Take Me as I Am
Chapter 8
[Rocks]

The bullets flew past their bodies and into the rotting flesh of the walkers behind them. He mustered a quick thanks to the Almighty for watching their asses. Despite the searing pain from the knife wound on his back and the gunshot wound tearing two holes into his left side, playing the words from Beth, he pushed on.

Moments ago, he had every mind to buy enough time for Beth to escape by sacrificing himself to the walkers. How noble—the younger him a decade ago would have laughed and spat at his face for being stupid and for acting like a knight for a damsel in distress. Hell, he didn't mind death—it didn't scare him. What scared him is what these men would do to her if they ever found her… what Joe would do to her if he weren't there to protect her.

When she told him to basically suck it up, she wasn't going to leave him behind—he was willing to believe that she would do everything to save him just as he had done for her. When he noticed that the two men bought them some time by killing a few close walkers behind him and Beth, he knew they were giving them a way out. When he saw them haul Joe onto his feet and whisked him away into the forest, he knew Joe would track them and kill him and torture Beth.

Death, he could deal with—but the thought of Beth being ravaged by these men… any men against her will made him burn with fury. He promised her he would protect her, and he'd be damned if he was going to give up now. He couldn't—not yet.

"Beth… we gotta get out of sight," he grunted to her as they continued down the railroad tracks—they had gain some momentum and distance between them and the walkers. Whatever ones that still trailed them, they began to trip over the walkers that the bullets had taken down. Some of them fell into the ditches on the sides of the tracks as they tripped, and some fell over on one another—burying them alive—or dead… whichever.

"The forest?" She panted in question, her voice cracking a bit in uncertainty.

"We ain't safe from them yet," he hissed, not out of anger but of excruciating pain—it wasn't time to rest just yet. "We gotta head back to the funeral home… cross through the forest as a shortcut… take short stops and we can get there before sundown."

"You can't travel that far yet. We gotta stop the bleeding somehow Daryl," she huffed as she supported a part of his weight. They had skipped down from the tracks and disappeared into the forest to their left. They continued rushing through the forest in a seemingly straight path until she nudged Daryl into ninety degree turn and continued down the path.

Daryl almost questioned her ability to follow directions until the obvious hit him like a ton of bricks. Clearly, he felt utterly relieved to know she has a head on her shoulders. They were diverting their tracks, in case they were being followed. He wanted to blame his muddled thinking on blood loss, but who would care anyway?

"Daryl… we need to treat your wounds. You've lost too much blood already." They had been running for at least half an hour, and with them diverting their path, they earned enough time to get a brief moment of rest.

"'s fine, I've been putting pressure on it. Keep moving," he took another step without hesitation. Truth be told, he didn't want her to see what kind of damage his body had gone through—new or old.

"But Daryl! You'll bleed to death before we get to the funeral home!" she slowed her steps, but he refused to stop until they made it somewhere safe.

"I ain't stopping, Beth," he knew logically, he needed to be bandaged up but he hated the thought of wasting time and allowing the dead catching up to them.

"You know we can rest at least a minute or two… just give me enough time to wrap you up!"

"No!" he kept moving even after Beth stopped supporting him. He didn't realize just how much Beth was supporting his weight until he was walking on his own. Feeling his energy rapidly draining from his body as he struggled to stay balanced, he walked to a nearby tree and leaned his forearm against it, his forehead resting on his arm.

He heard her soft footsteps approach him from behind him, stopping only a few inches away. He didn't bother to turn around to face her until he heard fabric ripping. "What 'r ya doing?" he tilted his head and observed her from the corner of his eyes.

She kept silent as she tore at the bottom of the shirt he gave her, ripping the bottom half off before making smaller strips of cloth. "It smells like sweat and shit… but I rather you stink than have wounds left open and bleeding," whispered meticulously, focusing her attention on tying three of the four strips together to form a longer piece.

