Chapter 28.

Brutal.

Daryl woke to the sound of water dripping – slow, at first, and then a sudden splash. He was in a dim room, a cave, with fire on one side and the light of dawn pouring through a gap in the wall. His left side throbbed in time with his pulse.

A hand touched his shoulder.

He flinched away, finding himself face-to-face with that blonde from the road. She had a wet rag in her hand, sitting on her knees by a basin of water.

"It's okay. I'm just-" she began.

"Get away from me," Daryl said, his voice barely enough to overcome the drumming in his head. He moved away too quickly, pulling something in his shoulder, and fire shot down his arm to the tips of his fingers.

He lay on his back, as still as possible.

She crouched nearby, "I'm Emily. I'm a doctor. I'm working on your shoulder. You got shot. Do you remember?"

Daryl nodded, eyes shut.

"You passed out last night. What's the last thing you remember?"

He groaned. "I'm not in the mood for twenty questions, lady."

"Don't call me lady. It's morning, by the way." Her voice was monotonous, like she had said this a million times and didn't give a shit about it anymore. "Rate your pain on a scale of zero to ten, zero being no pain and-"

He cut in again, "Leave me alone. Jesus."

She sighed. "Fine. When the pain is too much, let me know and I'll give you morphine."

Daryl lay there for a while, eyes shut, jaw clenched, trying to fight through the pain. He regretted moving. His arm hurt so badly that he was afraid to move anything, afraid to breathe too deeply.

Emily spoke minutes, or maybe hours, later. "You're lucky you passed out last night."

"I don't feel lucky," he ground out.

"At least you're alive."

He tried to muster some venom, a scowl, anything, but the bullet had taken all of that. It didn't hurt too bad when it went in – a sudden pressure, a little burning – but in the hours that followed, it became overwhelming. By the time Merle killed Cliff, it was too much to take.

Even the memories of what it felt like made him sick.

He finally gave in, "I need the meds."

Daryl was aware of a sweet, sudden relief, like a tide rolling up the shore, and then the day started to pass in and out of dreams. He thought he heard Merle, thought he heard a hawk crying, thought he smelled an earthy creek bed. Emily cut into his stupor every now and then, touching his wrist, tugging on his shoulder.

When he was fully conscious again, the sun was setting.

Merle was standing over him. "You got your senses back yet, boy?"

Daryl had a croaky voice. "Damn, you're uglier than you was when I got shot."

Merle grinned and popped him lightly in the side of the head. "Don't make me regret saving your stupid ass. You know what that shit cost me? A whole day, boy. Look at ya, all laid up like a princess, while I's out gettin' supplies, feedin' the doc, and that whale over there."

Daryl followed his eyes to the back of the cave, where Emily was sitting with that Mexican chick, Carla. His eyes shifted to the blood stain on the cave floor. Cliff. He remembered the shot, the body dropping.

Merle followed his eyes. "What, you gonna cry?"

"I wanted to shoot him myself," Daryl said.

Merle whistled at the women. "Yo, doc. Get him ready to move in the morning, first light."

Emily had a hard face. Impressive, when somebody as tough as Merle was glaring at you. "We're going to run out of morphine soon."

"Princess can take it, can't you, Darylina?"

Daryl grimaced.

Merle rolled his eyes. "Wanted a baby brother, got a sister, huh? Whatever. We got vehicles on down the road a ways. We just gotta make it there."

XxXxX

Daryl gritted his teeth and kept his head down. Walking was hell. Merle kept their pace slow. It was a mercy for both of them – if Daryl heard one more complaint out of his brother, he was gonna shoot him in the mouth with his crossbow, onehanded. He and Roy chattered like sparrows up front, while Daryl trudged along behind them, miserable, and the girls brought up the rear.

"God damnit," Merle muttered, as they broke through the tree line a half mile down the road from their supply stash. Walkers were all over, bobbing between cars, heading into the woods, directly toward their hidden stuff. It was like they knew it was there.

Emily arrived beside them. "I take it your stuff is back there somewhere?"

"I don't wanna hear it outta you." Merle stalked back and forth, scowling, and then decided, "We'll wait a while. If they keep on in circles, we'll fight our way through."

Roy went white in the face, "We can't make it through that."

"I ain't leavin' all that shit behind." Merle let his backpack drop, rested his rifle in both hands.

Daryl was just about to agree with Roy when Carla screamed behind him.

Walkers.

He ripped his crossbow off his back, getting it up just in time to shoot the walker that had grabbed the pregnant woman. He struggled to reload it with only one arm, and then gave up, forcing his injured left arm into operation. It lit up, every nerve singing, but the adrenaline did a hell of a job getting him through.

More walkers joined the fray. Roy had a pipe. Merle swung a machete. Emily defended Carla with a crowbar and a knife. Daryl got backed out of the woods by three of them. He fired his crossbow, hitting one in the neck, and then struggled to reload it with only one arm.

