure is just as much a necessity as food. Water. Shelter. Why, it's a goddamn right, if ya ask me."

Daryl's mouth has gone dry and though he's not trembling anymore, his fists are clenched so tight that his fingernails are digging into his palms, damn near drawing blood. He wants to thrust forward and headbutt Joe. Wants to bloody his nose and blacken his eyes and send him staggering backward.

But he can't risk it. He can't risk Beth's safety.

Joe raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for Daryl to respond. And when he doesn't, Joe says, "I know you get it. If it weren't fer yer pretty companion here, I'd reckon you's just like us. Hell, I might'a even given ya the chance to join us. 'Cause see, Daryl, we've got rules. And when men like us follow rules and cooperate a little bit, well, the world becomes ours." He grins, chuckling low. Then his tone shifts. "But… you're not like us. I can tell. In fact, I can tell a lotta things just by lookin' at you two." He glances over at Beth, lips twisted in a sick and knowing smile. "She's pure, alright. Untouched. 'F I didn't know any better, I might'a reckoned she was yer daughter, or yer baby sister. Niece, maybe. But she's not. She's a lot more precious to you than that… ain't she?"

Daryl blinks.

What changed your mind?

It's replaying over and over in his head.

Oh.

He's not sure what will happen if he tries to lie. Or if he refuses to answer entirely. He's not even sure he can lie. It's probably written all over his face.

So he gives a clipped nod. A barely audible grunt. Nothing more. Jaw tight and teeth clenched. He doesn't allow himself to look away from the older man's dull grey eyes.

Beth lets out a little whimper, stifling a sob. A tear escapes her eye and rolls down, mixing with the blood of her split cheek.

Oh. On a loop inside his head.

Joe grins. "That's what I thought." He stands back up and looks around at his men, satisfied, and declares, "Looks like we hit the jackpot tonight, boys. Didn't I promise y'all we'd find somethin' to scratch our itch sooner or later?"

Len chortles. "Sure did. What'cha wanna do with 'em first?"

"Oh," Joe responds smugly. "I've got all kinds of ideas. First thing's first, though—" he waves his gun at Daryl and Beth. "—cut 'em free."

Daryl knows this can't be good. There's an extremely brief, fleeting second of hope that courses through his veins. But it's quickly dashed by logic; they're not letting him and Beth go. Not at all.

He's afraid this is just the beginning of whatever they're planning.

One of the other men steps up from where he's been standing behind Beth and Daryl and pulls his knife out, squatting down to slice the ropes from around their wrists with two quick motions. Beth is immediately holding her hands before her, rubbing at her rope-burned wrists while keeping her eyes locked on Len and the gun pressed to her forehead. Daryl's arms fall limp to his sides, hands still clenched into fists. He's fighting the urge to rear back and uppercut Joe with all his remaining strength.

"Now," Joe instructs calmly, taking a couple steps back but keeping his gun out in front of him, waving it towards Beth and Daryl again. "Strip down."

He can hear Beth's breath hitch in her chest before she whispers out, "W-what?"

Len presses the gun a little harder to her head and snaps, "You deaf or sum'n, girly? He said, strip down. All of it."

Dan cackles from near the door, rubbing his hands together hungrily. "Let's see those itty bitty titties."

One of the other men remarks from the corner, his voice full of the same hunger, "I'll bet that pussy's all pink an' tight. Does the carpet match the drapes, sweet thang?"

"Gonna find out soon enough," another man growls. He sounds like an animal about to have his first meal after a week of starving.

They all do. Animals. That's what they are. And that's what makes them so dangerous. Daryl can't predict what their next move might be like he could with his prey in the woods; can't prepare himself for what they're capable of, because they're so desperate. So humanly unpredictable. So depraved.

The men all laugh. All except Joe, who is standing proudly and eyeballing Beth and Daryl with a malicious smirk plastered to his face.

No, he decides. They're not animals. They're worse.

When a few seconds pass and neither Beth or Daryl have made any movements, Len grows impatient. Tightens his hold around the gun and glares down at Beth. "Now," he growls. "Take yer fuckin' clothes off."

Beth is no longer trembling—she's downright shaking all over. With the gun pressed to her forehead, she reaches up with unsteady hands and begins to unbutton her cardigan, teary eyes locked on Len like she's afraid of what he'll do if she looks away.

Daryl's rage is red-hot and speckling his vision with black spots. He blinks them away and, as soon as she reaches the last button and pops it open, he sees the hungry smile forming on Len's face.

Without thinking, he growls out, "Don't you fucking touch her."

Len's eyes flick over to meet his, but instead of reacting angrily, his smile widens, baring yellowed teeth. Beth pauses, her cardigan hanging open, frozen mid-act.

Joe interjects, "Relax, Daryl boy. We're not the ones who're gonna be touchin' her. Best you reel in that temper before I change my mind, though."

Daryl bites back his reflexive response and grits his teeth. Then his eyes catch Beth's, and he realizes she's looking at him. Searching his face. She barely whispers out, "Daryl…"

There's an unspoken question in her eyes, stuck behind her lips: "what do I do?"

Sick to his stomach and fighting the urge to do the opposite and risk her life, he gives her a nod of reassurance. Pained and uncertain, but reassuring all the same. He looks at her with pleading in his eyes.

He whispers, just loud enough for her to hear, "'S okay, Beth." His voice is choked and broken, but he forces himself to tell her, "Just do what they say."

She presses her lips together tightly and gives a clipped nod. He can see how she's steeling herself; putting up a thick wall, preparing herself to do whatever she has to do to survive. Preparing herself to leave her body so they can't really hurt her.

And now he's silently praying to a god he doesn't believe in. Begging whatever higher power there is to have mercy on her.

Don't make her do this. Don't make her suffer. For the love of everything good left in the world, don't dim that fucking light.

He tears his eyes away as she slips the cardigan off and lets it fall to the dusty floor.

There are still good people.

His stomach is twisting painfully. Sickeningly.

What changed your mind?

She's reaching down to grab the hem of her yellow polo. He turns his head away shamefully as she pulls it up and over her head.

Oh.

Joe's harsh voice yanks him back to reality. "You, too. Take it off, son."

Daryl bites down on his bottom lip and stifles a shudder that runs through him, pushing away the sudden memory of Beth's daddy calling him son.

What would Hershel say now? Daryl was supposed to protect Beth. And here he is… letting the old man down.

For the briefest moment, he's grateful that Hershel is dead.

Everyone but Joe is fixated on Beth's trembling fingers and her exposed skin as she slowly peels off layer after layer. First her polo, then her belt, then her camisole. Daryl shrugs his vest off and makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt, peeling the flannel off to let it fall atop his vest on the floor. He undoes his belt, unbuttons his jeans. Joe is watching him the whole time, making sure he's playing along. Smiling as he sees the final traces of resistance drain from Daryl's body.

Daryl glances around the room. Sees Dan by the door, already palming his dick through his pants as he watches Beth undress with wide, hungry eyes and a repulsive grin. Spots the outline of an erection forming between Len's legs with his hand still pressing the gun to her head.

He's no longer trembling with fear or dread. It has turned to white-hot fury, pumping so violently through his veins that he's not sure how he can keep his hands steady enough to untuck his wifebeater and pull it up over his head. The chill of the air hits his bare skin with a slight shock, but he can focus on nothing else besides the six pairs of hungry eyes around him. All set on Beth.

From the corner of his eye, he can see her porcelain skin glowing from the light of the fire behind them, covered in goosebumps from both the cold and the fear. He can see her clumsy, trembling fingers working at the button on her jeans, slipping between denim and bare flesh to slowly pull them down. Then she's reaching back to the clasp of her bra, unfastening it.

Right before it slips off and falls to the floor, Daryl looks away. Focuses on yanking his own jeans down. The least he can do is allow himself to be as exposed as she is. The least he can give her is his solidarity.

It's all he can give her right now.

Because he can't silence the whoops and hollers of the other men. The cold laughter and obscene lip-smacking and even more obscene comments. He can't make her look away from the sight of five different men palming their own cocks through their pants at the sight of her bare breasts and threadbare panties.

Joe cackles, barely offering Beth an appreciative glance. "Now that's more like it." He looks back to Daryl, waving his gun at him impatiently. "G'on then. Kick yer drawers off. Let's get this show on the road. Can't ya see my guys are anxious?"

Daryl clears his throat and averts his gaze, stopping himself from glaring daggers at the older man. He manages to slip his jeans completely off, along with his boots, and pushes them to the side with his other clothes. But he pauses with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his boxers. The fabric is just as raggedy and stained as Beth's panties, but it's all he's got left to preserve what remains of his dignity.

He can't help it. He turns his head and meets Beth's wary gaze. She appears just as uncertain as him. Just as petrified with fear. Searching his face for more reassurance.

He doesn't allow his eyes to wander down to her bare breasts, or the expanse of her flat tummy, or her trembling fingers paused on the waistband of her panties. He keeps his eyes on hers, pursing his lips and blinking long and slow. He barely tilts his head, but he can see the way her body relaxes—just for a brief second—at the gesture. She gives a slight nod back.

"Just do what they say."

He's hoping she can hear the unspoken "I'm here, it'll be okay" that he's trying so desperately to convey with his eyes. Even though it's a lie. Because he knows it won't be okay. He's here, but that doesn't mean it's gonna be okay. All it means is that she's not alone; that there's at least one person in this room who respects her, cherishes her, and doesn't want to see her dignity fall away with her clothes. Won't see it fall away that easily.

