Author's Note: This is a massive overhaul of the previous story I had published. Nearly EVERYTHING I had in this will be different. If you are a long-time follower, I recommend restarting from the beginning. It will be worth it.

This is one of those stories where the OC is from our universe, and she falls into The Walking Dead universe with all her knowledge of the show. I will lean heavily on how the show is written. Almost nothing from the comic will be used, though she is aware of that version of events as well. She's a super-fan, after all.

*IMPORTANT!* If you prefer to skip to the part where she is already in TWD universe, SKIP TO CHAPTER 3. I will warn you though, you might get confused about how she ends up there. But admittedly isn't strictly necessary. It's mostly to introduce you to the two main original characters I will use.

Finally, this story will be an extremely slow burn. Please be patient. Daryl is worth waiting for.

Without further ado...

Enjoy! and Review!

Tree branches billowed past, reaching out like arms with claws at the end, grabbing at him with sharp points, grasping at his shirt and ripping it.

He has forgotten to try and muffle his movements as he sprinted through the forest – as he fled for his life. No – it was more than that.

He had more than just forgotten. He wasn't even trying anymore. It's against everything he had ever done his entire life. He is a hunter; he is the unseen; he is the wind that rustles the leaves but leaves no trail.

He is not this bumbling idiot crashing through the forest, boots cracking every twig in their wake, shirt snagging every branch along the way. You could hear him from a mile away.

No, this is not Daryl Dixon.

This is a man running for his life.

An entire hoard of walkers surged toward him from behind. They moved like a wave in slow motion, like a room that flooded sluggishly. Growing; expanding; inching forward with one ultimate goal in sight. Move, and conquer.

Except, this wave had a more sinister drive. Among the thoughtless instincts lay an insidious intention: feed. And Daryl Dixon was their entrée.

He felt, in that moment, very much like the proverbial carrot dangling from the end of a stick. He could only keep moving, because if that donkey gets ahold of the carrot…

Let's take a step back. How did he get in this position? How did the infamous Daryl Dixon find himself in such a compromising situation? Well, for starters, Judith needed formula. And Daryl just had to volunteer.

He's gone soft. Ever since that little girl Sophia went and got herself lost in the woods he went softer than feather fletching. At least by Dixon standards. He was still a standoffish hillbilly to anyone who didn't bother to take a closer look.

To be totally fair, Sophia's situation struck a chord deep within the man. He knew what it felt like to be lost in the woods. He knew how terrifying that was, even without the demonic undead chasing after you. There was really only ever one option for him. It was as simple as breathing: he knew it was up to him to find her. Someone had to do something. And at the time it felt like he was the only one really trying.

Well, that's how it had started. And it hadn't gone unnoticed by the group. Daryl could see it in T-Dog's eyes when he brought Sophia's doll back with him. He could read it from the tray of food that Carol brought to him when he was injured. He even saw it in the way that little Carl stood a little straighter when he came near, as if being in the presence of some kind of hero.

He had never been anyone's hero before.

And so, after Lori died, and the baby's cries echoed through the walls of the prison, something became apparent to those who weren't blinded by grief. It had actually been Daryl to voice the obvious matter at hand.

And he had stated it so eloquently. As Beth cradled the small infant in her arms, Daryl had approached the crowd gathered around her and simply stated this: "Lil' Ass Kicker ain't got teeth."

Oh, how everyone had gawked at him. Beth had started to make an amused comment along the lines of yes; Judith had no teeth, and prepared to launch into a drawn out explanation of human infants and their quirks. Like how to work a diaper, the fact that the head should be cradled, and their notoriously short sleeping periods.

But Daryl barreled right over her and elaborated his comment. He meant that she had no teeth and would therefore need formula. And now that she brought it up, diapers, too. Beth had turned an alarming shade of red, and the group had started discussing who would be going to scavenge for the formula.

In the end, Maggie had insisted to come along. Everyone else needed to stay behind for one reason or another, and truth be told Daryl didn't mind Maggie. He found that she had a good head on her shoulders and kept Glenn in line. When had he stopped calling Glenn Chinaman?... Never mind that.

Daryl had a pretty good hunch why Maggie was so persistent about going with him, but they hadn't felt the need to justify their actions to each other.

Then, finding a place with formula had proved a daunting task in itself. There were several stores that Daryl had suggested, all of which Maggie refuted. More often than not she admitted it was because she had already scoped these places out beforehand, upon Lori's request.

They struck gold with a church that doubled as a daycare center. Actually, Daryl had very nearly blown past the place on his motorcycle, but Maggie tapped his shoulder and nodded to the deteriorating sign.

At first, there had been a few walkers that the pair had needed to pick off, but overall it was surprisingly barren, given the size of the place. So they delved deeper, all the while keeping their eyes open for a nursery. They located it quickly enough, and in no time at all they left with their bag nearly spilling over with disposable bottles and formula.

