Disclaimer: I still don't own them, I'm borrowing them; I promise to feed them lunch and have them back in time for bed. ; )

Notes: Un-beta'd story, so any mistakes are mine, apologize in advance. I hope they are not to scandalous. (Updated 3/29)

Chapter Two

(Fin's POV)

I know they are coming long before I see them.

Before I hear them.

It's like that sometimes-the itch; all the hair stands up on the back of your neck and you just know…

Which in the woods gives me enough time to save his life.

I've never been more grateful for putting a harness on someone as a precaution. I've watched enough people die.

Kids are the worst.

"Carl, Quick," I pull the compound bow from my shoulders nock the arrow from my pack specifically designed for this drop my bag to the ground jerking the zipper wide to give the cord room to uncoiled, and take three steps back. One short pull, an upwards tilt.

One shot

No time.

Practice makes perfect.

The arrow falls not 50 feet from us. "Grab that. Now." To his credit he doesn't argue, instantly moving to do what I've asked. He knows something is up.

I'm already dropping the bow, looping the rope around my palm; lacing it behind my elbow.

Carl sprints to the arrow, snatches it from the ground, races it back to me. I wind with quick jerking motions as he runs removing what little excess is in the line before dropping my end to snatch his.

"What are we doing?" He can hear them now. His eyes are wide. But his hands are steady. I give him credit. Kids braver than a lot of people three times his age.

I snap the clamp over the D ring in his harness, snatch the rope back off the ground. His hand is on my arm. "What are you doing?"

Now I hear it.

Fear.

"I've got to get you up that tree, they don't climb."

"You're not dying for me."

A sharp bark of laughter escapes me.

His hand grasps the clamp ready to pull the line free. My fingers slam down over his.

"No, I'm not." I can't explain now.

He wouldn't believe me if I did.

"Look, I'm faster, I run every day, you haven't had a decent meal in days." It's not a lie. He knows it. He won't have the strength to fight them all off; the endurance to run away.

"I'm going to draw them off. I'll whistle every 60 seconds so you know I'm alive. And it will keep them on me, when I'm far enough away I'll give three short blasts and then figure it will take just as many minutes for me to double back around, so count the blasts okay?"

"Whistle with what?" I like this kid.

I pull the white plastic whistle from my shirt collar; it's warm from my skin.

"Why the hell do you have a whistle?"

I definitely like this kid.

"It's my old campus rape whistle. It's loud." He'll hear it even if I run almost two miles.

I remember hearing it once in the dead of night on campus. I'd tried to tell the operator on the telephone what direction the sound came from; but it was so far away and seemed to echo off everything. I push memories away as the snarling grows louder.

Those people are all dead. Carl is not:

Yet.

"There's no other way Carl. I've done this more times than I can remember."

It's not a lie…

…it's not the whole truth.

He nods his mouth set in a hard line.

"You better come back." I nod to him, take the rope again, wrap it around my hand and pull back, feet digging into the thankfully dry earth. Mud would make this impossible. There isn't much difference between our weight but the muscles I've worked hard to build over the years saves us-the adrenaline doesn't hurt either.

I get him maybe fifteen feet in the air, still some distance from the branch I've hooked the rope over—maybe ten feet from the lowest Vee branch in the tree's thick trunk. I tie the rope end securing it so he's not in danger of tumbling back to the ground.

The dead don't know how to undo ropes.

I return to stand almost beneath him, "Climb up the rope, like I showed you to. That Vee in the branches? You can sit there 'til I get back, or your legs might fall asleep." And it will give him a task; something to think about other than just counting the whistle blasts and wondering if I'm being eaten.

"But…"

"Stay Quiet; I'm coming back Carl!"

I bring the whistle to my lips and announce my position to every Walker in a 2 or 3 mile radius. I wait until they're almost on top of me, lurching arms out stretched for the sound before I take off.

I whistle with each puff of air that leaves my lungs as I move to cover ground, dodging tree trunks, leaping roots. I make as much noise as possible until I'm certain they are following me, taking no notice of the boy piñata I've left dangling beyond their reach. I keep looking back 'til all I can see are trees and Walkers stumbling along behind me.

Maybe 20 of them.

That's good, a larger group gets too difficult to direct.

