Chapter 4.

The Dead.

Daryl.

Daryl Dixon was dreaming of the little creek behind his childhood home – how it wound around the trees, exposing their roots along its steep bank, how it raced after a rainstorm, how his tire swing twisted and groaned in the wind. He was watching it, as relaxed as he had ever been, when a pine cone struck him in the face and brought him back into the real world.

He put his arms up to protect himself and rolled off of the tree limb he was perched on. His arm hooked instinctually around the branch and, for a few precious seconds, he dangled twenty feet above the ground.

"Oh, careful there, I ain't carryin' your ass."

His brother stalked the bottom of the tree like a hunting hound. He was big and bulky, grinning, all kinds of ugly packed into one mean mug.

"Come on, move your ass," Merle rasped. He had smoked just about everything you could smoke his whole life and there was no getting your voice back after that. "You're wastin' daylight up there, boy. Come on."

Daryl scrambled back onto the limb, his heart racing. It was barely dawn, too early for this shit.

"I said, move your ass!" Merle threw another pine cone.

Daryl groaned, "I'm comin', damn!"

"I swear, I ain't never seen a fella scurry up a tree like you before, little brother," Merle commented. "If I wasn't so sure your ass was part possum for that ugly face, I'd say you was half-squirrel at least. You know, Momma was goin' through a wild phase when you was-"

He was interrupted when Daryl made it to the ground and chucked a stick at his face. Merle knocked it away with his broad forearm, smiling.

"Look at you, all sunshine and rainbows this mornin'," he cooed. He held up a string of squirrels. "I bagged us a few while you was snoozin', you recognize any of these? Maybe you got a long-lost uncle on this string." When he got no response, he shrugged, "Cat got your tongue?"

Both of them looked up when a branch snapped nearby.

Merle lost his playful attitude and tucked the squirrels into his bag, his face grim. "Ain't seen hide or heel of that herd passed through last night, but I ain't tryin' to stick around. Get your shit and let's move. Highway ain't far from here."

It was already hot out. Daryl hauled his backpack over his sore shoulders and hooked his crossbow to it, following his brother into the trees.

He watched the forest, listened to it. Every now and then they passed a copse of red maple, a yellowwood or two, or a lone green ash – the forest was saying water. Daryl filled his canteen a few times over, gulping it down, sweating it out. They stopped to collect elderberries, eating a few for breakfast, saving most for later.

It was a one-sided conversation for a while, because Daryl was not a talker, and Merle was too busy talking to himself. He complained about the weather, grumbled about leaving his bike back home, and commented on the signs of wildlife around them.

"You see that? Black bear. Been through here recently, or them stalks would be back up by now. It was strippin' the berries off them bushes, breakin' the stems. Birds don't break stems."

"Could have been deer," Daryl responded.

"Deer don't like elderberries – they eat blueberries, mostly, if they're gonna partake. We would've seen more stem damage, and all them shoots would be half-eaten. No. Been a bear through here, mark my words. I would love to bag me a bear, have a big old roast, pack that baby up for the road. Mmm. I brought bear home before?"

Daryl shook his head.

"Hard to describe the taste. Whatever they been eatin'. We bagged a fishy son bitch when you was a ankle-biter, made me shit my guts out for days." He laughed. "It was a good time. Jess shot it right 'tween the eyes, let me skin it. You wouldn't believe the blubber on it, like openin' up that fat bitch from that talk show, what's 'er name?"

Daryl shrugged.

"You get it, anyway. Big old pearls of white right under the skin. You ever bag a deer looks like that, cut it off before you cook it, 'less you lookin' to bleach your asshole the ol' fashioned way."

"Why we goin' to the highway?"

Merle responded with less energy than before, like that question had taken the joy out of this endless march through the woods. "You heard the radio, same as me."

"You wanna go to Atlanta?"

"Yeah."

Daryl was quiet, watching a squirrel scamper away from them. He raised his crossbow, but then decided against firing.

"You got somethin' else in mind, son?"

"We got warrants."

Merle chuckled, "Boy, you heard that shit, ain't nobody checkin' your name at the door."

"Why can't we just go home?"

Merle stopped, sighing, running his hand over his sweaty face. "What's with the twenty questions? We both agreed we had to leave. You gettin' cold feet? You wanna turn tail and hide? There ain't nobody left at home. We barely got outta there alive. We ain't goin' back."

