Helloooooo! It's been a while, hasn't it? This chapter took a while to really gel like it did… It's the longest one so far, so bear with me haha. So, the chapter song is "Not Strong Enough" by Apocalyptica and Brent Smith of Shinedown. Buwhahahahaha! Couple things first: thanks to all of y'all who reviewed and favorite and alreted! And the biggest thanks to the lovely and talented mrsdaisybuchanan for all her marvelous help and editorial abilities. Go read her story Backwoods! Seriously. It's awesome. And also, a little shout out to my two non-internet readers. You know who you are. Thanks to both of y'all as well.

And without further ado, I give you chapter Nine. Enjoy and don't forget to review!

Usual disclaimers apply. I own nothing. Sadly.

Daryl glared at the squirming little bitch handcuffed to the wall. Randall. Was that his name?

"Hey, hey man, I didn't do nothin', man, I was, I was just taggin' along, ya know? I—, I mean it gets a little rowdy sometimes but they're all good guys, there was…" here the kid coughed up more blood and breathed raggedly. "There was this one guy, he had these two daughters, man they were pretty… But—but, hey I ain't like that, I don't…""

Daryl scowled and punched him hard in the jaw. Blood poured out of the kid's nose. Good. He was gonna have more than just a little nosebleed by the time Daryl was done with him.

"You're tellin' me your little buddies think they're gonna come in here? Get my boys? Take this farm? And you think cause you were along for the ride you were innocent?"

More blows rained down. Randall was slumped over, spitting up blood.

Daryl was seeing red. So they raped women too, the bastards. His mind flashed instantly to what might happen if this kid's group found the farm. He could only think of one thing.

Kyra.

She was easily the prettiest one on the property; she would be the one they went for first. They would have a hell of a time subduing her, but with thirty grown men they would succeed eventually. And then… He would be dead by the time they had her, dead and no way to protect and save her. He'd be damned if he let that happen.

Disgust clouded his face as he turned and kicked Randall over and over, beating him within an inch of his life.

"You're tellin' me your little buddies think they're gonna come in here? Get my boys? Take this farm? And you think cause you were along for the ride you were innocent?"

(You're gonna get a thousand times worse than this if you or any of the sick fucks you run with think you're gonna lay a hand on my woman)

00000000

Daryl's arms were sore and his knuckles were bloody when he left the slaughter shed. After what Randall had "let slip", he wasn't going to take any chances. Most of the group—Rick, Lori, Carol, Glenn, T-Dog, Dale, and Carol—was clustered at the outskirts of their camp. Carol took one look at Daryl and blanched.

"What did you do to him?" She asked the hunter, aghast.

"We had a little chat." Daryl replied tersely, leveling his line of sight towards Rick.

"So? What'd he say?" The sheriff asked expectantly.

Daryl shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "They got thirty men and plenty a guns. If they find the farm, our boys'll be dead and our women… well, they'll wish they were."

Rick nodded curtly. "That settles it. He's a threat, and he must be taken care of."

"You can't do this!" Dale broke in. "This is a young man's life here! You can't just decide to take someone's life!"

The look that Rick fixed the old man spoke volumes.

"Please," Dale begged, "Give me one day to talk to everybody and see if I can change their minds."

"Alright." Rick conceded. "You've got till sundown. Then we decide."

Daryl watched the exchange with only passing interest. His "chat" with Randall had convinced him of something, and he intended to see that something through. Problem was, he wasn't the one to carry it out exactly.

Before Rick stalked off to do whatever it was he was going to do, Daryl stopped him for a second, feeling a bit like he was asking too much of the sheriff.

"What can I do for ya?" The ease with which Rick asked this settled Daryl's anxiety, if only a little bit.

"I need you t' do me a favor." He asked the sheriff gruffly, darting little glances back at the house to make sure Kyra didn't show up out of nowhere.

Rick looked wary at first. "Sure, what is it?"

"You know how much Kyra hates guns right?"

"Yeah. Think that much is common knowledge now, with that sword and all. So what's your favor?"

"Need you to teach her how to shoot. But don't tell her it was my idea. Hell, man, don't even mention me at all. Pretend like it was your idea." Daryl again glanced at the house. She was nowhere to be seen, thank God.

Rick cracked a smile and chuckled. "Why not you? She's your girl, right?"

Daryl looked at his feet. "She an' I… Look, I just don't want her to get caught in a bad way is all. And you seemed like the best one fer th' job, t' boot. Can't exactly ask Shane, she'd shoot his nuts off 'n make it look like an accident."

Rick clapped him on the shoulder and gave the younger man another, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. She's in good hands."

Daryl only nodded as Rick walked away, presumably to find Kyra so that they could get started.