Daryl chuckled at the irony of her words, somewhat amazed that she still had a sense of humor from what just happened—no matter how dry her humor was. Her words were near identical to his when he gave her the shirt to cover her torn undershirt. And then it hit him—she was willing to use whatever she had that he had given her or learned from him to save him. She wasn't the weak, sheltered kitten in the farm anymore. She wasn't whining or complaining how tired she was or how much her ankle hurt. She was doing this to survive.

For both of them to survive—together. Because for all they knew, they only had each other.

"Here," he clenched his jaws as he pulled up his shirts and jacket to expose the gunshot wound. He was still apprehensive about exposing Beth to his past, it didn't matter now. He didn't know when or how he stopped thinking that way, but he needed to get on track just as Beth did.

"Don't look," he heard her command behind him, followed by a soft rustle of fabric and leaves and then tear another of fabric. His head tilted slightly, curious as to what she was doing. Actually—he knew what she was doing—stripping. Well, her shirts at least. Despite the heavy urge to look, he focused on listening in on the surrounding for threats instead.

A rustle of leaves behind him caught his attention, momentarily forgetting what Beth was doing; he turned his head to the source of the sound and then immediately snapped his head back, his eyes gazing at the trees in front of him. If he hadn't lost a bit of blood, he would think his face would be bright red from the way his face heated up. He was glad she didn't notice him catching an eyeful of the milky skin of her upper body.

Seconds later, he heard her rip another piece of fabric. He nearly jumped out of his skin when she pressed the soft cloth against the bleeding wound of his left abdomen, fully clothed with the half torn brown shirt now under her grey sweater.

Her head hovered inches above his wound, examining it closely, as she dabbed it with the rag. "It's not the cleanest, but it doesn't have walker guts all over it," she whispered about the rag made from her undershirt. "The bullet went right through you…" she sounded solemn.

Daryl lowered his head to the side to catch a glimpse of his wound and nodded, "I don't think it hit anything vital, just hurts like a bitch."

"At least you've been putting some pressure on the front of it," she moved her ministrations to the wound where the bullet left his body. He felt her dab at it before covering up the wounds with a rag for each side and wrapping the misfit bandage around his waist and then secured it with a tie.

"Let me check the knife wound on your back," she motioned to remove his jacket.

"No," he shrugged away from her hands and shook his head. "We've gotta get going. Wasted enough time already—come on," he raised his left arm and motioned for Beth to grab it.

With a defeated sigh, she slipped under his arm and together, they headed down the direction to the funeral home.

-0-

"Sh, shh!" Daryl slowed to a stop, his left arm over Beth's shoulders as they stood still; listening to their surroundings. He heard the distinct moans of walkers nearby, not a great many but a few. They may have been part of the herd that invaded the funeral home. They had walked for hours, cutting through the thick brush as a short cut back to the funeral home.

With the day spent and the sun setting and the both of them exhausted beyond belief, he knew they had to find the funeral home fast. Standing at the edge of the forest on the road not too far from where Beth was kidnapped, he juggled their options.

One, lure them away to an opposite direction by some distraction… or two, sneak and kill whatever that got in their way. With their energy spent from the day's rushed travel, they needed enough energy to clear the funeral home. There had to be a few walkers that remained there, or worse—humans. Three, they find another place.

The third option was least favorable—the funeral home was secluded and deep in the forest. It was secure if they were more careful than they had been that night.

"Okay Beth, it's a good fifteen minute run from here to the home… the walkers nearby could be from the ones that attacked the home or another herd. We can sneak and run, kill them all or find somewhere else," he didn't know when his voice started to waver, but sure enough it seems that the state of his body was rapidly declining.

He looked up at her face, their gaze connecting. She had a concern frown on her lips; she too, knew he would not hold up for long.

"I'll cause the distraction, and you can meet me near the home? My ankle can make it, I'm worried…" she down casted her eyes, avoiding his face.