That's when the successful trip took an ominous turn. Daryl had located a side exit while Maggie stuffed the bag with their finds, and together, they decided to perform one final sweep of the nursery before taking the shortcut.

Oh, how foolish they had been.

Daryl and Maggie exited the nursery. He led her towards the side exit, head darting back and forth as he checked behind them down the long, dark corridor. An unspoken dread had settled over both of them, mostly because it was too easy. The whole thing had been way too easy, especially for Daryl, and he was prepared to find a few stray walkers shoot out from the darkness behind them.

After that he felt a bit more satisfied. It seemed a bit more balanced now. Peril had snuck up behind them, and that was the expectation these days.

So, when Maggie took the lead through the side door, he didn't give it a second thought. What was the difference who led the way out at this point? He was right behind her. He had her back.

The doors of the side exit were large, windowless, and were equipped with bars to push instead of a handle. They were heavy-duty steel, and the sheer size of them should have clued them in on the fact that maybe the doors didn't lead outside. Maybe it had opened to another hallway, or a playground, or in this case – a gymnasium.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The doors swung open and right away, the stench hit them like a tidal wave. Death, plain and simple. It was enough to curl the hair on your arms, wilt any sort of vegetation. It reeked. The smell wasn't just an effect of death, it was enough to kill. And wasn't that fitting?

Maggie had stumbled back, throwing her hands to her face so she could clamp them over her nose. Tears sprang to her eyes as the scent eviscerated any fresh air, and even the unshakeable Daryl Dixon had to turn away for a moment.

They had been caught off guard. Foolishly, they had assumed those few walkers that surprised them in the dark was the worst there was. Perhaps the prison had spoiled them. Perhaps the thought of returning back to feed the infant distracted them. Perhaps the death of their long-time companion, Lori, stuck closer to the forefront of their mind than either of them were willing to admit.

Or, perhaps their lack of recent exposure to this new world dulled their vigilance, but whatever the case, there was a massive crowd of walkers in that gymnasium. And they had just opened their cage door.

Long story short, Daryl was out of arrows, Maggie had been separated from him, and he found himself sprinting through the woods. The hoard of walkers had thinned, but there were still fifty or so stumbling after him. It was an unsettling mixture of children and adults. If he had the time, Daryl would've mused that perhaps the church had been set up as a makeshift refugee center. People tended to turn to places of faith in times of great upheaval, after all. Even he knew that.

But he didn't have the time to speculate about why the walkers were trapped in the gymnasium in the first place. All he knew was that he was out of ammo, out of breath, and shit out of luck.

He didn't know how long he'd been running, but he knew he was far enough along to make turning back for his motorcycle no longer a viable option. The forest was growing thicker with each twig that snapped under his feet.

He had lost his poncho somewhere along the way. His arms were covered with little scratches from tree branches. His mouth was so dry that his tongue felt like a lump of cotton. His lungs burned like you would not believe, and he had lost feeling in his thighs, which quivered like jello with every step.

But the herd was still giving chase.

And he was still alive.

So he ran.

And then, he tripped.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He tripped over a root, bit down on his tongue as his jaw collided with the earth, and didn't stop there. He tumbled down a steep drop. His limbs were a jumble, legs over arms, shoulders touching knees, hands grabbing onto tufts of mud and dry leaves as he struggled to find purchase on the ravine.

He rolled to a stop at the end, and the tips of his fingers were tickled by something wet. Hot blood flooded his mouth. Disoriented, he groaned and tried to sit up. The world was spinning around him like a top. A bone in his ankle felt… wrong. Adrenaline hazed over the pain, so he didn't know if it was broken, but he knew that it probably wasn't meant to be sticking at that angle.

He spat and tried to find some air. The wind had been knocked out of him, and he lay on the ground, gasping for breath like a fish out of water. He looked up at the sky, its serene azure a stark contrast to what was transpired down on earth, and the trees were still spinning in his vision. Black dots joined the leaves and danced around in the wind, and he struggled to stay conscious.

Something tugged at his boot. He let out a strangled yowl, sounding vaguely like a wounded cat, and shot off the ground. He almost fell back down, but by some miracle he managed to balance on one leg and kick his way back from the walker that grasped at his injured ankle. He growled low in his throat, desperately backing away.

He found that the liquid that tickled his fingers belonged to a river. He was now scrambling into it, and the water splashed around him like a living thing. He paid it no mind, labeling it the lesser of two evils, as he sought refuge from the straggly walker. It found its feet and waded sloppily in the ankle-deep water after him.