Even as she slips her panties off and stifles a sob, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, he can't help thinking how pure she is. How innocent she's remained, even despite the cruel, harsh world around her. How it never turned her soft edges jagged. How she's so much stronger than he could ever fathom being.

And she doesn't even fucking know it.

Doesn't she know it?

He pushes past his dread and yanks his underwear down like he's ripping off a bandage. Squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to take steady breaths. In and out.

He can hear Beth swallowing back her sobs. In and out.

Someone comments on how blonde the thatch of hair between her legs is. In and out.

He can feel her shriveling up beside him, retreating within herself. In and out.

Yet her skin is still so warm when it brushes across his.

In and out.

One of the men scoffs and remarks, "Christ, he ain't even fuckin' hard! Limp as a goddamn inchworm."

Joe tsks with disappointment. "Wha'ssamatter, Daryl? Got a case of stage fright?"

Len chortles, goading, "Can't even get yer dick hard fer this fine li'l piece'a ass? You queer or somethin'? 'S that why y'ain't touched her yet?"

A collective laugh rings around the inside of the cabin. Daryl winces, hands flexing at his sides.

"Maybe he's got whiskey dick," Dan quips.

Another collective laugh.

"Maybe he's just impotent. Limp-dick bastard. That'd explain it. No Viagra around these days. He pro'lly couldn't get hard to save his life."

Joe chuckles darkly and says, "Guess we're gonna find out, aren't we?"

Daryl still can't figure out what they're planning. What they want from him. He doesn't want to figure it out, quite frankly. He just wants it to be over with.

He and Beth are left in nothing but the thick woolen socks on their feet. She moves to cover her breasts with her arm and Len snaps at her, "Don't. Ain't much t'look at, but it's the first titties we've seen in weeks. Keep yer arms down, girl."

Daryl's head is hanging low, eyes still squeezed shut, when he feels the cold steel of Joe's pistol under his chin. The older man forces him to raise his head and look at him.

"Good man," he says, smirking. "'Least we know you can follow directions. As fer that limp dick of yours, though—"

"Christ," one of the men near the fireplace comments, cutting Joe off. "Y'all see this fucker's back? Scarred to hell. No wonder he ain't touched this girl. I'll bet she wouldn't let him near her once she saw 'im with his shirt off."

And then all the men are laughing cruelly. All except Joe. Len opens his mouth to say something, but to everyone's surprise, Beth speaks loud enough to halt the laughter.

"What d'you want from us?" She demands. From the corner of his eye, Daryl can see her staring up at Len defiantly, her gaze flicking from him to Joe and back again. She softens her tone to ask, "What d'you want me to do?"

Daryl breathes a soft sigh of relief when Joe pulls his gun away momentarily, but it's short-lived. He realizes what she's asking—how she's basically volunteering herself. The tone of her voice is foreign, but he can decipher the meaning behind it.

She's ready. She's ready to sacrifice whatever she has to in order to keep herself alive.

In order to keep him alive.

"Well, sweetheart," Joe croons. "I just want you to enjoy yourself. Really enjoy yourself. 'Cause we'll know if yer fakin' it…"

"And then we'll make sure you don't enjoy it," Len finishes for him, eyes narrowed. The hand that's not clasped around the gun is inching closer to his crotch, as though he's resisting the urge to touch himself like all his cohorts have been at the sight of Beth's naked body.

Daryl is still confused. Still at a loss for what to do or say. What to expect. What to prepare himself for.

Then Joe chuckles. "Firs' thing's first—Daryl, get that puny li'l dick hard. Better hope yer a grower an' not a show-er, else one'a us bigger guys might have ta step in."

"Wouldn't want her first time to be a disappointment," Dan cracks.

"I told you," Beth insists, her voice much stronger than Daryl feels. "I'm not a virgin."

Joe chuckles. "Then prove it."

Her strength wavers briefly. Daryl can hear it in the way her voice cracks. "H-how?"

"Get him hard," Len answers simply, his finger curling around the trigger of the gun. "Now."

She gulps and exhales a shaky breath. And then Joe is grabbing Daryl by the shoulder and forcing him to turn to the side. Len does the same with Beth, until she and Daryl are facing each other, still on their knees. Joe and Len pull their guns away and take a step back, keeping the weapons steadily aimed at their heads.

At first, Daryl squeezes his eyes shut and refuses to open them. His whole body is taut with rage and terror. Then he hears the metallic rattling of Joe's pistol.

"Look at her," Joe orders. "Look at all of her."

"You, too, princess," Len taunts. "'S just a naked man. Just another cock. Ain't yer first, right? Get a real good look at him. Maybe it'll get ya wet." He barks out a mirthless laugh.

One of the men near the fireplace takes an audible deep sniff of the air and says, "Swear I can smell that pussy all the way over here. Shit—think she might already be wet. Maybe this bitch likes bein' forced."

A few of the men chuckle at that. Joe remarks, "It really is our lucky day, boys."

Daryl is forcing himself to open his eyes, but when he does, he doesn't allow his gaze to focus on anything in particular. Beth is just a half-blurred shape before him, all white and pink and yellow. It takes him a second to realize there are tears in his eyes, helping to blur a sight that he has no right to see.

Len growls out impatiently, "Told you t'look at her, asshole. Now, look!"

Daryl shakes his head defiantly, squeezing his eyes shut to both fight back the tears and resist their orders. Joe begins to speak, but whatever he's saying is quickly drowned out in Daryl's ears. Because all he can hear is Beth's soft voice.

"Daryl… please," she whispers out shakily. "It's okay. Just do what they say."

He slowly opens his eyes and looks at her face first. The pleading in her gaze, oceanic blue eyes set on him and just as teary as his own. She's frowning, yet somehow, she still looks hopeful.

Joe takes a step forward and presses the barrel of his gun to Daryl's temple. "Lower yer gaze, son. See those tiny li'l titties? Pink nipples? That tight body she's been keepin' all to herself?"

Daryl tightens his jaw and almost refuses to look, but then Beth gives him the slightest nod. It's okay, she's saying. It's okay. I forgive you.

He's not sure he can forgive himself, though.

Because when he finally does as Joe is demanding and drags his eyes down her bare form, something stirs within him. He wants to be sick with himself.

Yet all he can think is how goddamn gorgeous she is. How pure and perfect she looks. Yes, her breasts are small, but so is the rest of her. Tiny pink nipples, hardened by the cold air. Flat tummy, delicate hips, jutting pelvic bones. She's skinny from malnourishment with no thanks to their months on the road, but she's also toned with hardened muscle thanks to fighting and surviving. And when he finally allows his gaze to drift farther down, he sees the blonde thatch of coarse curls between her thighs.

In any other instance, he might've actually gotten hard. Might've had to fight back an insistent erection. But his eyes are still teary, he's still trembling with the thought of what he's doing—what these men are forcing him to do—and his stomach is turning at how disgusted he is with himself. How he knows he has no right to see her like this. He hasn't earned it.

He's realizing that this is not how he wanted it to be.

"That's right," Joe says, seemingly pleased. "Take it all in. Both of you. That doin' it for ya? Y'all gettin' excited as we are yet?"

Daryl drags his eyes back up to Beth's and realizes she's still gazing at him. All of him. Her eyes seem to barely flicker over the flaccid length between his legs, the wild patch of dark curls, as though she's doing everything she can to afford him some shred of dignity. But she's just doing what she's been told. Just doing whatever she has to.

He is beyond relieved when he realizes she doesn't look disgusted. Though the relief is difficult to be grateful for when he reminds himself she's too sad and scared to be disgusted.

I'm sorry, he tries to tell her with his eyes. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so fucking sorry.

Then she turns her head and looks up at Joe and Len, straightening her back. Her hands are still hanging at her sides, fingers digging into the flesh of her upper thighs in a clear effort to resist the urge to cover herself.

"Now what?" She asks, almost dutifully.

"Well," Len jerks his chin in Daryl's direction, though his eyes are locked on her breasts. "He ain't hard yet, is he? And we told you ta get him hard."

"You ever find yerself unable to perform, Daryl?" Joe taunts, raising a collective laugh from the other men.

Daryl refuses to look at any of them. He keeps his gaze on Beth. Willing himself to draw strength from her.

Finally, he musters up enough courage to ask aloud, "Why?"

The room goes silent. Beth is looking at him again, eyes wide and fearful. She seems about to speak—about to cover for his slip of the tongue.

But then Joe just chuckles and responds, "You really ain't figured it out yet?"

Len huffs out an amused breath. "I think he's stupid or somethin'."

Dan remarks from a few feet away, "He's gotta be some kinda stupid t'be lettin' this piece of ass go to waste."

Joe smirks and waits for Daryl to turn his head and meet his eyes. Then he says, very plainly, "It's been about a year an' a half since any of us saw a good porno. And that changes today."

Len barks out a laugh. "Our own personal porno. And we're the directors!"

Daryl's blood runs cold and he's shaking his head before he can stop himself. Looking back to Beth with dread on his face and fresh tears springing up in his eyes. "No," he rasps out. "No, no, no."

Beth's lips are pursed tight and her face has gone pale, but she's not looking away from him. He can see how she's silently begging him to stop talking. Stop making it worse. He knows he should've kept quiet. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't stop himself from immediately rejecting the idea.

Joe scoffs. "No? No?"

"Ain't yer choice, shithead," Len growls threateningly.

"Now, now," Joe interjects. "It is his choice, actually. It's all his choice."

