AN: I do not own The Walking Dead. all characters and content not created by the author belongs to AMC and the respective owners of TWD.

This is a sequel of sorts, more of a companion piece to "Don't Try to Wake Me in the Morning" (shortened to DTTWMITM). It can be read independently, but I highly recommend reading DTTWMITM first, as this will contain spoilers and is best read in order. This story is set in an alternate universe, if the course of events were different before DTTWMITM begins.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

The crack of gunfire turned an otherwise pleasant morning completely upside down. Here, in some pissant little street on the mountainous outskirts of Who-The-Fuck-Knows (by the ways of Bumfuck Nowhere), Negan fell into an ambush.

He chose to view it as a temporary set-back. A test, if you will, of the size of his cajones. Negan felt up to the task, though confidence was not a trait he lacked in, so this was not unusual. The ambush, however, was. Negan rarely allowed himself in this type of situation.

Needless to say, he was highly annoyed.

Six of his men, well five of his men and one captive, left for scouting the previous day. Negan had decided last minute to tag along. His wives were grating on his nerves, the walls of the endless concrete hallways were suffocating, and Negan felt like breaking some skulls, even if they were only attached to walkers.

They were dubbed "The Saviors," despite doing lots of killing and less so of saving, but Negan liked to pat himself on the back in those regards, even if the numbers were a little skewed towards bloodshed. They'd embarked on this ill-fated venture on a tip stammered out by some twitchy, half-starved man they caught trying to steal from one of Negan's outposts. That was their first mistake.

The man had said, after some mild… creative convincing that involved a shattered hand, that there was an untouched town up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. This town, he had said through half-rotted teeth, already was hemorrhaging residents before the Collapse. Whole streets of houses abandoned and still full of goods and wares. A positive El Dorado, a treasure trove ripe for the picking. And this guy, with only one functioning hand and a swelled-up face from well-placed punches… well, he was the only one who'd been there.

It was likely bullshit. In fact, Negan knew it was bullshit. But, there's often a grain of truth hidden in bullshit, and if anyone was going to discover the mystery town, it would be Negan. He needed to get out anyways, and the scavenging net was cast wider and wider as stocks emptied.

He'd had to go with his men. Otherwise, who knows what pilferings he'd get, after they'd stashed away their own finder's fees. Booze and cigarettes would be mysteriously lacking, probably along with rubbers and other Very Valuable Things that a post-Collapse world clamors for. No, it was best if the Big Boss went too, and kept an eye out for any sticky fingers. Even now though, with him along, he had to watch them all carefully, especially fucking Simon, the rat. Looked like a rat, smelled like a rat. Was a rat.

Simon remained blissfully unaware of Negan's disdain, thinking himself Negan's right-hand man, or left-hand when Dwight was around. Dwight. Another fucking story for another time. Keep your enemies close, Negan always thought when Simon's shit-eating grin appeared by his side. So far, it was working.

Though the mystery town remained elusive, as expected, the Saviors really had quite the ball driving through the mountains, ransacking the occasional motel or gas station. The walkers here even seemed a little tamer, slower, as if the mountain air suited them a bit better.

Last night, they'd found an unscathed bar both untouched by looters and devoid of walkers. A gem. In fact, it was called The Gem, and the name was a fulfilled promise. They needed to blow off some steam, and Negan let them carry on drinking and playing cards, eating stale peanuts and looking over the nudie mags hidden in a desk in the back. All except the captive Daryl, taken from Rick the Prick's group as collateral. Daryl wasn't much fun anyways. He'd only glare at the group in his filthy sweats Negan made him wear and spit on the floor occasionally. A real Debbie-fucking-Downer. Negan told him as much, but Daryl only glowered at the floor and grunted.

The night turned into the wee hours of the morning, and most of them were snoring, draped over benches and the floor, clutching half-empty (or half-full, Negan liked to be optimistic, after all) bottles like newborn babes. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and poorly digested food.

If Bob hadn't gone outside to take an epically long piss, they might've been toast- fish in a barrel. Or, they might've been fine, since Bob couldn't keep his big mouth shut as he stumbled in, hollering that he saw a gang of bikers headed straight their way, dick still flopping around out of his fly until Snake yelled at him to holster that thing.

Anyways, it didn't matter now why they were there or how they got there. They were pinned inside the bar, what little windows the joint had were shot to hell, and Bob now lay in the middle of the floor with his face half-gone. At least it was a double-kill shot, once for Bob the Human, second for Bob the Walker.

It was five against- twelve? Thirteen? The odds weren't looking so hot, and the Savior's ammunition was running low.

Negan hunched behind a gum-ridden bar table and checked his bullets.

Fuck.

At least he had Lucille still. He felt for her next to him, and his finger pricked a barb.

"Shit! I know, I know, you're thirsty," Negan muttered to her, then sucked on the sore spot for a second. She was his weapon of choice, a wooden baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. Sometimes, she spoke to him, but only he heard what she wanted. Usually blood. Negan knew it was in his head, but let the others think he was a little unhinged. It worked to his advantage, for the most part.