It was still a fresh memory to him – the blood, the screaming.

Merle groaned, but his glare softened. "Jess is dead, boy. Pa is dead. We're on our own. It's just you and me now. You get that?"

Daryl nodded reluctantly, "I get it."

"Okay then. Stop this worryin' shit, good lord."

It took over an hour to get to the highway. Daryl listened to his brother, listened to the same lessons in tracking he had been hearing since he was a boy, and let his mind wander at the same time. He pictured the birds that were singing, imagined the tiny animals scratching around, studied the leaves and the needles beneath his feet. It was better in the woods, surrounded by trees, with a million leaves rustling to hide their existence. Merle wanted to leave that behind, to take to the road, to find other people and take shelter among them – but why?

When the forest ended, Merle set his stuff down and dragged some branches over it, and then checked the bullets in his pistol. Daryl stood by him, looking out over the wide stretch of asphalt. It was crowded on one side, the side going into Atlanta, and almost empty on the other.

Every car was stopped, gridlocked, and there were no signs of life anywhere.

Merle stood there considering it for a few moments, and then said, "Not exactly what I was hopin' for, but we still got a lot of opportunity in front of us. Probably all panicked, left their stuff behind, hoofed it to the city limits. Come on. Let's see what we can find to replenish our supply, maybe see if the road's clear enough to get my truck up here."

It was even hotter on the road. Daryl wiped sweat from his face constantly as they walked between the first row of cars. He started seeing bad signs – a flash of blood on the side of a car, a misplaced sneaker, a figure shuffling in the distance.

And the smell gradually built, a smell that embodied the essence of rot, of death, of decay. It permeated every pore, made his nose hairs burn, made him tense and edgy.

He saw the truth, at last, in the second row. He and Merle stopped and beheld it together. Bodies lay sprawled out, pieces of them missing, baking in the heat of the day. Some were barely human anymore, just chunks of meat with the remnants of clothes, eaten away down to the bone. If they still had faces, they were twisted with terror, frozen that way forever.

Merle started tapping bodies with his boot. "Dead. Dead. Super dead." He jumped back when one of them moved and started reaching for him, "Bout to be dead, c'mere."

He sliced its head clean in two.

Merle staggered, blood speckling his face, and wiped his blade clean on his pants leg. He put his hand hard on Daryl, squeezing his shoulder, "Go for the head, leave 'em real dead." He sheathed his machete. "Well, safe to say these fine folk won't be needin' their shit anymore."

Daryl stood there, watching blackish blood ooze out of one half of the split skull.

"Hey, boy, come on down to Earth," Merle said quietly, patting him hard on the back. "Don't you get soft on me now. Go on. Get movin'."

Daryl made himself move, doing his best not to think about what was going on. He had heard the radio, same as Merle, heard them declaring an emergency and listing shelters. He had not imagined it could be so big until now, until he walked along the road, between dozens of abandoned cars, and stepped over what was left of their passengers.

"Hey, see if you can score me some dope!" Merle called, growing further away.

It went on into the morning, until he was soaked with sweat, until his bare shoulders were sunburnt, and the smell of death stopped bothering him. Daryl wanted to stay away from the city, but Merle was leading them closer to it, and Daryl was bidden to follow.

He found countless bodies stored away, hiding, rotting – elderly people, pets, little kids, couples holding each other – and he found bloody photos and stuffed animals, wedding rings on chains, dogs dead in their kennels. He also found porn magazines, narcotics, heroin, and undoubtedly illegal weapons. He found arrows for his crossbow, a desert eagle that he tucked into his waistband, and a machete he was sure Merle would want.

His pockets were brimming with goods when he settled on a car that had slid into the divider. It seemed mostly undamaged, with no blood or gore around it, and it was packed to the ceiling.

Daryl peeked in the windows, grinning at the folded up sleeping bags inside. But the doors were locked. He tried to put his elbow through the window and failed.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Daryl whipped around, both hands going to his crossbow, but it was too late for that. He was looking down the silver-grey barrel of a shotgun.

It was held by a man in his forties, with a sunken, tired face, dark hair and a beard, and eyes as wild as anything. He had his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot, and that gun was as steady as the sun in his hands.