00000000

Kyra leveled the gun at the row of targets, squeezing off a round hesitantly. She hated guns, that much was common knowledge around the farm. But somehow Rick had managed to get her out of her comfort zone and was teaching her to shoot them. She proved a good student, Rick thought. She was calm, cool-tempered. Quiet even. In short, almost everything Daryl wasn't. He'd seen the two of them together before. They acted like nothing was going on between them but the way they looked at each other said otherwise. Rick had to smile at it; it reminded him of when he had started dating Lori. But what had happened with them? The way Daryl had acted this morning had sent red flags up in Rick's mind. Why was he so insistent on Kyra not knowing that he had asked Rick to teach her to shoot? The sheriff shook his head and returned his focus to Kyra. He had other things to worry about instead of the redneck's romantic problems.

Glass broke, and Rick smiled when he saw that she had hit the third target in a row. Right now she was firing a Glock handgun. He gave her an approving smile and called out, "Range cold!" before moving closer to analyze the targets.

Kyra lowered the pistol and watched silently as Rick probed around the old fence, being careful not to step on any large pieces of glass. She was a damn good shot for a first timer. He motioned for her to come here as he righted the tin cans now riddled with bullet holes.

"Your only problem," he told her, "Is that when you shoot, you yank the trigger back instead of squeezing it gently back and firing. Other than that you did great."

She seemed quietly proud of herself. Her right hand rested on the hilt of her sword and the left held the gun.

"Thanks." She said quietly. All too well, Rick was reminded of Carol before Ed died. She was too quiet, too… withdrawn. He chalked it up to… what? It was like she had sucked into herself. The outgoing young woman who'd so cheerfully contributed, who was vibrant and warm and sociable, was suddenly gone, instead replaced by this solemn, silent ghost. He couldn't help but wonder again if this had anything to do with Daryl. Or maybe she had taken on his grief for him; it was right after Sophia died that she had changed so suddenly.

For a second he almost asked her about it but bit his tongue instead.

"Well, I should probably get going and get back to the house. Help Lori carry stuff inside and all. She shouldn't be over-exerting herself, for both her and the baby's sake." She sighed. "Thanks for the lesson." She held the pistol out for Rick to take, but he deferred.

"You keep it. You're gonna need it later on down the road, wouldn't want you caught in a bad way without it." His words echoed Daryl's. But the hunter seemed to be the farthest thing from her now, if what Daryl's demeanor had betrayed was true.

She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her jeans and made for the house. Rick followed her at a distance. He noted Daryl walking towards the house as well. He hung back and observed. People watching had been an old favorite of his, especially back when he and Shane were on patrol in King County.

Kyra didn't seem to be able to see Daryl from where she was. Rick sidled over to a nearby tree and watched curiously from behind cover. He surmised that Daryl had seen her, and he seemed to be ignoring her presence. This was odd. Rick had been under the impression that the two were head over heels for each other, even if they tried to hide it.

Kyra glanced to her right—in Daryl's direction. Rick could only assume that she had realized the redneck was coming towards her, and that she didn't want to be around him. She ducked her head, looked away from him and quickly continued into the house, shutting the door behind her a little harder than was necessary. It was obvious to Rick that something about Daryl made her uncomfortable.

Rick expected Daryl to fume. Yank the door open and demand to know why she had slammed the door in his face. It was the only response that fit Daryl's personality.

Much to his surprise, he didn't. Instead he backed away and retreated in the direction he had come. But not before pausing with one foot still on the bottom step and looking over his shoulder at the closed front door behind him.

Something flashed across Daryl's face then. Rick couldn't place it exactly but it was something, something akin to longing and regret mixed together. As soon as it appeared, it was gone, and Daryl lumbered off without a second glance.

The sheriff frowned. Whatever had happened between them, it had been bad. From what he could tell by just watching them, they both hurt. It reminded him of those sappy romance movies Lori used to make him watch. But Kyra seemed hell bound and determined to avoid Daryl at all costs.

He heard someone calling his name, and made a mental note to keep an eye on her, just in case. She was still the newest member of the group. This little incident told him that she (and possibly Daryl as well) would require some observation.

00000000

Everyone was seated in the living room, except for Daryl, who stood off to the side and leaned against the chest of drawers. Kyra was perched on the sofa between Maggie and the wall, staring stonily ahead, the sack with her sketchbook and pencils in it sitting innocently between her feet. She knew Daryl was watching her. Idly, she wondered if he felt vindicated after successful breaking her down to such a low state of being. She only half-listened to what Dale had to say. Honestly, she couldn't care less. Randall was a non-issue as far as she was concerned.

Her ears perked up though, when she heard Dale argue, "If we do this, we're saying there's no hope."

She felt her lips curl up into a cynical smirk, and a derisive, silent laugh escape her lungs. "You may think so, but you're wrong." Her lips formed the words as she thought them and they tumbled out like water rushing through rapids.