The other men have all gone silent. Even Len seems to be surprised.

But then Joe grins wickedly and says, "Here's the choice, Daryl: either you man up an' fuck this girl… or we'll do it for you. And you get to watch every second of it. I'll hold your eyelids open myself if I have to."

Daryl's breath hitches in his chest. He's pretty sure his heart has stopped entirely. He's staring at Beth, completely nude and vulnerable barely a foot in front of him, and he can see the moment the words register in her head. Her face falls and drains of color. Her eyes are pleading with him again, but for what, he's not sure.

"An' trust me, we ain't gonna be gentle neither," Joe continues. "We might take turns, or we might jus' take 'er all at once. Either way, it ain't gonna be nearly as enjoyable as it could be. For either of you."

Len eagerly adds, "So make the choice, asshole. You want one last fuck before we blow yer brains out? Or you wanna watch us fuck this girl bloody and then get yer brains blown out?"

In the dreadful way that only his mind can seem to operate, Daryl tells himself it could be worse. Convinces himself of it.

Because it could be. It really could be worse.

At the very least, he'll have a little control of the situation. And so will Beth. And that's about the most they can hope for right now. It's the most he'll allow himself to hope for.

He won't willingly hurt her. Won't leave her bloody and empty. Not like these men would.

She seems to be thinking the same thing. Because when he looks into her eyes, he sees the unspoken plea she's making. And for the briefest second, he allows himself to wonder whether there was more behind that "oh" of realization than he originally thought.

Then, before Joe or Len can grow any more impatient or irritated, Beth is reaching a hand out towards Daryl. Her eyes are wide and her lips are parted and she looks downright terrified. Her fingertips ghost across his bare hip and he fights the urge to wince, to flinch away.

The only thing that keeps him steady is the look in her eyes. She's silently begging him to go along with it. And he knows she thinks that the consequences will be worse for her. But she has no idea just how torturous they'd actually be for him.

He has no choice but to play along. There is no better option. At the end of the day, he's being forced to decide whether he trusts a group of depraved men more than he trusts himself. And when it comes to Beth? Well, he has a hard time choosing himself.

But in this instance, he knows he's the best option.

Even though this is not how he wanted it to be. This is nothing like how he imagined it might be one day.

He can't even take the time to accept the fact that he's just internally acknowledged his deepest feelings for her. That he's admitted to himself that he imagined seeing her like this, and being with her like this, for even the most fleeting moment.

Shame has prevented him from thinking the idea to be realistic. Shame and guilt and decades of repressed trauma. And now, it's the situation they've been put into.

They just gotta do what they gotta do to survive. That's all it is. He can tell himself that. He's sure she can tell herself the same thing.

He can be as strong as she is for a little while.

He shivers at her touch. Allows her to drag her fingertips down across his thigh, inching towards his dick. Her eyes are locked on his, and as badly as he wants to look away, he can't. She's searching his face for reassurance. For consent. For strength.

His entire body is taut as a bowstring and he can't stifle the shudder that runs through him as her fingers reach his pubic hair and pause. Then one of the men is demanding impatiently, "Do it already! Get that needle dick hard!" And Beth stiffens. Licks her lips.

Wordlessly, she mouths, "Please."

Daryl exhales a long breath. Gives a clipped nod. Forces himself to relax. Reminds himself over and over that it could be worse. It could be so much worse.

He never wanted it to be like this, though.

As soon as her dainty fingers reach his dick, she wraps them around his flaccid shaft. He grits his teeth, stifling a deep shudder, and slams his eyes shut.

This is wrong. It's wrong. So, so, so fucking wrong.

But his body knows no different.

It takes barely two tentative strokes before the warmth is pooling in his gut. The blood is rushing straight down, and he can feel himself growing hard in her hand. He clenches his own hands into fists as his side, forcing them to remain still. He can't stifle the next shudder that runs through him when she gives another stroke. All he can hear is her soft, shallow breathing. The quiet cackles and deep-throated hums of enjoyment from the men around them.

He's trying desperately to tune them out. He thinks that maybe, if he can focus solely on Beth, it won't be so bad. Maybe.

Then there's the familiar metallic rattling of Joe's pistol near his head, and the deep voice drawling out, "Better get harder than that, boy. You got a pretty young thing's hand on yer cock—now's not the time t'be gettin' no stage fright."

Daryl barely lifts his eyelids. Just enough to see Beth. Her face is nearly blank, save for her lips forming a small o, as though she's surprised by the instinctive reaction she's drawing from him. Her eyes are focused on her own hand, and the gentle, tentative strokes she's making.

He bites back a grunt of surprise when her thumb flicks across the head of his cock. Another wave of warmth rushes through him and he's getting harder against her palm.

He is both ashamed and relieved at his body's natural reactions.

There's a short moment where he allows himself to gaze at her bare breasts—her nipples, pink and hard and jutting forward—and he swallows down a groan, clenching his jaw so tight it makes his teeth ache. His dick gets a little harder, growing longer and thicker in her hand, veins popping up and throbbing beneath her warm and careful fingers.

His hands are no longer in fists, but pressed flat against his upper thighs, fingernails digging into flesh as he desperately tries to retain control. Unfortunately, the other men notice.

Dan cackles with pleasure. "Oh yeah, that's right. He is a grower!"

Len sucks on his teeth and barks out, "Grab her tit. Do it!"

Daryl forces his eyes open wider and waits for Beth to meet his gaze. She doesn't stagger her motions. There's the slightest hint of reassurance on her face, and she gives the tiniest nod. Licks her lips and relaxes her shoulders.

He has to use every ounce of strength available within himself to force his hand to lift. To reach out and lay his palm over her breast. He feels her shiver beneath his touch, then she's leaning slightly forward into it. The men around them seem to be pleased, because one of them wolf whistles, and then there's the distinct sound of more than one zipper being undone.

"Yeah," one of the men behind Daryl remarks in a low voice, nearly a growl. "Jus' like that. Pinch 'er nipple."

Daryl does as he's told and gently pinches Beth's nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She lets out a hiss of surprise, brows briefly knitting together. Then she's relaxing again, and her strokes on his cock are growing more steady. More rhythmic. He doesn't realize his breathing has changed until he meets her eyes again and takes stock of his own reactions.

His cock is almost fully hard, jutting out between them and quivering in her palm. Her chest is heaving with shallow breaths, and she shivers with something that might be pleasure when he runs his thumb across her nipple and gives it another pinch.

He prays it's pleasure that she's feeling.

"C'mon, you can get harder than that," a man near the fireplace goads.

Another man chuckles, low and hoarse. "Suck it, bitch," he demands. "Suck his cock."

Beth tightens her grasp just a bit and strokes with more purpose, and this time, a groan rips from Daryl's throat, uninhibited. To his surprise, she seems pleased at this reaction, and repeats the motion, running her thumb across his cockhead a little slower at the end of the stroke. She slicks it with the precome he didn't even realize was gathering. His hips stiffen and lock as he resists the urge to buck forward into her hand.

Daryl doesn't have to look over to know that Len's hand is beginning to tremble around the gun—or that his other hand is already slipping inside his jeans—when Len orders, "You heard him. Suck that cock, li'l girl."

The statement takes Daryl out of it for just a second. His breath hitches and he averts his gaze away from Beth's, ashamed. But she doesn't stop slowly stroking his cock. Doesn't stop pushing her breast into his calloused palm. Urging him to meet her eyes again.

Then Joe's low voice joins in, and Daryl doesn't even bother glancing sideways at the gun being pointed threateningly at his head when the older man says, "On your feet, Daryl. Beth—stay on yer knees."

Daryl bites down on the inside of his cheek and lowers his hand from Beth's breast. She gives a tight-lipped nod of understanding—and reassurance. Then he's standing to his feet. Shaky and uncertain, knees weak and dick deceptively hard. His fingers are digging into the sides of his upper thighs again, searching for purchase to help balance himself amongst the unsteady ground he's inhabiting.

Beth is still on her knees before him. But once he's standing up, she's at eye-level with his hard cock, and her head is tilted slightly back to look up at him. She's refusing to break eye contact. His lips are pursed tightly together, and her hand is still loosely wrapped around his dick, and he can't help but feel wrong.

This is not how he wanted it to be.

Len chuckles with satisfaction. "Tha's right. Now put it in yer mouth, princess. Suck 'im dry."

"Get him real fuckin' hard," Dan remarks. "I wanna see 'im wreck that tight li'l pussy."

A few of the other men grunt and hum in agreement, while the others watch closely, palming their dicks through their pants or unabashedly reaching into their underwear and touching themselves with sick grins of pleasure plastered on their faces.

One of the men off in the corner chimes in, "Fuck that pretty face! Make her gag!"

Joe merely chuckles and keeps his pistol steady on Daryl's head. "You heard 'em. Better give yer fans what they want."

Daryl is still coming to terms with it, still trying to force himself to be somewhat okay with it, when Beth scoots forward on her knees and tightens her grasp on his cock. Then she's looking up at him with those big, blue eyes. And he sees it again.

She's asking for permission. As if it's his to give. As if they have any choice in the matter.

She squeezes his cock in her hand and gives it a purposeful stroke and he's shuddering again, biting down hard on his lower lip. He bucks into her hand reflexively. And before he knows what's happening, she's diving forward, mouth open, and taking his length between her lips.