"Screw this," he said, throwing his crossbow over his back and drawing his knife. He stabbed one in the head, used his left arm to push another away. His wound was singing, sapping his strength, making him falter.

He backed up, falling from the edge of the forest into a roadside ditch. He landed on his knees in warm, putrid water. A walker fell with him, landing nearby, righting itself and coming toward him again.

"Need a hand?"

Daryl looked over just in time to see Roy punching him in the face.

He was flattened, briefly, on the bank. His world tilted, and then settled. When he pushed away from the grass, his nose and cheek numb from impact, he saw Roy standing by the guardrail – and, closer, a walker joining him in the water.

Daryl grappled with it, his handicap getting worse the longer the fight went on. The walker only needed a couple of inches, a moment of weakness, and Daryl was a goner. It was over. All of this would be for nothing – and someone as pathetic as Roy would be the reason.

He was almost mad enough to win the fight, just to put a knife in Roy's gut.

Almost.

But a crowbar suddenly creamed the side of its head. Emily shoved the walker off him, helping him to his feet. She was spattered with blood, wild-eyed, blonde hair streaked with red and brown. "You okay? Did it bite you?"

"No," Daryl answered.

Merle appeared, "Let's move, people! Get to the truck!"

It was a mad dash.

He followed Emily, who had a death grip on Carla. He was lightheaded, the adrenaline abandoning him, but there was no room to stop. He had to keep pushing. Merle practically dragged him into the truck, and as they got moving, he plowed through a crowd of walkers. He spun tires for several seconds, shredding heads, torsos.

Daryl was squashed against the window, Emily next to him, Carla next to her. Merle drove, cursing the paint off the walls, and Roy had a map open in the passenger's seat – not that he needed it. Merle knew every nook and cranny of this countryside.

Emily turned backward in her seat, perched on the edge, peeling away Daryl's bandages to look at his shoulder. Her face was grim. "You tore just about every stitch out."

Daryl had a hard time seeing something so close to his face, but the visible parts were angry and red, flesh all puckered up, blood clots sticking to his skin.

She started to say, "I can-"

And then Merle came to a sudden stop. He hit the brakes so hard that Emily nearly flew off her seat. Daryl grabbed her, keeping her from joining the guys in the front.

Merle hopped out of the truck, coming around and opening the door, catching Daryl before he could topple out like a stack of towels. "Come on. Get out and get some fresh air, 'fore you pass out. You look like a god damn ghost."

Daryl stumbled into the road, taking deep breaths. Emily stayed near him, hands out as if she would catch him. "He should be resting, not walking around," she said.

Merle waved her off. "Lady, I ain't in the mood to hear your voice."

Roy got out of the truck. Daryl saw him, met his eyes, drew his gun. Roy seemed ready for a fight, hand on his pistol.

Before either of them could do anything, Merle punched Roy.

He hit him so hard that Roy lay flat on the ground for several seconds, and when he finally came up, he had blood pouring down his face.

Merle walked in a small circle, grinning, shaking his hand out. "Damn. Been a while. Might have broke something. You gotta tuck your thumb, son, remember that."

Roy made some questioning noises. Merle had knocked the words out of him.

"What's that?" Merle said, laughing, cupping his ear. "What's that you said?"

Roy tried to talk again, failed.

Emily and Carla were still as stone.

Daryl had his gun out, waiting.

Roy sat up, touching his face with both hands, painting his palms red. Blood dribbled over his chin and down his neck. A tooth or two dropped from his mouth.

Merle became serious again, his tone enough to turn the Devil around. "I seen what you did out there, boy." Roy made a sound like disagreement, and Merle hit him again. "Don't feed me that shit. I seen you put your hands on my baby brother. I seen you serve him up as biter-bait."

Roy tried a weak defense, but that second hit took the rest of his reason with it. Merle hit like a truck, like a freight train. He got Roy on the ground and started kicking him, driving steel-toed boots into his side, into his stomach, into his back when he curled up.

Emily took a step toward them, but Daryl put a hand up to stop her.

"He's gonna kill him," Emily said.

Merle looked over, smiling, "That's the plan."

Roy made a sobbing sound through his broken nose.

"Listen at you. Sound better than ever," Merle said.

Carla was holding herself, whispering something in Spanish – a prayer, probably.

Merle paused, drawing a knife, offering it up to Daryl. "You wanna do it?"

Daryl simply shook his head. "Nah."

"Suit yourself." Merle lunged and slit his throat.

Daryl looked away as the man convulsed on the ground. He had seen people die before, but this was brutal. His brother was brutal.

Merle came over to Daryl, scanning his face, wiping his knife on his shirt, "You see the shit I do for you, brother?"

Carla started sobbing loudly.

Merle held his knife toward her, "Shut up."

Emily said, "Leave her alone."

Merle came at Emily, knife in hand, stopping when he was an inch away. She held his eyes, defiant. Carla got louder, seeming like she wanted to go to Emily, and also run away. It must have sucked, not being able to understand anything they were saying.

"Let's go," Daryl said, poking Merle in the arm. "Walkers coming."