He knew she worried for him, hell—he's worried about her worrying about him. He hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face so she'll meet his eyes. "I'm wounded—not crippled. If you distract them from this road down the other side of the forest, I can clear out whatever's around the home."

"Then you'll wait for me to clear the home together, right?" her voice held a warning tone, as if telling him not to go in without her.

"'Kay, fine. If you go down this road, and turn left when you see a dirt road, that'll lead you to the funeral home.

He watched as she briefly scanned the leaves covered road, then turn to him and nod. "Okay, don't do anything stupid…" she warned before grabbing a few large rocks on the ground and went to the opposite direction. He spared a minute, staring at her back before turning around and hurried towards the home. Minutes later, he heard the distinct clatter of rocks against metal and knew it was the distraction Beth had set up for them.

By this time, he had made it closer to the funeral home and saw the house's outline in the dying light. Sure enough, there were a few walkers around the property, wandering aimlessly while some started to head to the direction of the tracks.

Inching closer slowly with his crossbow loaded, he took care of a walker closest to him, then another, and another. After collecting his arrows, he surveyed the entrance of the home from the cover of the forest near the home. Grabbing a large, thick stick off of the ground, he tossed it towards the porch stairs of the home, where his metal sound trap laid discarded on the floor. The wooden stick clattered noisily at a wooden support beam of the stairs before falling down on top of a metal can, causing it to shake the fallen trap.

He quickly aimed his crossbow at the opened door, ready to kill whatever comes out of the home. Two walkers limped from the back of the house towards the open road. Daryl silently cursed, he knew for a fact that there were walkers in the home, but they were not surfacing. Looking around the ground again, he began digging at the ground until he found a rock slightly smaller than a lemon.

"This gotta work," he whispered to himself, wiping the sweat off his brow. He had been feeling lightheaded and sweaty for hours now, but he didn't say a word to Beth. If he did, she would've never left him alone. Truth be told, he wanted to clean the house out for her first before he died, that is if he dies. And damn, he was close to almost finishing his task. Chucking the rock at the door of the funeral home, it clattered loudly against the door, causing it to hit the wall behind it with a loud thump, and then nosily clattered onto the wooden floor.

He managed a weak grin when, sure enough, a small stream of walkers emerged from the small home. Four, he counted. Six, including the two wandering on the road. He aimed his crossbow at the burliest looking walker and disposed of it with an arrow to its head. Another at a taller one, the third at a female closest to the open road. Three down, three to go—he can take three. Gripping the handle to his crossbow, he stood onto his feet, slightly swaying with weakness.

He had no interest in dying, but he knew he lost an ungodly amount of blood—so much so he knew there was a chance he wasn't going to live through the night. At least if he cleared the house, he would be able to leave knowing Beth would be relatively safe for a few days after he's gone. Even that was an unsettling thought.

Rounding up the last of his strength, Daryl stalked over to the closest walker with a steady gait and decapitated the head when he was in range. The other two walkers noticed his presence and staggered towards him, hungry for fresh blood. With almost all of his strength spent swinging his heavy crossbow, he laid it on the ground and attacked the next closest walker with his knife with some trouble. It had taken the rest of his strength to kick the walker onto the ground for him to stab its skull.

Now, with one last walker remaining, he couldn't find the strength to remaining on his feet. Staggering, he slumped onto the ground with one knee under him. The pain in his lower left side grew increasingly painful, his breathing growing erratic and shallow. He had no more time to rest when the last remaining walker stumbled towards him.

Daryl pulled himself onto his feet and gripped its neck with his left arm and poised his knife, ready to deliver the final blow to its head. The walker's arms flailed around his head and chest, one of its hands pushed against the wound above his hip. He cringed when waves of sharp pain shot through his body. With a grunt, he pushed the walker back with his waning strength and fell onto floor, clutching his wounded side.