"I said, what do you think you're doing?" the man repeated.

"Nothin'," Daryl responded.

"Sure looked like something," the man said, his voice trembling with rage. "Sure looked like you were tryin' to steal from me. Is that what you were doing?"

"Hey! You best get that gun off him!"

Merle was shouting from down the road. Daryl tensed as his brother came into view behind the man. He could not make himself look away from the gun, as close as it was.

His brother stopped five feet away, just within his field of view, his voice booming and the veins in his face bulging, "Hey, numbnuts, I said stop that shit!"

"Back off," the man said, his voice trembling at last.

Daryl saw it then, an unwillingness to shoot. His finger shook on the trigger. He seemed more sad than anything, that rage aimed at someone else, or something else.

Suddenly, there was another voice.

"Whoa, whoa, hey. Everybody stop. Just stop."

Daryl did not look, but there were two people there on the edge of his vision. One voice sounded distinctly northern, a city guy, and the other was true-blue southern.

"What's going on here?" the southern one asked.

Silence.

Daryl swallowed, a bead of sweat jumping his eyebrow and nestling down into his eye. It stung and gave the sun a glare, but he stayed perfectly still.

"Can we start with our names?" the northerner asked, his voice low and pleading. "Just a name. You can call me Dale, and this is Rick. What can we call you?"

He was met with more silence.

He kept pushing. "We came out here looking for survivors. How did you get out here? Were you on the road last night when… when this all happened?"

Finally, the man with the shotgun ground out, "Jim."

"Jim. Okay, Jim." Dale stepped a little closer, bold, because now Daryl could see both of his hands and know that he was unarmed. "What happened here?"

"He was stealing from me."

Daryl might have done better if he kept his mouth shut, but he just couldn't. "I ain't steal shit."

"You were about to. I saw you."

"Jim, hey, can you lower that gun please?" Rick, the other one, the southerner, said. "We just want to talk to you. But you havin' that gun on him makes us all real nervous." He waited, and then added, "Is this really worth killing someone over? Do you really want to hurt him?"

It took a long, long second for any response to come. Daryl did not breathe. He waited, wondering if these were the questions this guy should be asking, wondering if Merle could do something before he got his face blown off. But he only had that one second to wonder, because Jim finally lowered his gun and released a shuddering gasp.

Merle lurched forward the moment the shotgun was down and grabbed Daryl, dragging him out to stand beside him – it was three groups then, the new arrivals, the bearded man, and the brothers.

He got a look at the two men at last, putting voices to faces immediately. Rick was the tall one, proud, dressed down in a brown police uniform with a handgun on his side and a wide-brimmed hat shading his face. His companion was shorter, older, with a white beard and beady, surprised eyes. Jim was scrawny, his beard bigger than his face, and those wild eyes darted around.

"I think you all should come back with us," Rick said. "We have a small group going, and we can keep each other safe." He was looking at Jim. "Do you have a family out here?"

Jim looked to the car and shook his head once, finally dropping those eyes.

"What about you two?" Rick asked of them.

Daryl said nothing. Merle grinned, "Just got each other, boss."

"We're trying to find a safe place to stay until help comes," Dale said. "We're heading to a quarry up the road, as soon as we get my RV started."

"You got kids there?" Jim asked.

Rick looked at him strangely.

Jim clarified, "I have sleeping bags in the car, kid-sized, some of them."

"You almost shot me over that shit," Daryl objected. "Now you're just givin' it away?"

Jim glared at him.

Merle grabbed Daryl hard on the shoulder, chuckling, "Whoa, what my brother is tryin' to say is we would be happy to join your group." He was trying to be genuine, but Daryl knew when he was full of shit. "You can call me Merle, and this here's my baby brother Daryl. He ain't so good with the social stuff, barely talks, practically mute, poor kid. Doctors called him a simpleton, but I find that shit offensive." He pulled a line of squirrels from his backpack, holding them up, "Here, call this our membership fee. Me and Daryl here are hunters, born and bred."

Daryl stared at him. He always said they were better off alone. What was he playing at now?

"Nice to meet you," Rick said shortly. "Do any of you have mechanical experience?"

Jim nodded, and Merle said, "I can give it a whack."