Merle drew away from Emily reluctantly, glancing at the figures shuffling in the distance. "Fine. Load up. Looks like you're riding shotgun now, bro."

He ran over the body on the way down the road.

XxXxX

Rain was the only sound for a while.

Daryl sat against the wall in the front room of an old hunting cabin. It was raining so hard that the whole building seemed to shudder. Merle was beside him, head tipped back, almost dry from his last trip outside. He kept checking the road, anxious to get going – he was like a dog in a cage.

He made Daryl a sling, tying his injured arm tightly to his chest, saying, "You gotta take the weight off, boy. Don't you know nothin'?" And then he went over the maps from the truck. Merle never could sit still, especially now that any minute could bring walkers.

When the rain let up, the wind started, and then thunder rolled through. Merle went out a few more times to check the road, but every time he stepped foot outside of the cabin, the storm picked up again. "Must have pissed God off," he said, sloughing water everywhere as he kicked his boots off. "I guess Cliff and Roy were his best boys."

It was the middle of the night – maybe, hard to tell with the storm still going – when Merle gave up on the roads clearing. He folded up the maps and set them by the door, peeled off his wet clothes, and settled in next to Daryl.

He said in a faraway voice, "You 'member you had them flaggers when you's a kid?"

Flaggers were tiny fireworks some crazy guy in their neighborhood used to make. He sold them to kids to get money for drugs. He made them out of gunpowder, attached fuses, and then wrapped them in pretty paper. Merle taught Daryl to put them in mailboxes.

It was the summer Daddy spent in Alabama, the last time Merle was the man of the house before he moved out. And it was their last summer together for a while.

Daryl said, "Yeah. Why?"

"Jus' thinkin' about that asshole with the fish mailbox. What was his name? Some stupid black gangster shit. Had one of them cars with the rims all messed up, ridin' an inch off the ground. Never cut his grass. Had that mean ol' pit bull."

A neighbor of theirs. "He almost shot me."

"Yeah, sure did. You was haulin' ass back home. Never seen you run so fast in your damn life."

Merle was laughing, but his tone was weird, muted.

"Heard that gun go off and your dumb ass tripped right then… Thought he got ya."

Merle sounded afraid.

It was something Daryl never saw in him.

And then Merle added, quietly, "Cliff got what he deserved. So did Roy."

Was he guilty for killing them?

Merle never felt guilty. He never had regrets. Cliff and Roy were both trash and Daryl hated them both – almost got killed by them both. But as strong and wild as Merle was, Daryl was almost sure he had never killed anyone before now. And in the span of a few days, he had killed two men.

The realization was chilling.

Daryl said, "Yeah, they did."

Merle nodded, like that was what he wanted to hear, and hopped to his feet. He tapped Daryl on the head. "I'll keep watch. You three princesses get some shuteye."

XxXxX

In the middle of the night, Emily gave him a small shot of morphine and redressed his wound. Merle was out scouting and Carla was asleep in the corner, snoring softly.

It was just the two of them.

She made her own sling for it, much gentler than Merle had been, and told him what motions to avoid. Not that it mattered. If it came to a fight, he was going to tear it apart again.

Emily sat nearby when he finished, legs crossed. "Are you from here, originally?"

"What's it matter?"

"It doesn't." She persisted, "What about this place you're taking us? What's it like?"

"It's okay, I guess."

"Your powers of description are overwhelming."

"Want me to draw you a picture?"

"I'm not staying. I just need to find somewhere safe for Carla… there's some people I'm looking for."

"Ain't nowhere safe."

Emily looked over at Carla. "She's just been through enough, that's all."

"There ain't nothin' better. This is it. Sooner you get that, easier it'll be."

"That's a sad way to think about it."

"Life sucks and then you die."

His brother said that a lot when he was kid, for big things and for small things. It was ingrained, a phrase that just popped up in his brain sometimes. Now the meaning was different. It was more real, more relevant.

Emily returned to the corner with Carla, "I hope you're wrong."

He grew up appreciating silence, being raised a hunter, a fisher. Merle could be a motormouth, but he could also walk ten miles in a day without scaring so much as a squirrel.

Daryl was starting to hate the quiet.

He said, "What'd you do before this?"

"I was in the army."

It made sense. She fought better than any woman he had seen – better than most men, too. And she seemed unafraid of walkers, unafraid of Merle. She must be made of steel.

"Who are you looking for?" he asked.

She lay on her back, arms folded behind her head, eyes closed. "My sisters. We got separated." She smiled at the ceiling. It shifted into a frown. "I came home a few days before this started. I had a new job lined up, wanted to make a difference one person at a time. Out there it was just… piles of bodies, unmarked graves. It's kind of ironic how things turned out."

Daryl said, "Shoulda stayed over there."

"You're a lot different than your brother, you know?"

He always thought he and Merle were just alike. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She went on like she didn't hear him, "I hope you're wrong about life. We've come pretty far already. It would really suck for it not to mean anything."