Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Though if they gave it to me I certainly wouldn't say no.
Warnings: See original chapter for a complete list of warnings. This particular chapter will contain significant adult language, violence, and mild slash.
Authors Note #1: Please read and review. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. The encouragement and constructive criticism your reviews provide makes the writing process that much more enjoyable!
Authors Note #2: I want to thank all the people that reviewed the last chapter. It really gave me a boost knowing how much you guys are enjoying and following the story. If makes writing this a joy!
Rotation – Chapter 8
His mother had once told him that a humming birds wings could beat anywhere from twenty to twenty five times a second. Far faster then the human eye could catch, and an acceptable explanation for that almost hypnotic blur the little creatures always seemed to produce, especially to a curious and inquisitive child. He remembered being nearly obsessed with the thrum, the near tangible vibration the little birds seemed to create, seeming to cut through the air itself rather then flow together with it.
He supposed in a very real way, when it all came down to it, what really drew him in was that he admired the level of sheer tenacity and good old fashioned Georgian gumption that could come from a beast that small. There was something familiar in the mere attitude.. Besides that, it was a bird that zipped and zig-zagged around faster then it took a normal person to blink. It was shit like that that made you think about giving Mother Nature props for the design alone.
…But somehow, despite all the possibilities and improbabilities of the moment itself, it felt like in less time then that, just over the edge of the open cellar hatch, that that elusive, half seen glimpse suddenly came together…
It was a man in a shredded, grey silk suit and expensive patented leather shoes. He looked like he could have been anyone's rich grandfather, sporting a full head of distinguished salt and pepper hair and an abundance of deeply etched laugh lines. His hands were soft, but kind, as if he had never even so much as laid a hand across the rear ends of his own misbehaving children. Something that in itself stood out in stark contrast to the punishments that had been dealt out by his own old man, god knows he still had the belt buckle scars. In fact this man struck him as been someone who had probably been prone to spoiling his grandchildren outrageously, sneaking them sweets and bits of pocket money whenever their mother's pretty little heads were turned. All testaments to a life lived full to the brim with happiness and good humour.
The only thing was that this wasn't just a man anymore.
In fact the unassuming and almost coy picture the man produced was utterly ruined by the conspicuous chunk of flesh that was missing from the meat of his right thigh, the wound itself barely covered by the ragged, trailing yards of what looked like a partially undone tensor bandage and a wad of bled through cotton packing. He could even smell it from the distance, rotted through and gangrenous.
It was something that one could only assume had once been some sort of make shift bandage, something that had obviously been applied soon after the attack, trying to staunch the worst of the flow as the man had sought better treatment. In fact, you could even picture the scene as it happened. Perhaps the man had been sitting in the waiting room of the hospital when it happened, when he had turned, still patiently waiting as the grievously wounded were treated first. One of his concerned children waiting anxiously beside him, their worried eyes taking in the growing, grey tinged pallor as it spread, the fever fastly taking hold as their uncomprehending eyes could do little else but watch. Or maybe he hadn't even made it that far. Perhaps he had turned right then and there, left to wander the streets hungry and alone, his family worried and desperate as his phone switched automatically to voice mail, the same cheerful message greeting their frustrated ears over and over again. Mocking them with the echoes..
He wondered how long it had taken them to realize.. Probably too long.
..That was why the hospitals had fallen first. They had been too busy dealing with the influx of the wounded to realize the deeper, far more sinister problem brewing just underneath. And by the time they had, it had almost always been far too late..
However, the underlying point still held true. A geek or two was hardly anything to write home about. They had both proved that to be true a thousand times over during the past few months. But on the other hand, more then one? Not so much.
And predictably, just because fate is a sloppy, salt encrusted cunt, that one glimpse quickly became two, three, and then finally four as the stinking, staggering group converged on them from some point just out of his immediate sight, propelling themselves forward in an uneven rectangle, their movements far too fast as they closed in on the kid before he could even react.
Shit. These fuckers were fresh.
The flightily swish and sudden thunk of his arrow meeting dead flesh signalled the first one he dropped. A middle aged women in sun faded jeans and a grocery store smock, neck torn open clear to the tendons. Her limp hands upraised, still opening and closing rhythmically even as she fell backwards, the stock of his arrow thrumming hollowly as it found its mark pierced through the flesh of her left ear.
Pivoting to his right he cleared the cellar stairs and exploded out into the open just in time to watch Glenn take out Mr. Grey Suit with a well executed blow to the base of it's head. Baseball bat cracking through the stagnant evening air with all the intensity of a shot gun blast. The sound alone made him itch for the wood bound stock of his Remington 870. All streamlined and dependable, so different from the prissy little Glock 17 he had shoved into his belt before they had left camp. But they couldn't risk the sound. Not here. There just weren't enough bullets to merit the risk of attracting anymore to their position.