Her eyes flickered up to see Dale's face colored with shock and disbelief. "But there is still hope, Kyra. Come on, you know in your heart it's true."

She respected the old man. Really, she did. But at his words, she could taste the anger burning inside her and radiating from her pores. She stood slowly and glared at him. Raw, white hot anger blazing within and without.

"Don't try to feed us anymore bullshit about hope, Dale. The world we knew, the world we had? It's dead. It's gone. It ain't comin' back. Now, it really doesn't matter to me either way if we kill Randall if if we just cut him loose out across the county line. But I cannot abide this shit about hope and love and charity and what have you." Her voice broke, against her will. She felt her face heat as her eyes welled up. "It doesn't exist anymore in this world. None of it does. Don't delude yourself anymore."

"Kyra, what are you—" Dale began in a desperate attempt to make her see his point.

"No. Don't say anything else to me. I don't want a part in this decision."

She picked up her bag and stalked out.

Rick, Dale and Hershel all three cast a questioning look at Daryl. It read: What was that about? Go make sure she's alright, please?

He nodded imperceptibly and snatched out at her hand. The skin of her palm was warm and flushed. She yanked her hand away from him, pushing him out of the way.

Daryl stayed where he was, turning his head so he couldn't see their faces anymore. She wanted nothing to do with him.

She hated him. That much was crystal clear.

00000000

If Daryl hadn't heard the screams, the piece of shit might have already been dead.

He dropped the kid and tore across the farm, slinging the crossbow from around his shoulders as he ran.

It was Dale.

The old man was lying on the ground, practically gutted already. Daryl hurled himself at the geek that did it, stabbing his knife into its brain and tossing it aside.

He yelled for help, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Kyra heard the cries and her heart stopped. She knew that voice. It was Daryl. Her head told her to stay put, to let him suffer.

But her heart told her otherwise.

She was spurred to movement by the sight of Rick and the others running like hell in Daryl's direction. She slung the sack with her sketchbook and pencils in it onto her shoulder nd took off after them, only just remembering to draw her gun.

When she reached the small crowd gathered around Daryl and something else, she felt her heart break and guilt flood over her.

Dale was splayed out on the grass, gasping for breath, his insides spilling out of his abdomen.

Everyone watched in sick, shocked horror as Hershel knelt by Dale's dying body and declared him unfit to be moved.

Andrea was sobbing openly, along with Lori and Carl. Glenn held onto Maggie and the young couple cried quietly. Kyra felt hot, stinging tears pour down her face. She hated herself then. The last thing she had said to Dale was that he was delusional. And now here he was, dying in such a visceral, painful way. What the hell had she been thinking?

She watched as Daryl took the pistol from Rick's helpless, shaking hand and knelt by Dale's head.

"Sorry, brother." He mumbled, and squeezed the trigger.

After the shot's echoes faded into the winter, Daryl stood vigil over Dale's body until he was sure everyone else was gone.

He turned to leave, and let Rick, Hershel and Shane carry the body away.

He had moved it barely a foot before he saw her.

She was curled in on herself, shaking and convulsing in uncontrollable grief.

His heart broke for her. The last thing he wanted to bear was her hurting. He took a step towards her, tentatively reaching out a hand and saying her name quietly.

At the brush of his fingertips on her arm, she jerked her head up and stared at him wildly.

Never had he seen such unbridled emotion, not even from her.

"Kyra, hey. I wanna help you. Please." He began awkwardly.

The look in her eyes would haunt him for years to come. Was it fear, or was it hatred? Or worse, some third, darker thing he didn't know? When she spoke her voice was hoarse, roughened from crying so much.

"Get away from me." She spat, recoiling back and stumbling to her feet.

He watched in silence, fighting back so many conflicting emotions that it was difficult to choose one to express. He chewed his lower lip and returned to is vigil.

Something in the grass caught his eye. He reached for it and picked it up. His hands were shaking when he realized that this was her beloved sketchbook, probably fallen out of her bag when she came running.

It felt profane to even hold it, let alone open it. It was, for her, the equivalent of any other girl's diary. He knew the extent of her drawing abilities. Idly he wondered if she had drawn him any.

He glanced at the house in the distance, backlit by the moon and the light from the windows, and wondered what she was thinking now. He had been a fool to try and help her, he knew that much. She would have nothing to do with him.

Nonetheless, he was torn between leaving the notebook there or taking it back to his small camp and keeping it safe. If she knew that he had it, she would undoubtedly seek him out and make him pay. He would let her, though, dish out whatever it took for her to exact her vengeance. But at what cost? He would be weak if he let her. So he might as well just leave it. But then she would be upset because the dew would make the pages wrinkled and bleed through.