The water had reached Daryl's chest as he crawled away, but he didn't dare stop. The water was up to the walker's calves, but it was standing and that gave it the distinct advantage, and it was too close for comfort to Daryl. He picked anything he could up from the bottom of the river. Rocks, twigs, and mossy leaves slapped onto the walker's face. It stumbled for a moment when a particularly sticky handful of leaves latched onto its eyes.

Daryl took that as his chance and pulled himself onto his feet, screaming a little when he put weight on his ankle. All he knew was that he needed distance between himself and that walker, and scrambling like a crying schoolgirl wasn't doin' it. His crossbow was too far. He was nearly weaponless. For a moment he actually thought he was, and then he remembered the knife on his belt.

He tugged it free and when the walker was close enough, he stabbed it into its head. The walker fell with a mighty splash, and Daryl almost followed into the water after it in relief.

As it was, he swayed on his feet and nearly did fall in. But he managed to stay upright long enough to wade out of the river and back onto the bank.

His butt slapped the wet mud as he collapsed next to his crossbow. He was heaving shaky breaths as the adrenaline wore off, unable to think of anything but the pain in his ankle and his brush with death.

But Daryl Dixon is a hunter. He is resourceful, and he is strong, and he is selfless, and he is a survivor. He is quite possibly the luckiest bastard alive, and mused this to himself as he dragged his injured ankle closer to his hands.

He thought of how Merle cut off his hand on that roof to survive. Surviving is in his blood. It's been pounded into him from day one, and right now, while he's on his last leg, it's all he's got. And he's not about to stop.

Just as he leaned forward to yank up the leg of his pants and get a better look at his ankle, something latched onto his shoulder.

He screamed, swatting at the new pain. It was too much, he very nearly fainted right then and there, but his fists connected with flesh, and as soon as they did he realized his mistake.

In his haste to escape that other walker, he had forgotten about the hoard that chased him. Now, the few who had tumbled down after him had found their way to him. And they were converging on him, and he was buried under them.

Brittany Mathers let out a scream of frustration. She slammed her buzzing controller down, knocking over her glass of cream soda in the process.

The screen of her TV flashed red, and the camera zoomed away from Daryl Dixon buried under a writhing mass of walkers beside the river in a blurred, crimson-tinged haze. It flashed and taunted her for her failure, and she took a look at her soaked carpet before deciding it was time to take a break.

"I pressed square! Stupid game," she muttered under her breath as she stormed into the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels. "Not as good as the comics, anyway."

As she began to blot up the cream soda from her carpet, The Walking Dead theme song blared from the speakers of her phone. She sighed and wobbled over to it on her knees. Her hand plunged into the seat of her gaming chair, digging around for her phone that had been buried in its cushions.

She let out an exasperated sigh as she finally yanked it free. She answered it, but before she had the chance to say anything, a familiar voice called out, "Save me!"

Heaving an annoyed grunt, Brittany wobbled back over to the mess. She tore off another paper towel. "What?" She muttered into the phone.

She pressed the paper towel to the carpet and waited as it sucked up the mess.

"If I have to do any more of these taxes, I'm killing myself. My eyes are about to fall out as it is," Her best friend dramatically declared. In spite of herself, Brittany cracked a grin. "Save me." She added again.

"What did you have in mind?"

"The new Walking Dead game is out at Best Buy. I've heard it's to die for." She let out an amused snort at her pun, and Brittany rolled her eyes. "Let's buy it, then hole ourselves up in your house for the rest of our lives."

Brittany bit her lip. "Oh, I might have heard something about that." Her eyes flickered to the screen that was still blinking at the scene of Daryl's death.

Amy, her best friend, paused. "You bitch."

Brittany bit back an amused snort. "What?"

"You've been holding out on me!"

"I've done nothing of the sort," She smirked.

"That's it! We're through," Amy continued dramatically. Sounds of her hand smacking a table cackled over the speaker. "I can't take this anymore! You never share anything with me. This relationship has always been one-sided; my mother was right!"

Brittany crumpled up a paper towel and let out a laugh, the tension from before leaving her body.

"Admit it," Amy pressed. "You hate me."

"Oh, shut up. I've got cream soda and cookie dough ice cream."

For a second she didn't respond. And then, in a miffed voice, "…What level are you on?"

Brittany scowled, looking back at the screen with her lip snarled up. "Three. I keep killing Daryl."

"Serves you right. If I was invited that would never have happened. I've always been better with the crossbow." Amy sniffled for effect.

Brittany huffed, frowning. "No, you can't use it—you know what? I'm not saying anything else. You'll see, just get over here."

"No! I want my own copy. They're also selling t-shirts. I've had my eye on that Glenn one." Brittany could hear her smirk through the phone. "Love me some Pizza Boy…Meet me at Best Buy."

Brittany dramatically groaned, as if it was some huge inconvenience. "Alright, I suppose," She conceded.