There's an odd mixture of sounds around them; a combination of hums of pleasure and whoops of excitement. Yet Daryl can barely hear them. Won't allow himself to focus on them. He's desperately trying to tune them out entirely as the blood races through his veins, hotter and hotter. He's lifting one hand and settling it on the back of Beth's head, and doesn't even realize it until he feels her soft hair tangling in his fingers. His other hand finds her wrist, as if on instinct, and wraps around it gently, though it merely lingers there without inhibiting her steady stroking at the base of his shaft.

His cock is so much harder than he ever thought it could get. Throbbing and pulsating, almost painfully, between her lips. The wet warmth of her mouth is all-consuming, and his balls are tightening despite his every effort to resist it.

She's putting a lot more effort into it than she has to, and he's not sure if she's trying to distract him with pleasure or simply numb his pain. But either way, his body is betraying him. Because it feels so fucking good. There's a roaring ocean in his ears and he can't even hear the other men around them. All he can focus on is the way she's hollowing her cheeks around his cock. The way she's barely skimming the edges of her teeth along the sensitive skin. The way she's swirling her tongue around the tip, lapping up the precome, pulling him in deeper until he can feel her throat swallowing around him. His hand tightens on the back of her head and he's using every last ounce of his strength to hold back from thrusting himself even deeper into her mouth.

He's staring down at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Watching her take him in and out, her saliva leaving a sticky trail all over his shaft and dribbling down to his balls.

"Fuck it!" One of the men demands. "Fuck her face!"

Beth is staring back up at him with big, watery blue eyes. Pleading. Assuring. Yes. Please.

Without any encouragement, her other hand slips its way up and cups his balls. He lets out a hiss of surprise and tangles his fingers in her hair just as his hips buck forward. He buries his entire length in her mouth, down her throat, and she gags. He's about to pull back, but she urges him to stay. To go deeper. He follows her hands, the motions she's guiding him towards, and gives a thrust into her throat. She gags again, fingers wrapping around his balls while the other hand clutches the base of his shaft. Lips tightening and sucking him in deeper. Deeper.

Daryl has to bite down on his lower lip until he tastes blood to suppress the long moan that wants to escape his mouth. He sees the tears leaking down Beth's cheeks as she gags again. The moan suddenly slips from his mouth, pouring out long and low. He tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Pushing down the slowly rising heat in his gut. Her hair is so soft around his fingers, he doesn't even realize he's pushing her head down onto his cock. Couldn't stop anyway. Relentless waves of ecstasy are crashing over him. He can't risk looking down at her again or he'll finish too soon.

God, this is so fucking wrong.

The thought swims up to the surface of his foggy brain with persistence. He manages to latch onto the guilt and drag himself back to self-control, the tickling edges of an approaching climax receding within him. He reminds himself that he can't finish too quickly—he has no idea what might happen if he doesn't give these men the show they're expecting. What they might do to Beth now that they're fully turned on and downright ravenous.

He lets out a shaky breath and taps her wrist lightly, and she interprets the silent cue seamlessly. She releases her grasp on his balls and loosens her hold around the throbbing shaft of his cock. Looks up at him, speaking that silent language they've developed over the last few months. The one he can read in her movements and facial expressions. The one he can hear when he looks in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she seems to be saying, over and over again. "I'm sorry, but we have to."

She's pulling her lips down his cock and circling the head with her tongue again, and even though he's biting back another groan, he's trying to speak back to her silently. "I didn't want it to be like this," he tries to say without words. Gives her wrist a soft squeeze. Gentles his hand at the back of her head. Prays to whoever might be listening that she can decipher his unspoken words as clearly as he can decipher hers.

Beth's slowed movements and Daryl's hesitation make the men impatient, almost frustrated. Though they are all still pleased, as is clear from the way they're touching themselves and watching with hungry eyes.

Joe is the only one who seems to be watching just to watch. And his voice is thick with something Daryl can't recognize when he says, "Damn, I guess Baby-Faced Beth here wasn't lyin' after all. I sure ain't seen no virgin ever take a dick like that."

Len chuckles, low and hoarse, one hand on the pistol now hanging loosely at his side and the other down his pants. "Nah, she's just another whore. Bitch knows what she's doin'."

"He's gonna bust too soon," another man remarks with frustration. "He's gonna finish 'fore we can even hear her scream, goddamnit."

"Nah," Joe assures, slowly lowering his gun to his side and narrowing his eyes at Daryl. "He won't. He knows better."

"Fuckin' do it already!" Dan demands from near the door. "Shove that fat dick in her tight li'l teenage cunt! Make her take it all!"

"Yeah!" Another man agrees. "Make that bitch squeal!"

Daryl grimaces and tries to block the voices out, but it's no use. They bounce off the bare walls and echo around the desolate cabin, stirring dust with the vibrations. They send a cold shiver down his spine, and briefly, he fears he might lose his erection. But then he feels Beth tightening her grasp on his shaft, teasing his cockhead with the very tip of her tongue. He glances down to see her taking his whole length in her mouth again, until he's completely enveloped in the warm wetness. Until the shiver that runs through him is making his cock jump against the back of her throat.

Len clears his throat and orders, "Switch positions. We've had enough foreplay bullshit."

Daryl chances a sideways glance to find Joe raising his gun again, waving it at them and gesturing towards the floor. "Y'all heard 'em. Don't keep us waitin'."

Beth's mouth slips off his cock with a wet 'pop' and he catches a glimpse of her wide eyes looking to Joe for directions, her hand drifting down to rest on his thigh momentarily. He releases his grasp on her head and lets his arms fall to his sides listlessly, chest still heaving with shallow breaths, erection still throbbing and twitching and suddenly aching without her hands around it.

"On yer back," Len demands. "Spread them legs."

Joe chuckles and tilts the barrel of his gun to the side. "Assume the position, Beth."

Daryl freezes, mind still foggy and blood still running hot. He has less than a second to assess Beth's silent language before she's nodding acquiescently. Blinking up at him. And then lowering herself down onto her butt, stretching her legs out and lying back on the splintery wood floor. Her socks brush against his knees and he can barely comprehend the sight before him: Beth, bare naked in the firelight, lying with her legs spread open, welcoming him in.

He has to remind himself that she's only doing what she has to do. Even if there is a soft vulnerability to her tensed muscles; a gentle understanding in the lines of her face and the blues of her eyes. Another unspoken message that he can hear clear as day, telling him it's okay. Telling him to do what he has to do.

Before the men can begin to voice their impatience and frustration, Daryl scoots forward on weak knees. He doesn't allow himself a glance around the room, or even at Joe and Len and the gun that is surely aimed at his head. He keeps his gaze set intently on Beth. And he's shaking. With both arousal and fear. With a sick and twisted sense of anticipation that he can't seem to stifle.

He lowers himself down, palms pressed flat to the floor on either side of her head, hips settled between her legs. It's taking all his strength to hold himself up. To keep his jutting cock positioned at her entrance when he can feel the heat tingling up to his balls and across his inner thighs.

The very tip of his engorged dick brushes between her lips, and he shudders when he finds the moisture awaiting him. Shudders again when his cockhead clips across her clit to find it swollen. Swallows hard and bites down even harder on the inside of his cheek, stifling a low groan that rumbles his whole chest. He can barely maintain eye contact as she gazes up at him, her face growing flushed, her jaw going tight. Feels her shiver all over beneath him.

He doesn't know what it means that she's so wet. So swollen and sensitive and ready. He can only assume that her body is reacting just as deceptively as his own. That maybe their survival instincts are even more deeply ingrained and capable of adapting than they ever thought possible.

Then her arms are raising from where they lay flat on the floor, and he suddenly feels her warm hands on his hips. She digs her fingers into flesh and spreads her thighs a little wider. Urges him forward. Almost as if he's welcomed.

He can no longer tell if this is a survival instinct, or a primal urge, or something much greater. He refuses to blink or look away when he feels his cockhead pushing past the slight resistance. Can't look away when he sees her mouth fall open, her eyelids flutter, her whole body tense up at the sensation of his dick sliding inside her. He can't even stop himself from pushing through the tight resistance, stretching her wider with his girth, burying himself to the hilt until his hip bones are pressing against hers.

A grunt escapes his mouth and he inhales sharply. She hisses with shock, then exhales long and slow. The ghost of a moan pours from her lips. Her legs wrap around his. He feels her ankles hooking behind his heels. Thinks he feels her urging him deeper, even though her walls have already tightened around his cock like they're trying to force him out. He can't even register how hard her fingernails are digging into the skin of his hips. How heavy she's breathing and how often it's hitching. He's stuck focusing on steadying his own labored breathing, and fighting down the molten lava that's building in the very pit of his stomach.

He pulls back, angling up purposefully and dragging his engorged length along the back of her clit until he's nearly slipping out. He can't focus on anything but her face—the way her mouth twitches and her neck tightens and her brows knit together.

He's wishing he could've done it differently. Wishing he could've had the chance to prepare her body properly. To worship her the way she deserved. Desperately hoping that this is enough. That this could ever be enough.

But then a harsh voice breaks through the breathy chorus filling the cabin to demand, "Harder, harder!"

And another voice, "Fuck 'er like you mean it!"

And Daryl doesn't want to take his eyes off Beth, doesn't want to halt his motions, but he knows he has to. He knows he has no choice.

"Put 'er legs back," Len orders. "Make it hurt."

Joe clears his throat and reinforces the order with stern directions towards Beth, "The audience has spoken. Grab yer ankles, girl."

There's a heartbeat of hesitation that passes between Beth and Daryl, but before he can read her face or offer a reassuring nod, she's hiking her legs up.