I drop the whistle from my mouth, wiping spit off my lips with a swipe of my sleeve and stop to lean against a tree checking my compass watch. Once I've got my bearings I take the whistle once more to my lips and give a blast.

A nearby man turns at the sound raising his arm towards my face with a clumsy swipe. I tilt my head taking a step back just out of his reach on reflex. "Not today buddy." The last thing I need is visible scratches or bites.

Nothing ruins your day like a gunshot to the face.

I softly clap my hands together gathering their attention.

Noise

Movement

At least they still notice me then.

There were months at a time not long ago when I'd wondered if I'd died and not realized it. If what I was stuck in was some strange nightmare purgatory. I'd look in the mirror and wonder if I was real; there was no one left to tell me.

Just me and the dead…and they're not overly chatty.

Unless you count snarling.

I walk slowly through them keeping just out of reach encase they swipe at my hands, their heads tilted like confused dogs unable to figure out a new smell.

"Come on boys and girls; let's go for a walk."

They plod after me faithfully. I jog ten steps ahead—just out of their reach when I whistle for Carl to hear. Hopefully he's still waiting for me in the tree. The last thing I want to do is track him through the chaos of walker stumbling.

(Daryl's POV)

They're making good time.

Good time without wheels at least.

Having to circle round the main roads without his motorcycle still pisses him off. Damn bike was the last thing he had from his brother.

Beth has been a trooper. Only breaking down once at nightfall the first night. He could hear her quiet sobs in the darkness.

Though whether they're for her missing sister, her now dead father or the rest of their lost group he doesn't know. Doesn't ask, the Hell would he say?

Sorry it went to shit kid? That's life?

Doesn't make it any better.

They haven't seen many Walkers this morning. Most of the area south of the highway seems clear, and without the any gas for the bike it's a good thing; outrunning Walkers exhausted and hungry is a piss poor idea. They need to find the others. He can only hope Rick is still alive, Carl, Maggie…the baby.

A high pitched blast of sound catches him off guard. Pulls them both to a stop.

"What is that?" Beth stands close to him, face pinched, tired and afraid.

He scans the trees beside the road where the sound is echoing under the canopy.

"Sounds like a God Damn work whistle." Except the blasts are irregularly spaced. He listens to Beth's breathing beside him; realizes they're in tune with each nervous exhale from her lungs. "That aint no automated sound nether, someone's blowing that shit on purpose."

Beth looks at him, "Why would anyone do that?"

"Walkers, someone's trying to get their fuckin attention." It's far enough through the trees he's certain it's got nothing to do with them. Which means somewhere out there someone else is trapped, needs help, someone still alive.

"We should go,"

Beth looks up at him.

"Don't give me no damn look, aint my problem. Hav'n enough shit to deal with."

"What if it's Carl, Or Maggie out there?"

"Maggie aint got no damn whistle."

Hell.

"How many bullets you got?"

"Three." She doesn't even have to look, good girl.

The whistle stops. The silence is deafening. Beth is quiet, they're both listening for screaming.

There's one burst…

...than another.

"That was about a minute apart?"

"Yeah, someone's leading them."

"Can you tell how far away they are?"

"Quarter of a mile, maybe more, it's hard to say shit like that's made to be loud."

"I can wait in that car over there if you want to go take a look."

He lifts his crossbow, checks the lock feet already moving. "You sure?"

"Yeah, before it's too late."

(Fin's POV)

I've been going the same direction for a while now.

I wish I could jog faster to get this done with but the dead only travel so fast. I don't want to lose them in the trees. I silently count the whistles since I left Carl; judge the distance based on my speed, calculate the rough odds of them circling back; or changing course without me.

I can't risk leaving Carl too long.

Not because the tree isn't safe.

I worry if I wait too long he'll get brave and climb down to help me…or worse find me before I'm done with the others.

That would end our little truce real quick.

I stop to look at my compass once more. I've picked up a few more with the commotion. Maybe 30 now? I don't count exactly, it's not important. I add a burst of speed separating myself from the rest, shouting, waving my arms, then blowing the whistle three quick times and duck between the tree trunks.

Noise, movement.

They snarl and lurch pitched into a hungry frenzy; moving right past me continuing in the direction I've set them.

With any luck they'll reach the Peacock farm and take care of the monster before I have to.

I'm not sure if that's irony; or poetic justice.

Maybe it's both.