She heard the silence more than anything.

The men left the van a few minutes ago taking all their noise with them. No more conversations. No more deep chuckles and closed fists against polyester seats. No more rumbling engine and the loud smack of her body bouncing against the metal flooring. No more tire skids and crunching rocks and the distinct sound of slapping wind and the snap of cheap lighters and the raspy coughs of chain smokers.

But that's fine. She can take the silence. She can take knowing she's been taken by men armed with powerful ammunition that they may or may not use on her. Never mind that even without guns they could probably break her bones with a single well-aimed kick with their steel-toed boots. She can take that dull throb of a probably dislocated shoulder. She can take the relentless mental screams of ItoldyousoItoldyousoItoldyouso bouncing back and forth on the walls of her skull, that vile taste of acidic upchuck on the back of her throat, that sting of sweat and dirt mixing with the tears on her eyes.

(Or maybe not. Maybe she's just stubbornly clinging to consciousness because she's too scared to die.)

She's living in the world of the living dead. Still.

What she can't take is that empty feeling gnawing on her chest brought by the knowledge that the person she had latched onto for the past few hours has left her alone. She wanted to blame hormones, maybe even that second X chromosome, but whatever the cause, the pain of getting left behind –even by a practical stranger- hits her more than the possibility of actual physical pain.

The silence just made it easier for her to hear her inner judgmental bitch cursing out Merle Fucking Dixon for ditching her.

"Wake up little girl." Tala thought her voice sounded a little sardonic. "You're not in Kansas anymore."

"Didya see anybody else?"

Merle accepted the proffered smoke with his left hand with a little less fumbling than he anticipated. Good. Getting the hang of this. Merle decided to lay off the smugness for a while. Still too early. Not too wise to count your chickens before they hatch and all that.

"Thought you're weren't with anybody?" Martinez spoke around his. Menthol. Merle snorts. Douchebag.

"Wasn't. Just wanna see if you found other people. Maybe my brother went back for me or sumthin." Maybe the girl got away. Or maybe they saw her, thought she won't be much use, left her to the geeks while they jerked off watchin'.

Not for the first time, Merle felt that twinge of guilt. He thought he was doing her a favour leaving her behind. It didn't seem like he was in hindsight.

Fuck. Never thought this much when high.

"Sorry, man. No ugly sons of bitches came 'round askin' for you." Martinez was smirking, snickering long tufts of smoke from his lips and nostrils. "'cept for the usual ugly'ns anyway. Looked like they were your type though."

Merle blew smoke on his face.

Someone was prodding her.

Tala didn't remember falling asleep but apparently she did because she definitely was not in the van anymore. And she wasn't alone.

Her eyes snapped open and she tried sitting up, panicking for a slight moment when she realized that she can't. She relaxed a bit when she saw the large brown belt that was tying her to the bed.

Oh. I'm not paralyzed.

Then, fuck, I'm restrained.

"You feeling okay, sweetheart?"

Tala never liked nicknames but she was going to let this one pass (like all the other ones, spineless bitch) because she was in no shape to be picking any fights. Besides, the voice sounded really homely and nice. All low tones with the calm of present in everyone she knew involved in the medical profession.

"Shoulder hurts." she confessed, blushing at the dryness of her throat and the foulness of her breath. Not really the time to be self-conscious. Get the fuck over yourself."

"Dislocated." the nice homely voice told her. "But we got that all fixed up when you were sleeping. Does it hurt much?"

Fucking yes. "I can handle it. Can I sit up?"

"Of course, dear."

The voice belonged to a dark-skinned woman with very white teeth wearing scrubs that boasted a plethora of cartoon characters. Her smile was wide. Her hair was done up in little braids that were bunched together then pulled into a high ponytail. The hand helping her up was soft and warm against her back. The scrubs looked laundered and pressed and from what she can see of the floor as she was being fussed over, the woman was wearing a pretty kickass pair of fluffy slippers.

The woman looked clean and put-together. Really very much like her type of doctor. But that's not really saying anything because any doctor was her type of doctor. Who can really be picky at the state of things? Doctors were hot commodities in the apocalypse. And a clean doctor plus equipment meant structure. Maybe she stumbled on the last bit of functional government (or they stumbled upon her if you wanted to argue semantics) or at least a small community.

The light flickered, distracting her. They even have electricity.

Also, the clean thing really appealed to her. Maybe they'll let her shower.

She felt more than saw the belt being removed from her. She was so tired. She wanted to nap but she figured she's not going to get any sleep just yet when the woman waved a man over.

He was tall, with slicked back hair and the gait of a man sure of his authority. He moved slowly, but with purpose, all with this Dawson Creek Pretty Boy smile.

That was how Tala met the governor.

The smile was aimed towards her. Along with his hand. She couldn't return the smile but managed an acceptably firm handshake at least by her standards.

He released her hand gently, apologized for waking her, apologized again for taking her in the first place, and then proceeded to welcome her to his little town.

Everything he said sounded too good to be true but Tala was too desperate to even entertain the slightest hint of suspicion. They gave her a bed, medicine and, if her nose is not betraying her, food. In her mind, it makes up for everything.

She really just wanted to be kept alive and she knew that alone she won't be doing as much good a job as they could have.

He was still smiling and she was still contemplating when he asked if she, by any chance, knew any tough as nails, cussing, left-hand-less Merle Dixons.