He wants to do what they say, but he doesn't. His body wants to do what they say, but his mind is screaming at him that this is wrong. And Beth is looking up at him expectantly. Sadly. Almost fearfully. He allows himself to follow her lead.

He grabs the undersides of her thighs. And then she's releasing her grasp on his hips to wrap her hands around her own ankles and hold her legs back, damn near up to her shoulders, offering the most open possible entrance for his cock.

He wants to pause. Wants to hesitate. But his body is deceiving him again, and he can only offer her the most subtle nod, the softest grunt. A silent apology and a plea for forgiveness. Then he's shoving himself forward, burying his thick cock inside her. Grasping her thighs and whimpering with an odd mixture of pain and pleasure; a fiery blend of regret and satisfaction. Or maybe she's the one whimpering. He can't tell. Can't discern his own sounds from hers.

Something clicks together and changes in Daryl's head as he stares down at Beth through heavy-lidded eyes, thrusting in and out, watching her face screw up and her eyes squeeze shut, feeling her tremble at the rough sensation of his full length inside her. He's desperately trying to tune out the voices and sickening moans all around him. Trying to focus on Beth, to assure himself he's not actually hurting her.

But Joe's words are cementing themselves inside his head—the audience has spoken—and suddenly, it clicks.

Just like that, Daryl knows what he's doing. Understands what it means and how he can live with it.

It's just an audience. That's all. He and Beth are like actors on a stage, and they're doing nothing more than giving the audience what it wants. These men are directors of a scene that was never written. And he and Beth are playing their parts. Doing what they gotta do. To survive.

All the same, he's desperately wishing it could've been different. Beth expected more. And she deserves more.

But more… he cannot give her. Only this.

Yet she seems to have realized it already. She seems okay with it. She seems to be accepting the same harsh fact.

It's nothing more than an audience. And the audience is ready to fire a billet through their skulls at any slight misstep. They have to give the audience what it wants.

There are still good people. He'd doubted her. But now, he wants nothing else than for her to live long enough to prove him wrong.

He hears another sharp order, though he doesn't care to glance around and see who's barking it out. "Harder, boy—fuck 'er harder!"

There's a cold cackle and an agreement, "Rearrange them guts, Daryl."

He bucks forward with more intent. Harder. Rougher. Beth lets out a whimper that morphs into a squeal of surprise. A sharp inhale through gritted teeth. Her tight walls clamp down around his cock, the heat and the wetness growing almost too intense for him to handle. Then she's pulling back just the slightest bit, like she's trying to slip off his dick, to scoot away from it. He massages his fingers into her thighs—the only motion of reassurance he can risk sparing. Stares down at her, slack-jawed and breathing heavily through his mouth, and watches her eyelids flutter open until those big blues are looking back up at him, silently pleading for a retreat that he cannot allow her.

To his dismay, the other men notice. And over the sounds of spit-covered hands feverishly stroking dirty dicks, more orders are being barked out.

"Nah, she's try'na run from it. Pin 'er hands down."

"But keep them legs back—yeah, make 'er take it all!"

"She ain't as loose as she claims. Look't how she's squirmin'!"

"Goddamn, I'm gonna come jus' listenin' to 'er cry. Keep fuckin' goin', don't stop now!"

"Fuck her, boy! Like ya mean it! Rip that pussy wide open!"

The audience wants what it wants, and the audience is holding the gun. So Daryl does as he's told.

He releases her thighs and grabs her wrists with both hands, pinning them to the floor above her head, and leans forward until her ankles are resting on his shoulders. The position offers him a whole new angle inside her warm, wet pussy. And he manages to push past the hazy film of lust that's clouding his mind just long enough to realize they're closer than before. He's deeper than before, rolling and snapping his hips, thrusting in and out.

In and out.

She's not resisting his hold on her wrists, but her muscles tense beneath him all the same. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and watery with unshed tears, and she's biting down so hard on her lower lip that she's about to draw blood. But she's looking at him. Begging. Pleading.

He grunts out, no more than a breathy whisper that he hopes only reaches her ears, "'M so fuckin' sorry, I don't—"

But she quickly cuts him off, whispering back just as quietly between pants and pained moans, "Don't stop." She gasps in sharply and assures him with a strength he cannot fathom, "Do what we gotta do."

He's no longer able to control himself. Not when he can feel her hot breath on his face and her tight cunt swallowing him up whole. He's deeper inside her than he ever thought possible, and the sickest part of him can't stop. Doesn't want to stop. And that sick part of him remembers that she told him not to stop, anyway.

He bucks forward reflexively, groaning long and low, and feels himself bottoming out. Knows he's bottoming out because Beth gasps and squeals loudly, squeezing her eyes shut and squirming beneath him.

This is so fucking wrong. But he's too far gone to let the guilt and anguish stop him.

There are other groans of pleasure echoing through the small cabin, coming from the various men jerking themselves off. They whistle and whoop and moan with unabashed satisfaction. They make depraved comments that Daryl has to deafen himself to. He murmurs Beth's name softly, like a prayer for forgiveness, with every thrust in and out. Hoping it's the only thing she can hear.

There's a moment that lasts no longer than a heartbeat, during which he's slowing his motions in order to build up strength for another rough thrust, when she looks up at him with a breath caught in her throat. And he thinks he can see a spark of relief in her eyes. Something. Something hopeful. Something that tells him she's not leaving her body for this. Something that assures him she's fully present, and with him; she's not leaving him to suffer this alone.

Then she whispers out so quietly that he has to strain to hear, "I'm glad it's you."

A shudder runs through him and he swallows back a curse as his dick throbs inside her and his balls tighten. Squeezes her wrists and presses them a little harder against the splintery wood floor. Leans his head down, mind and heart both swimming desperately within the dark depths of lust and primal urge, and presses his lips roughly to hers. He feels her quiver.

And he knows. He knows the audience won't like that. But he has to give her something. Has to give her more. Somehow. Some way.

I don't cry anymore, Daryl. It's replaying like an old, scratchy record inside his head. A memory reminiscent of a different life. A scrap of who they used to be, of who they could still be if it hadn't all been ripped away so hastily.

He kisses her hard. Demanding. Wanting. Needing.

And again, inside his head: What changed your mind?

She kisses him back desperately, as though she's trying to drink in his strength and replenish herself. And before the cries of the audience's anger can reach his ears—or hers—he breathes out across her lips, "Wanted t'tell ya it was you—you changed my mind, Beth."

He pulls his head back just in time for Joe to scold loudly, "Aht, aht! None'a that lovey-dovey, kissin' bullshit!"

Another man growls, "He's fuckin' ruinin' it. Make her hurt, goddammit! Fuck 'er 'til she's beggin' you to stop!"

But Daryl can't look away from Beth's eyes, grown wide as they look up at him, even as he pulls back and resumes his harsh thrusts. In and out. In and out. Glancing down to see her small breasts bouncing with the movement. Clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth and fighting back tears that seem to build and catch in his throat.

He can see it in her face again. That same shadow that had appeared over the candlelit table in the funeral home. The same slap of realization; the weight of understanding that seems to fall over her like a ton of bricks.

Then it's gone, and she's biting down on her lip and squeezing her eyes shut and panting breathlessly, high-pitched moans pouring from her mouth every time his cock drags along the back of her clit or hits that spot deep inside her. Moans that stutter and break into hisses of pain. Soft squeals of overstimulation.

At least she knows. God help him, at least she knows. At least he got to tell her. Even if it means nothing at all after this. Even if they endure this and end up being killed anyway. At least she knows that her indomitable light has broken through his cracks; that she has filled his every dark space and become everything to him.

"Flip her over," Len demands, his voice thick and shaky. "Take 'er from behind."

Daryl pauses and hears a chorus of agreements. His blood is still running hot, but that doesn't stop the shiver of cold dread trickling down his spine. He hears the metallic rattling of a gun barely an arm's length from his head, and he refuses to tear his eyes away from Beth's. Watches her closely as she draws in a long breath, taking relief in the brief reprieve from his harsh thrusts, and sees her give a clipped nod. Feels her wrists pushing up into his hands, silently communicating with him. Reassuring him yet again.

He pulls out, quick and sloppy, with a groan of disappointment. The cold air hits his cock and makes it throb, aching with the lack of her wet warmth wrapped tightly around it. Releases her wrists and raises himself up on shaky knees, thighs trembling and chest heaving as he tries to steady his breathing. It's no use—he's all hot, shallow breaths and painfully aching muscles.

He's all regret and shame and guilt. Watching Beth hurry to meet the audience's demands lest she face the consequences of insubordination. Yet his dick is still harder than he can ever remember it being, twitching and jumping with anticipation. The heat is still pooling in his gut and building in his balls and he cannot stop raking his eyes over her naked body as she wordlessly turns over. His hands are limp and useless at his sides, empty without her skin against his palms.

Daryl lifts his head for the briefest second he's willing to risk. To glance around and assess the current situation, even though he knows full well that he won't like it. And he sees six pairs of eyes watching his every movement. Watching Beth's every movement. He sees five different dicks being gripped and stroked. Hears a buzzing combination of grunts and groans, breathy pants of self-pleasure.

Empty eyes and slack jaws and biting teeth. Clammy skin and greasy hair and dirty hands and bloodstained clothing. Humans turned to something lower than hungry animals. Men turned to devils. Nothing more than the desolate shells of humanity deciding who lives and who dies and who will do the things that make them wish for death.