Walkers didn't care if a person needed a break. No, all they want is blood and if they're determined enough, they'll succeed. This particular walker, although the evidence of decay is apparent throughout is rotten body, its desire for flesh and blood fueled its corpse to continue its attack. Soon, the walkers launched itself over Daryl's body, its infectious teeth mere inches away from clamping down onto his shoulder.

Daryl was able to keep it from biting him, but it left him no chance to grab his knife. He was beginning to really regret the decision to clear the home without Beth. Damned be, at least she only had to take care of this one walker when she returns to the funeral home. Shit… wouldn't he be a walker if he died? He couldn't do that to her. He could imagine himself be one hell of a walker to take down when freshly turned. Merle was.

In his musing, Daryl failed to hear the frantic footsteps of someone running towards him until he saw the dark silhouette of a feminine figure hovering above him. The figure kicked the walker aside before swiftly plunging her knife into its skull.

"Beth…" he rasped out between shallow gasps of air. "Thanks."

He allowed her to help him onto his feet, and once again she supported his weight on his side and noticed his crossbow around her shoulders. "You lied to me," he heard her say, her tone tight and upset. She helped him gather his last three arrows before deciding it was best to head inside the home.

"I didn't lie…" he countered as they ascending the stairs carefully. He kicked the fallen rock from the door frame deeper into the hallway, clattering loudly as it slide down the steps to the dressing room for the dead.

They waited with abated breath for more signs of walkers, and then sighed when all was silent.

"Wait, the trap," Daryl leaned against the doorframe of the front entrance, and nodded at Beth. "Can you set it up?"

She did as she was asked without sparing a glance at him. It hurt him, the way she was brushing him off. When she was done, she slipped her arm under his and helped him into the foyer of the funeral home before shutting and bolting the door securely.

"Just set me up in that coffin o'er there," he joked, half-wittedly.

Beth shot him a glare that made him freeze from the inside out, yet she spoke not a word.

Quite frankly, he rather not incur her wrath any further as she lead him up the stairs cautiously. Hell, by some miracle he was still alive and she was safe. Maybe it was time for him to leave her… in case he died and turned into a walker or something.

God, he rather not turn into one of those dead bastards if he could help it.

At the top base of the stairs, they scanned the short hallway quickly. The funeral home had two bedrooms and a bathroom, all doors were open and not a sound was made. Without wasting any more time, Beth led him to the largest room with a full size bed and helped him into it.

"Beth, you gonna keep ignoring me?" He suppressed a hiss of pain when he laid on his knife wound on the bed. He eased himself higher on the bed, letting his head rest on the clean pillow.

"Yes."

"Why?" Daryl watched her go through the draws, searching for something.

"Because," she answered, her tone annoyed.

"Because why?" he pressed on. He felt lighter, a bit happier knowing at least when he died; it'll be on a soft bed. "I had to do it so you didn't have to. Had to give you a safe place to rest before I go."

"Before you go?" not once did she turn and face him.

"Yeah, go as in… you know," he paused and searched her face to read her emotions. She was so easy to read sometimes, but right now, she was as blank as a piece of white paper.

"Don't you know me," she sighed, disappearing around the corner to what he assumed to be the bathroom.

"Die," he whispered after a minute's pause, believing she was out of hearing range. "Before I was gonna die."

She walked in then, with a handful of wound cleaning supplies. There was fury and determination in her eyes as she stomped towards him, then dropping the items she found on the bed without a care. She reached over and cupped his face in the palm of her hands, forcing him to face her. Her fiery blue eyes pierced deep into his soul when he couldn't help but stare back.

"You're not going to die, Daryl Dixon. I sure as hell won't let you."

/

J.R.- Daryl was struggling with thoughts of dying… he didn't want to die, but he didn't want to be irrational either. Ohh sweet Beth. She's getting awesome!

Been a little bummed… noticed reviews and number of visitors dropped the last couple of chapters. I hope the story's not that bad…

Anyway, let me know what you think! Thanks for reading, please review!