Except now there were more of them. And they were everywhere. Limping around the corner of the neighbouring house, pouring through the small space between the women's parked truck and the house in front like the gates of hell themselves had been thrown wide open. He stopped counting at ten. Unable to spare the attention as his arrows continued to find their mark.
..Pull…
..Aim...
…Release.
..Yes!
..Again…
..Shit!
..Again…
…Again!
"Glenn! Drop!" He yelled, watching as the kid hit the dirt without a pause, clearing the way for him to take down the walker that had been sidling up behind them as they both dealt with their own. The creatures gums rotted through and salivating even as he caught the thing right between the eyes, already turning away to find his next target as Glenn slid to the side, rolling to his feet as the geek dropped, his dark, sable head on a swivel as he regained his footing.
He took down two more that were coming around the curve of the house behind him, brushing against the younger man as they fought back to back for a few scant moments before circumstance sent them spiralling off into open space, leaning into every shot, every upstroke and bat strike they could bring to bear. His bolts whistling through the air like a disconnected, base line song that ended the moment they met with the ivory thickness of bone and the soft, yielding nature of human flesh.
And despite it all, even as he whirled away, bow string quivering under his thumb like a pulse, he couldn't quite manage to tamper down the heady exhilaration of the moment. It was the kind emotion that results when your body is shot through with far too much adrenaline and you are coasting along the precipice of either laughing out loud, or pissing yourself with barely realized fear. Because for the life of him he just couldn't shake the sensation of the kids sweat slicked skin sliding against his own, the man's dark eyes bright, and teeth openly bared the second before they had broken apart. Caught up in the moment as their bodies met, muscles bunching, and then automatically releasing as they slid away, the motion slow..and almost sensual in it's familiarity and ease.
It was almost as if the kid actually knew..
The crowd was thinning. He could see it. And the truck was in sight. Safety so close that he could practically taste it on his tongue. His chest heaved, straining as he darted along the outskirts of the crowd, picking off their numbers one by one as they reached for him. The sound of the man's bat cracking home again and again close to his side seemed to mirror the frenetic beat of his pulse as the heady thrum pulsed at his temples. His face sweat streaked and hard as the crimson sky darkened above them, seemingly indifferent to the plight of the world now withering below.
But that was the moment. The moment where that one error, that one misstep, twist of fate..or whatever you want to call it… can cost you just about everything..
Because a second later the kid tripped, stumbling as he dodged out of the way as two of the horrid things lunged as one. The man hitting the loose gravel with bruising force, bat rolling out of his limp grip as he scrabbled against the uneven rock, sneakers desperately trying to find purchase on the uneven sod as one of the geeks lurched unsteadily downward, it's gnarled, blood encrusted fingers curling around the edges of the man's t-shirt collar. The second one wasn't far behind, and the only other geek that he could see that was left was making its way around the open hatch. Encroaching on the three of them like it could already scent the man's blood on the wind.
"Kid! Move!" He bellowed, charging along the outskirts of the skirmish as he fought to find an opening. Chest growing vice tight and suffocating when he realised he could only see the occasional sliver of the young Korean as he scrabbled across the unforgiving gravel, squirming and kicking at the grabbing hands as he fought to get away.
The kid wasn't going to make it…
…He couldn't get a clear shot! Fuck!
"No!.. Daryl! … Daryl!"
And he just couldn't help it when his mind went back to that same dark place it had gone that moment in Atlanta. The moment where the kid had screamed out his name just like he was doing now. Calling for him and him alone the very moment the other men had fallen upon him. The kid had been counting on him then, expecting him to save him. Only he hadn't.He couldn't..Not that time.
This time he just saw red.
So, when his muscles suddenly tensed, power snapping up through the tissue and tendons like an electrical wire breaking free from a transformer, what happened next somehow seemed like a natural progression of the moment.
Because he really didn't think about it. He just did it.
His brain was only halfway through squealing like a stuck pig. Screeching that this was the stupidest thing he had ever done in his entire life, when he launched himself at the fuckers with a roar. Buck knife unsheathed and glinting in the low light the moment before he stopped thinking entirely.
A/N #1: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!
A/N #2: Sorry this chapter on the short side. I will be putting up another in the next few days. There was just a natural break in the story right here so I decided to utilize it. The next few chapters will be more on the short side as there is a definable shift in the story. So, expect shorter chapters but more updates a week. Deal?
Glossary:Remington 870 Wingmaster is a pump action shotgun beloved for being relatively in expensive but reliable and easy to handle. (Daryl is shown using it in the show)
No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow. ~Euripides