Against his better judgment, he tucked the little volume under his arm and slipped off into the night. He would return it to her later, when she was less distraught, as a sign of reconciliation. Till such a time, though, he tucked it into one of the bike's saddlebags for safekeeping.

He stopped just before entering the tent and looked back in the direction of the house. She was up there, sleeping calmly and peacefully. He could only wish she was here with him.

00000000

She was in her house, the old duplex they'd lived in before the world ended. Everything was exactly the same. The pictures on the wall still hung in their frames. The TV was on, broadcasting the Georgia –Georgia Tech game. There was even a faint smell of coffee and sausage leftover from breakfast that morning. Kyra padded silently through the house. It was as still and quiet as a tomb. She peeked into every room, and every closet, but no one was to be found. She opened the door to the garage; there was her dad's county-issue cruiser parked next to his truck. She walked out and rifled through the truck box; the shotgun was still there, along with the emergency kit and the flash light and any other of a dozen things her father kept in there.

But where were Daddy and everyone else?

Kyra shook her head and reentered the house. She picked up the house phone and dialed Mitchell's number. He should have been here by now. She got his voicemail. Even her boyfriend wasn't picking up the phone.

All of a sudden something didn't feel right.

Mitchell never let her calls go to voicemail. He claimed good boyfriends didn't do that unless they couldn't help it. Daddy never left his cruiser parked out like that, especially when no one was home. And Mama was almost always home, along with her little brother Jake.

Kyra grabbed a large butcher knife from the block beneath the kitchen sink and prowled the rest of the house. No sign of life.

She kicked the screen door open with the toe of her shoe and stepped out into the crisp fall sunshine.

The knife dropped from her hands.

They were geeks, roaming about the yard with the directional abilities of bumper cars and all the steady focus of a hound on a scent. Mama, Daddy, Jake, Mitchell. All of them. Even the dog was one of them.

The breeze shifted; she was downwind.

The small group of walkers suddenly turned in her direction. She turned and ran, screaming at the top of her lungs like the female lead in a bad slasher flick.

The sounds of her screams attracted more walkers from the surrounding houses. Shortly there was a small herd after her, groaning and gurgling hungrily. Her legs began to tire. She felt herself slow, even though her mind was berating her body to keep running till she passed out or was safe. But her body wouldn't comply. She was overrun, and as they fell on her, the last thing she saw was a handsome redneck leaning against a phone pole, watching with mild curiosity as they devoured her flesh.

Despite her cries for help, he ignored her and walked away.

The last thing she saw was his back, clothed in a cracked leather vest with angel wings on it.

Then, darkness.

Kyra felt her heart pound against her chest as her eyes snapped open. She sat up slowly and looked around. She realized with some relief that she was in Hershel's house. Maggie was still asleep, snoring softly in the twin bed on the opposite side of the room.

She lay her head back down and took a couple calming breaths.

After that sleep came sporadically. When it did, she was haunted by his face watching impassively as she was being eaten alive.

00000000

Daryl glared at the roof of his tent. He knew when he laid down that sleep would be damn near impossible to get tonight. Most nights like this he'd just rub one off and then be out like a light but tonight? No. Tonight he was going to lie awake brooding till the small hours or maybe even dawn.

Kyra continued to puzzle him.

She had always refused to cry in front of him. Even when he'd told her it was over, she still stood firm and refused to shed a tear when he was around.

So what made now any different?

It might have been because it was Dale that was dead. He remembered all too well what she had said earlier in Hershel's living room. And in the field… he'd never seen her so overcome before.

He mulled over those last moments with her. God he was such an ass. No wonder she didn't want to even be in the same room as him, let alone receive comfort from him.

Why had he done what he did to her? If you had asked him, he wouldn't have had an answer. Shame rocked him to his core, pounded through him like the New Orleans levee after Hurricane Katrina.

His eyes pricked, and he knew they were filled with tears.

He didn't care anymore. The one thing he loved, the one thing he needed—Kyra—detested him with a passion he hadn't thought her capable of.

Daryl Dixon didn't cry. The last time he had was when his momma died. He'd been seven, and Merle had antagonized him so brutally afterwards that to this day he refused to cry. But that had all changed. Merle was gone and couldn't bitch him out now.

He rolled onto his stomach and gave himself over to his grief, both for Dale and for Kyra, but most of it really anger at himself for doing the one thing he had tried his damnedest not to do: driving her away.

Stronger men would have stayed away from her, blocked her out and forgotten her, moved on.

He wasn't strong enough.

00000000

I seem to have a penchant for cliffhangers. Either way. Hope you enjoyed it and don't be afraid of that little "Review This Chapter" link at the bottom center of your screen. I might even answer your review too hahaha. You never know… .