Then Beth is turned around in front of him, shaky on her hands and knees, slowly arching her back and tilting her ass towards his jutting length. He reaches an uncertain hand out and places it flat on her lower back. Barely rolls his hips forward, letting the tip of his cock graze against her wet, swollen entrance. She winces at first, almost pulls away. Forces herself back into position. And when he doesn't make any movement to thrust inside, she turns her head and looks back at him from over her shoulder. Lowers herself to her elbows and arches her back a little more.

She blinks back at him and raises her eyebrows, lips parted and still panting for breath. She's silently begging him again. Pleading for him to go along. To give the insatiable audience what it wants so they can both live to see another day.

He places his other hand on her hip and prepares to push himself inside her, eyes still locked on hers with an unspoken apology. But he's stopped with the very tip of his cock barely entering her swollen and reluctant pussy.

"Nah, shove her face to the floor. Take it from 'er!"

Daryl freezes. He's about to shake his head. About to refuse. Because he can't. He can't do that to Beth. He can't possibly take more from her than he already has.

But the audience is demanding. Unforgiving. And before he can make a dire mistake, he sees the way Beth closes her eyes. He can feel her muscles tensing beneath him. She gives him a clipped nod of reassurance.

Then she whispers out, "Just do what they say, Daryl. Please."

It's no more than a split-second, but to him, it feels like an eternity. He swallows thickly and keeps his eyes locked on hers, desperately hoping she can interpret the wordless apology in his gaze. The unspoken plea for forgiveness for what he's about to do.

He reckons she'll never forgive him, though. And he thinks he's okay with that. So long as she's alive.

Joe growls out, "The demand is at an all-time high, Daryl. Take it from her. Make her beg you to stop."

Daryl has no more time to waste. If he hesitates a moment longer, it could mean losing his momentum. Or losing her to the savage men surrounding them. So he reaches forward and cups the back of her head, fingers tangled in blonde locks, and he sees her closing her eyes just in time for him to shove her face to the floor.

He tries not to push too hard, keeping his other hand tightly grasped onto her hip, but as soon as his cockhead slips inside of her tender, swollen cunt, he loses control. He rolls his hips forward, enveloped completely by her warm, wet, tight walls. Gives a harsh thrust that elicits a squeal from her mouth, muffled by the dusty wood. Her whole body goes rigid against him with resistance, but he can't stop.

The moans and wolf whistles of the other men are filling his head to bursting, and he's trying desperately to drown them out with his own groans of pleasure. But he can hear Beth gasping, whimpering, squealing.

He can hear her weeping softly with every rough snap of his hips, "No—no, n-nooo…"

I don't cry anymore, Daryl.

He tells himself she's giving the audience what it has demanded. She's playing her part. Do what we gotta do. But he's not so sure he believes that.

Nonetheless, his balls are tightening with every harsh thrust inside her. In and out. Deeper, deeper, and deeper still.

In and out.

"No…"

She's clenching around him, and he knows she can feel the way he's throbbing within her clenched walls. The way he's pushing against her resistance. He wants to shut his eyes, but he can't stop gazing down at the expanse of her back, all milky white skin and delicate curves. He can't stop looking at the way his hand is grasping the back of her head and pushing the side of her face into the floor.

Most of all, he can't stop the way his body deceptively reacts to her sounds. To the feel of her around him, resistant yet all-encompassing. He can't stop the orgasm that's building in his gut like a fiery storm, speeding up his pace until he's relentlessly pumping in and out of her tight pussy. Deeper, deeper, deeper. Desperately reaching for that final release, with or without his consent.

She's not pushing back into him. In fact, she's stiff and rigid and almost pulling away, but he keeps her held firmly in place as he fucks her from behind. He barely registers the way her fingernails are digging into the floor, searching for purchase. Barely even registers her breathless whimpers and soft cries for mercy.

"No—fuck, no, no," she gasps out with every thrust, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Ple-please, no…"

Her body is betraying her just as his own. Because he can feel a bubble of tension hitting his cockhead everytime he shoves himself deeper inside. Can feel her muscles tensing and spasming around him, her walls fluttering and clenching down on his dick. Another plea pours from her lips as a hot, wet gush flows over his cock.

She's coming and coming and coming, against her will. Gasping in sharply, quivering and trembling beneath him. Still begging, so high-pitched she's nearly keening, "Noo-ohh-oo…"

And then Daryl can't handle it anymore. He grips the back of her head a little harder, digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her hip. And with a strangled grunt, he slams his eyes shut and throws his head back and buries himself so deeply inside her that his cock jumps and twitches and pulsates within her cunt. Then the heat that's been building and pooling at the bottom of his stomach and in his balls finally finds its way to the surface, spilling inside her mercilessly.

Beth is trembling against him, her muscles gone soft and weak, and he's still pumping in and out, riding the fiery wave of his climax until its flame-soaked fingers finally release their grasp on him. He comes down rather quickly, only to be met with the grotesque sounds of the men around him.

The unmistakable sounds of men ejaculating, grunting with pleasure and laughing with sick glee. Wet splats on the wood floor. Low groans of satisfaction and thick-throated remarks of enjoyment.

He can't focus on any of them, though. All he can focus on is Beth, who's gone limp before him. He slowly pulls out and yet she remains in position, eyes still shut. Still panting. Still whimpering softly under her breath.

His blood has gone cold again, but Joe's harsh voice snaps him back to reality.

"Now, see?" He taunts, lowering his gun once and for all. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Daryl thinks he might be sick. He swallows down the bile in his throat and refuses to look around. Keeps his eyes locked on Beth, though she remains where she is, cheek pressed to the floor and ass in the air. Like she's awaiting further instructions. And maybe she is. He catches the briefest glimpse of his sticky, white come dribbling down her inner thigh.

He doesn't even have time to comprehend what he's just done before he's being given more orders.

"Put yer clothes back on," Joe instructs coolly.

When Daryl hesitates, still frozen and staring down at the mess he's made, Joe repeats himself with growing impatience.

"I said, put yer clothes back on. Now, Daryl."

There's a sound of rattling metal and Daryl snaps his head to the side, barely able to focus on Joe and Len. The latter is shoving his dick back into his jeans with a sick smirk on his face, wiping his sticky hand on his pants leg, while the former is shaking his gun threateningly.

"Put that ugly li'l pecker away, boy," Len demands.

Daryl doesn't respond. He reaches for the pile of his clothes lying nearby with numb fingers. And it's not until this moment that he realizes the sounds he's been hearing—and desperately trying to block out—were not solely from the men around him.

There's a scratching at the curtained window. An unmistakable gurgling growl coming from outside, joined by a soft chorus of snapping jaws and shambling feet in the distance. His senses are flooding back, all at once, and he's suddenly hyper-aware of the world outside the cabin. The sounds that reach his sensitive ears quicker than most.

"Alright," Joe announces, directing his attention to the other men for a moment. "Which one'a you two-pump chumps blew yer load first?"

"It was Dan," one of the men near the fireplace speaks up. "I saw it. He busted the minute that li'l girl started beggin' 'em to stop."

The men share a cold laugh, but Joe merely smirks and turns to shoot Dan a look. "Guess yer on Freak duty. Go take care'a that thing 'fore it draws more in. And be quiet about it."

Dan finishes buttoning his jeans with a scowl, pulling his knife from his belt. "Fine. But when I get back, I want a turn with the bitch. I claimed 'er, after all."

"Yeah, yeah," Joe chides. "Get'cher ass out there already. Give the girl a minute to fuckin' recover."

Daryl is standing on shaky legs, slipping his underwear and jeans back on as Beth slowly raises herself to a sitting position. He's watching her from the corner of his eye, but he can't bear to actually look at her. He's too ashamed. And too preoccupied with keeping his eye on the other men in the room, taking note of where their weapons are. Where his weapons are.

His crossbow is slung over Joe's back. Beth's knife is holstered in a belt loop on Len's jeans. The other three men have guns on their belts, as well as sheathed knives.

The scratching at the window stops, and there's a distinct sound of a heavy body hitting the porch outside.

When he finally manages to locate his voice, Daryl asks, "What the fuck?" He meets Joe's amused gaze with narrowed eyes. He snatches up his shirt and slips it on over his wifebeater, hands trembling so badly that he can't even attempt to manage the buttons. "You said if we did that, y'all wouldn't—"

"I say a lotta things, Daryl," Joe cuts him off, eyes glinting mischievously. "But at the end of the day, rules are rules. And claimed is claimed. Whether you like it or not."

Daryl's blood is no longer icy cold, but burning hot. With anger. With fury.

Even after what he just did—what he and Beth sacrificed—these sick fucks are gonna do everything they can to ruin her. To drain her of every last remaining ounce of pride or dignity she's got. To dim her light.

Jesus. He should've fucking known better.

He should've fought back from the very beginning. Never should've let it get this far. Never should've let Beth sacrifice so much for no more than the whisper of a chance at survival.

Could she ever forgive him?

He doesn't care anymore. He just wants her to survive long enough to hate him.

Without a word, he grabs up Beth's clothes and tosses them into her lap. She barely glances up at him before plucking out her panties and hurriedly yanking them up her legs, followed by her bra and jeans.

"The fuck're you doin'?" Len cries out angrily, taking a step towards them with his hand on his gun, about to pull it out once more. "Makin' more work for Dan once he gets back in here?" He glares down at Beth. "Wastin' yer goddamn time coverin' up those mosquito bites, little'un."

"Don't worry 'bout her," Daryl growls, locking his gaze on the greasy-haired man.