Both of them joined the sheriff in the lead, and Dale trailed them. Daryl found himself at the back, keeping an eye out behind them, sometimes stopping to pick something up or peek into a car window. He kept a close watch on the group, ready to step in and help if Merle suddenly decided to rob them. He had seen him play the nice guy a few times before, and it always ended that way.

Rick led them down the road and across the divider, to an old-fashioned RV parked precariously across two lanes. A man worked under the hood, kind of fat, with a snarling mouth and a bulldog face, just the type to buddy up with his brother. Merle joined him, and Daryl stepped into the vehicle, taking one look around and scowling. It was as ugly as sin, and it smelled worse.

He sat at the tiny table, in a booth too small for him, and laid his crossbow out. It was hot out, and hotter inside, but he sat there picking bits of pine straw out of his bow while they tried to get it running. He was sweating bullets, but it was worth it to get out of the sun for a while.

Dale came inside and mulled around, opening cabinets, muttering to himself, and then pausing near him and waiting for something.

Daryl looked up, met his eyes, and then looked away.

"You're welcome, for saving you out there," Dale said, as humble as someone could be when they were begging for gratitude.

Daryl snorted, looking out the window.

"So, you two have been traveling in the woods? I guess you have a knack for survival. What direction did you come from? Up north?"

He kept on with the questions, so Daryl had to leave the RV to get away from him. He stood in the shade, arms crossed, and listened to Merle shoot shit with the bulldog-faced man, Ed, until the RV roared to life. It seemed someone had stolen a spark plug.

Everyone loaded up, and Daryl lingered, grabbing Merle before he could get in.

"What are you playin' at?" he demanded.

Merle smiled, "Whatever do you mean, bro?"

"What're you doing with these people? Why'd you give 'em our squirrels?"

"You just wait and see, boy. You just wait and see."

Daryl followed him in, sitting near the back with Merle and staring out the window. He was hungry and tired, sore from sleeping in that tree, but he never let his guard down. He sat awake and alert, moving toward the front when the quarry came into view.

He knew it the moment he saw it.

It was layers of rock, eaten down to form roads to the bottom. Some big company had come in and scooped out whatever valuable stone had been here and left a giant crater in the earth. It filled with water, leaving a small pebble beach at the bottom.

He had seen a lot of pretty things in the woods, but that lake glistening in the midday sun, as quiet and pristine as anything, took his breath away.

"Here, we can park up here," Rick said, pointing out a clearing above the lip of the quarry. It was near the widest road that went down to the shore, and it had a good view of their surroundings. Dale parked the RV and cut it off, and they all sat there, unmoving, for a moment.

"We must be, what, two miles from the others, through the woods?" Dale wondered.

Rick nodded. "We need to split up. Jim, you come with me and we'll go get the others. You all scout the area, make sure it's safe."

"How many more people you got coming out here?" Merle asked innocently.

Rick hesitated before he answered, "Ten, give or take."

Ed spoke up, "Hey, Carol and the kid alright?"

Dale looked back, incredulous, "Are you only asking that now?" He looked at Rick, unbelieving. "Is he only asking that now?"

"They're fine," Rick responded shortly.

He left the RV, and they all gathered outside. Daryl squinted across the quarry, appreciating a wide-open space after days in the forest. He liked the wind, the fresh smell of the wild world. It was better than going to the city, better than staying home.

"Everybody clear on how to deal with walkers?" Rick asked.

Merle smiled, "Go for the head, make 'em real dead."

He left, half-jogging away down the road, with Jim right behind him. Daryl began to wander, holding his crossbow ready in his arms. He stepped up to the edge of the crater and looked down, whistling at the drop.

"You thinkin' of jumpin'?" Merle asked, joining him.

"Thinkin' of throwing your ass off," Daryl muttered.

"Sorry for the simpleton comment. I got a little carried away. Better they think we're some kind of stupid. You gotta keep your cards to yourself."

Daryl wanted to know what his game was, but Merle was hard to read. He always looked like he was joking, and when he didn't, he was royally pissed off. There was no in-between with him. It had been that way since he could remember – hot and cold, no exceptions.

"Well, you heard the man," Merle said, turning suddenly and addressing everyone. "Let's fan out and see if there are any dead guys walking around. Anybody wanna borrow a machete?"