Len glances to Joe before sneering at Daryl and spitting out, "Fuck you, asshole. How 'bout you take a step back 'fore I really make you regret this."

Joe leisurely steps in between them just as Len is turning his sights on Daryl and says, "Alright now, Len. He's right—she ain't yer claim, she ain't yer problem. Best we jus' wait fer Dan to get back. I'm sure he'll wanna keep this show goin' for us."

Daryl shoves his feet into his unlaced boots without looking away from Len, who is still glaring murderously at him. He grabs up his vest and slips it over his shoulders, but the tension in his muscles doesn't ease. His eyes flick over to Beth and he sees her pulling her boots on, lacing them up with shaky hands and an empty gaze, her polo and cardigan still lying in her lap. The blood on her cheek is smeared and dried, and the cut is swelling up, red and angry. Her other cheek is just as red—and almost as swollen—from being pressed against the floor.

But before his stomach can drop with agonizing remorse, one of the men near the fireplace speaks up.

"When the hell's he comin' back? Don't take this long t'put one Freak down."

Joe glances towards the front door and Len glances towards the curtained window that the Walker had been scratching at, and they both seem about to respond.

Suddenly, there's a hard thud! against the side of the cabin that reverberates around the inside walls and seems to shake the structure on its foundation. They all jump, startled. All except Daryl.

He's heard them approaching. More than one. More than a dozen. Enough to rustle the trees and snap the brittle branches of the undergrowth. Enough to silence the birds and crickets.

Not quite a herd, but more than enough to pose a threat to six full-grown men.

And just like that, there's more scratching at the windows. All the windows. More thuds against the outer walls. More gurgling groans and snapping jaws.

Just like that, the whole place is surrounded by the dead.

"God fucking dammit," Joe curses, pulling out his gun and glancing around at the other men. He gestures towards a pair in the corner and orders, "Harley! Lou! Get out there an' give Dan a hand 'fore the stupid bastard gets overwhelmed."

Daryl is so caught up in the rising panic of the moment that he can barely comprehend Beth's soft, cracked voice joining the chorus of chaos.

"You really think he's still alive?"

Everyone freezes—including the two men, Harley and Lou, who are about to open the door and step outside. They all look to Beth with befuddled gazes. Daryl included.

But she's not looking at him. Or any of them. She's staring at the window, and the several pairs of decaying hands scratching at the glass from the outside. The vibrations are shaking the moth-eaten curtains, spilling sporadic streams of sunlight across her face. She's still sitting down, shirt in her lap and hands resting lazily on her knees.

And when she continues speaking, it's with a numb coldness that sets even Daryl's nerves on edge.

"He's not coming back. None of you are."

Len spits on the ground angrily and bellows, "Shut the fuck up, bitch!"

Beth doesn't flinch. Doesn't even look at him. As though she didn't hear him at all.

Joe grunts, shakes his head, and repeats his orders to the men: "Get the hell out there! Take care'a this shit 'fore it turns into a full-blown herd!"

Harley and Lou appear a bit shaken, to say the least. But maybe Daryl is just seeing what he wants to see. Regardless, they approach the door with caution and slip outside as silently as they can.

Stuttered sunlight pours in for a brief moment. Dead hands claw their way between the open door almost immediately, and Joe barks an order. Then Len is throwing himself at the door to make sure it shuts tightly, using all his weight against the incessant fingers reaching their way in. It clicks shut and there's more thumping and thudding outside. The sounds of the men's yells. A few gunshots.

More thumps. More thuds. More yelling.

Yet the hands at the windows don't stop their scratching. The groans and growls and snapping jaws don't cease, not even for a second. And Len has to put all his weight against the door to keep it shut as the Walkers push and push and push from the outside.

Daryl has gone completely stiff where he stands. He knows where this is leading. He knows, because he's seen it happen a thousand times before. He knows, because he can feel it coming. He can feel it in his fucking bones.

And he thinks Beth can, too. Yet she's not moving. She's still sitting on the floor. Still staring at the window. Still not putting her shirt on. He fears she's gone catatonic with how blank her face is. How stoically she's sitting. How empty her eyes are. How hollow she appears to be, in this moment when she should be preparing to fight.

He fears he has allowed himself to become the enemy.

But that doesn't stop him from forming a plan in his head. He's taking stock of the situation—only two other men left besides Joe and Len. A one-room cabin surrounded by Walkers. One viable exit. He and Beth are still outnumbered and outgunned, but not by nearly as much as before.

All the same, it's too much for them to take on their own without some kind of well-thought out strategy. He has to be quick. He has to be precise.

All the men are drawing their weapons, preparing to defend themselves. But they're preparing to defend themselves from the dead. And at least that much proves to be in his and Beth's favor.

Then, before he can even begin to formulate any kind of strategy—against the living or the dead—the door bursts open just wide enough for a single Walker to slip through. Len is hollering and cursing and grabbing the knife at his belt—Beth's knife—to disperse the threat, but all of his energy is still being used to shove the door closed and keep out the other groaning corpses that are pushing their way inside. Joe rushes over and throws his weight against the door to ensure that it shuts with a hard snap, clipping several tips of decayed fingers in the doorframe that fall to the floor.

But the lone Walker has made its way inside, jaw snapping and throat gurgling with bloodlust. It trips over Len's foot and collapses to the floor, tumbling face-first barely six inches from where Beth is sitting.

She doesn't even seem to notice.

Daryl lurches forward, unarmed, and grabs the Walker by its shoulders to shove it farther away from her, tripping over his untied boot laces and falling to his knees in the process. One of the men that had been standing precariously near the fireplace surges forward, knife in hand, and buries the blade in the soft skull of what appears to have once been a middle-aged man. The Walker goes silent and falls still, black blood leaking out into a pool on the wood beneath its head.

The Claimer yanks his knife out and laughs nervously, stepping away just as Daryl raises himself back to his feet. Beth remains still as a statue, seemingly unaffected by the sight before her and the chaos forming around her.

Joe and Len are grunting and complaining and barking orders at the other men as they press their shoulders to the door, holding back the swarm of Walkers that are pushing to get inside. The other two men are gradually beginning to panic, looking to Joe for direction and unsure of what to do as their eyes dart fearfully towards the window, white-knuckled hands clenched around their weapons.

Daryl takes this moment to growl at Beth, "Get up, get against the wall."

He expects her to respond immediately, as she always does. He wants to protect her. Needs to protect her. It's only a matter of seconds before the dead begin pouring in and feasting on all of them, and he needs at least a chance to keep her safe. To get her out.

But she doesn't respond at all. Doesn't even seem to register that he's speaking to her.

"Beth," he repeats, more stern. "Get up! Against the wall!"

Finally, she blinks. Seems to snap out of whatever hollow trance she'd been in. She glances around and meets Daryl's eyes. Brow furrowed. Questioning.

He chokes out, "You gotta, Beth. Please. Gotta do what we gotta do."

At that, she nods. A brief, clipped nod that he barely recognizes. Something flickers across her face, but there's no time to be trying to read her expressions or predict how she's going to react. Joe and Len are yelling at each other, as well as the other men, and they're severely struggling against the weight that's being pushed on the door. They've momentarily forgotten about their prisoners, considering they've all been put on the same side for the time being: the living versus the dead.

All the same, what remains of The Claimers is rapidly falling into shambles.

Beth scrambles to her feet, letting the polo and cardigan fall to the floor without notice. She keeps her wide eyes on the window, gaze flicking over at the bursting door, and shuffles backwards towards the wall to protect herself.

She is not a moment too soon in her actions, because suddenly, the glass of the window she'd been staring at cracks and shatters, spilling shards across the wood floor. Long, gray, bloody arms are snaking their way inside, and the two men closest rush forward to make an attempt at dispersing the threat with their knives.

Meanwhile, Joe and Len are still struggling with the door, desperately trying to hold it up against the weight of a dozen or more Walkers. And with Beth pressing her back flat against the wall opposite of the shattered window, Daryl realizes this is his chance.

It's not the well-thought out strategy he'd hoped for, but he's gotta do what he's gotta do.

He rushes forward and kicks out at Joe's knee. There's a loud cry of pain. Joe buckles, still trying to hold his weight against the door, and Daryl yanks the crossbow off his back.

"Fuck—goddammit, Daryl, you bastard!" Joe curses, struggling to push himself back up to his feet, unable to defend himself with the weight of the door and all those Walkers on the other side.

A split second later, before he can grab an arrow and drive it into Joe's skull as he intends, Daryl hears another cry. But not of pain. It's an angry cry—a war cry. Within the same split-second, he feels a sharp pain in his thigh that jolts through his whole body.

"You stupid motherfucker!" Len bellows, his hand reluctantly releasing its grasp on the knife handle in order to hold the door. "Son'uva bitch! I'm gonna fuckin' kill you!"

Daryl cries out and stumbles backwards, crossbow clutched tightly in his hands. He barely spares a moment to acknowledge Beth's knife stuck in his thigh, or the hot rush of pain coursing through his body and crippling him.

He's flat on his ass, eyes flicking up just in time to see Joe and Len losing their battle against the door's weight. The other men are still preoccupied with holding off the Walkers that are crawling and worming their way in through the shattered window, unable to afford anything more than a scarce sideways glance at Daryl's frantic attempt to gain the upper hand. And Beth is still pressed against the wall, eyes wide and fearful, petrified where she stands.

All Daryl can think about is protecting her from all the threats surrounding them. He doesn't even care if he makes it out. He just wants to ensure that she can escape.

Beth has to survive this. She has to make it out. She can't die here. He can't fail her like this.

And he knows no other way besides killing the men who've made her suffer. Because the living are a larger threat than the dead. They have to be dealt with first. And he has no plan past exterminating their consciousness.

He's already nocking a bolt despite the crippling pain in his leg that leaves him useless on the floor. Can't even spare a second to assess the damage the knife has done to his thigh, where it remains firmly embedded. Everything else is white noise when he takes aim at Len—the greasy-haired man is already grabbing for the pistol at his side, even though the clawing hands of Walkers are reaching through the open door to scratch at his shoulder.

Daryl looses a bolt, aimed at Len's neck. But at that exact moment, a presence is at his side—and it's yanking the knife from his leg without remorse. The sudden shock of pain falters his aim. The bolt releases, whizzing through the air and clipping Joe's ear to bury itself in the meaty flesh of Len's upper arm.

"FU-UCK!" Len screams. And it's in that split-second—while he's reeling from the sudden pain—that he weakens enough to allow the dead the advantage.

With another loud curse from Joe, the Walkers push past the door. The splintered wood collapses inward, and both Joe and Len buckle under the weight and roll to opposite sides to avoid being crushed.

And then, everything happens at the same time. So fast that Daryl can't even comprehend it.

He's sitting on the floor with an empty crossbow in his hands and a bleeding wound in his thigh, and the world seems to go still.

Except it's not. It's all moving too rapidly for him to keep up.

He glances over to see Beth with the knife in her hands, still dripping with his bright red blood. And while everything else is happening too quickly for any of the men to do more than struggle to their feet or push away clawing fingernails and gnashing teeth, she's taking a step to the side. And, with one swift motion, burying the sharp blade into the freshly-killed Walker on the floor. Opening it up, from neck to groin. Sheathing the knife at her belt. Reaching her hands in and prying open the gaping flesh, digging into dark innards. She's pulling her hands back out and caking herself in the decay. Spreading dark blood and rotten remains across the bare skin of her arms, her belly, her chest, her shoulders, her neck. Staining her bra and her jeans and her hands. Her motions are hurried and shaky, yet precise.

He thinks she might have lost it. That she might be too far gone. And he doesn't know how to save her from this particular level of gone.

Then she's at his side. No—she's at his front. She's yanking him up by the arms. And he's complying without question, numb and defenseless and desperately pressing one hand to the wound on his thigh in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. She's shoving him back into the corner nearest the door, barely an arm's reach from where the Walkers are surging their way forward. She's putting herself in front of him, spreading her arms wide, until her body is acting as a gore-covered shield.

And they're safe. For a heartbeat. For a stuttered breath. Then… for a long moment. Just long enough for him to understand what she's doing.

With his breath caught in his chest, Daryl watches over Beth's shoulder as the Walkers pour in through the door and the shattered window, breezing right past them and straight towards the remaining men.

Joe barely makes it to his feet before being overtaken by a tall, bloated Walker who rips into his throat with gnashing teeth. Len manages to grab the gun at his side and fire off a single round, though it misses its intended target. And then the gun clatters to the ground. He screams the loudest of all the men as sharp fingernails dig into his stomach and rip at his face.

The other two men near the window fall a second later, unable to find a way out. Succumbing to the herd descending upon them. Tearing blood-curdling screams from their throats while their innards are ripped out and their limbs are yanked apart.

Daryl wants to look away. But a larger part of him is enjoying the show.

For a brief, sickening moment, he wonders if he and Beth have become the audience.

It feels like a lifetime that they're stuck there, backed into the corner and watching the horde of dead crowding into the tiny cabin. He's already trying to figure out how they'll escape, especially with his injury. But Beth is still standing vigilantly in front of him. Guarding him. And he's not sure if she's watching, too, or if she's closed her eyes to the grisly sight of the feeding frenzy.

He hopes she's watching. He hopes she's enjoying it.

The Walkers are going to smell his fresh blood any minute. He knows it. He throws his crossbow onto his back. With a shaky breath, he tears his eyes away from the scene and grabs the red rag from his pocket, tying it tightly around his thigh to stop the bleeding. Then he touches her arm and she flinches, but it seems to be all the signal she needs. She glances back at him and, with a wordless exchange, they agree that this is their best chance to escape.

He wants to grab her polo and cardigan, and he hesitates for just a moment to glance back, but he can't see them. Trampled on the floor somewhere beneath all the Walkers and the bloody remains of the other men. She's gripping his hand tightly and yanking him along behind her, desperate to get outside, and he accepts that he'll have to give her the literal shirt off his back once they escape.

It's the least he can give her, after all.

As soon as they slip out the door, into the harsh morning sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees, they find a few more Walkers mulling around the porch and in the yard. But the majority of the horde is squeezed inside the cabin. Feasting.

The stragglers are easy enough to dodge. Daryl limps along on his injured leg, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins helps to ease the pain and quicken his pace. He checks around to assure the other men aren't still alive—he spots a Walker crouching over the remains of what had once been Harley. Several feet away—at the end of a long trail of blood in the grass—is Lou, missing an arm and most of his face.

But before Daryl can look around for the remnants of Dan, Beth is practically dragging him through the trees by his hand, her knife clutched tightly and defensively in her other hand. Even with the slight limp from her sore ankle, she's moving twice as fast as him. And she's whimpering as she goes, sobbing quietly.

No, wait. He can discern their sounds now.

And he realizes he's the one whimpering and sobbing quietly as she leads him deeper into the woods surrounding the cabin.

The moment they're out of earshot of the horde, he begs hoarsely, "Beth—slow down, please. Yer half naked, an' my fuckin' leg—"

She whips her head around and tightens her grasp on his hand. Her face is steely with determination, though he can see the tear tracks down her swollen, bloody cheeks. "We gotta go, Daryl. There's a road up ahead, I can see it—we can't stop yet, we gotta—"

Daryl doesn't hear the rustling in the bushes over her voice, and the next second, her words are cut short by a gunshot. He flinches and ducks his head reflexively, and a bullet whizzes past his ear, barely missing his skull by no more than half an inch. His heart is in his throat again and he releases her hand to reach back for his crossbow.

But there's no time to nock a bolt. Not even enough time to properly pull his weapon round to the front. He spots the movement in the bushes off to his left. Tries to stagger forward and put himself between Beth and the unseen enemy.

He's too slow, though. There's no fucking time.

Dan is emerging from the cover of the trees, gun in his hand, the barrel aimed at Beth.

"Y'all ain't goin' fuckin' nowhere," the lone remaining Claimer growls. He's bleeding from a series of visible bite marks on his arm, and the hand holding the gun is shaky, his aim unsteady. His finger is already curling around the trigger.

Once again, everything happens so fast that Daryl can barely comprehend it.

With a cry of anguish caught in his throat, he watches as Beth leaps forward. She throws her entire body weight at Dan, head ducked towards his chest and arms wrapping around his middle. He's caught off-guard, unable to react, but he fires off another round instinctively. It shoots skyward and his gun slips from his grasp to fall into the undergrowth.

Daryl has no idea what the hell Beth is thinking. What she's doing.

He wonders why Dan isn't fighting back. Why he isn't shoving her off and overtaking her as easily as he could considering how much larger and stronger he is than the small blonde.

But before Daryl can even begin to stagger forward and help, he watches as a look of horror takes over Dan's face. Then Beth is leaning up, sitting on her knees and straddling the man's legs, and Daryl sees it.

Her knife is buried deep into his gut.

There's a strangled grunt of pain, and Daryl doesn't know who it's coming from, because a split-second later, Beth is digging the knife in even deeper. Burying it to the hilt. Grabbing it with both hands and using all her strength to drag it up and up, until she's opening Dan wide, just like she opened the Walker inside the cabin. Shiny, purple innards are spilling out across the greenery around them. Crimson red blood is spattering Beth's already gore-covered front. And at this angle, Daryl can see the look on her face. The ice cold resolution in her eyes. The hard set of her jaw and the slight uptick of her mouth.

She doesn't stop until her blade catches on the hard bone of his sternum.

Finally, she yanks her knife free from the meaty flesh and stands up. She steps back to watch the very last of The Claimers gurgle and gag and choke on his own blood. And Daryl knows she's watching the light leave his eyes.

Before Dan has even given his final twitch of life, Beth kicks him hard in the side. And again. And again. Until his innards are spilling out sloppily, splattering her boots and jeans with viscera. Until he's coughing and hacking violently, gasping in one final breath. Exhaling with a torturous death rattle that decisively stills his entire body.

Daryl hasn't taken a breath the whole time. Doesn't realize it until the black spots appear in his vision and his chest starts to ache. He gasps in sharply. Beth whips her head around at the sound, as though she's just realized he was there.

He wants to say something. Anything. But his mouth won't cooperate. His voice has left him.

With shaky hands, he manages to bury a bolt in Dan's forehead before he can reanimate. Beth retrieves it before Daryl has a chance to step forward, handing it back to him. Then she wipes the blade of her knife off on her jeans and sheaths it on her belt.

He's still speechless, but she's reaching out for his hand. Her own is coated with fresh blood, delicate fingertips dripping crimson.

"C'mon," she says hoarsely. "We gotta keep going."

Daryl lifts his arm with a strength he's not sure he's capable of. He grasps her hand. Intertwines their fingers. He can feel the thick, wet warmth of the blood seeping into his skin.

But he grasps on tightly all the same. And Beth leads the way.