Kevin, a scrappy little Savior that looked perpetually younger than his age due to his patchy beard and baby-face, made Molotovs in one corner of the bar with a suspicious speed and accuracy. Where did he find all the scraps of cloth? Probably best not to ask. When he wasn't stammering out nonsense or a general nervous wreck, he was surprisingly useful. Give him one task to focus on, and he was golden. Usually.

"Five more ready!" Kevin shouted. A nearby Savior, a surly tattooed ex-con Snake, snatched several and began passing them out to the others scattered around the bar, dodging in between tables and pillars to avoid the intermittent gunfire. He pressed one into Negan's hand as he passed.

"Eleven still out there, sir."

Negan grimaced internally, but twisted his face into a smile. He looked around and caught Simon's eye. and shouted, "Well, then! Let's fuckin' even out the numbers then, shall we?"

"Yes, SIR!"

Kevin and Negan opened fire on the ambushers while Snake, Daryl, and Simon tossed alcohol bottles and aimed for the other gang's vehicles. Glass and liquor sprayed everywhere, voices shouted commands that were blown away in the chaos. Step one, complete.

Negan aimed carefully, making each shot count. If he couldn't hit one of the enemies, he held fire. There was about six motorcycles out front and van. The bikes were shit for cover, but the van- there were at least three guys behind there. More probably were flanking the bar, looking for the back entrance. Shit.

The air was smoky, with a sharp tinge from the gunpowder. Negan's pistol was heavy in his hand, he felt the metal, smooth and clean. He held his breath, lined up a shot, and exhaled.

Trigger pull. Head shot. Pew pew, he thought. A shootout was better than he could imagine as an adult then pretending Cops and Robbers as a child. The chaos, the blood, the screams. Giving it back to whoever dared cross them. There was a fear there, but it was smothered by all the other emotions.

Then came the Molotovs. Daryl had the best arm of them all, Negan had to admit, and chucked them as close as possible to the pools of alcohol. The splatters of liquor burst into flame, some on the ground and some on the motorcycles.

"Light up those sons of bitches Daryl, and I'll get you some real fuckin' clothes!" Negan shouted as he reloaded. Daryl threw a few more, and a wall of fire was outside now. Step two, complete.

A scream pierced the air. One of the attackers was on fire, screaming and waving his arms wildly. He ran off into the distance, down the steep road and out of sight.

"That'll bring in the goddamn walkers," Simon said, peeking over an overturned table. "Looks like nine left or so. More Molotovs!"

Daryl nodded, and tossed more alcohol bottles. The attackers knew their play now, and moved away from the areas where the bottles hit. Daryl anticipated this, using the Molotovs to bring out the attackers from their cover. A huge biker with a bushy beard ducked out from behind a bike, and spun in a pirouette when Negan's .44 punched through his shoulder. Before he had much of a chance to scream, another bullet turned his head into a spray of gory mess.

Daryl swore. "I'd be more useful if I had rifle!"

Negan laughed as the gunfire slowed down during reloads. "It fuckin' speaks! Listen, Daryl, You draw out two fuckin' more for me to get, I'll fuckin' consider giving you a gun," Negan shouted as he dodged the spray of wood splinters from a too-close bullet. "Hand to God, I'll fuckin' consider it."

He surveyed the room. They were still holding fast, no major injuries so far. Besides Bob, of course, the useless bastard. The old bar was sturdily made with lots of heavy wood suitable for cover and barricading the doors, and luckily very few windows. The ones the bar did have were higher up and narrow, and make it tricky for the attackers. It did also present a challenge to the Saviors, as well.

Negan whistled, and the men looked over. Like fuckin' dogs. I got them trained good.

"Limp Dick!"

Kevin groaned, but crouched low and moved carefully over to Negan. "Whaddaya need, sir?"

"That back door- watch it. Sneaky fucks might try to give us a goddamn reacharound and surprise us in the ass. And you know what I say about reacharounds, right?"

"Uhhh- only from your wives?"

"Pre-fuckin'-cisely. Go."

Kevin nodded and moved towards the bar. When Negan and Simon provided cover, he hopped over the bar and moved the barricades around, slipping into the back room.

"Eight now," Simon called out. He raised his voice and shouted to the attackers outside. "You all had enough yet?"

"FUCK YOU!" was the only response, besides someone moaning for their mother, or for God. Same thing, to some men.

Daryl whistled to Negan, which greatly annoyed him. Whistling was his thing, who the fuck was this mute redneck to- actually, fuck it. No time to bitch and moan about it. Daryl threw more bottles, then Molotovs. Sure enough, two more attackers ran out from behind a large wooden road sign, now engulfed in flames.

Bang, bang, thud, thud. Two down.

"How 'bout that gun now?" Daryl asked. Negan sighed and paused for a moment to dramatically consider his promise. Finally, he barely nodded to Simon, who rummaged through a duffle bag and extracted a 9mm handgun and held it up for Negan's inspection. A lady gun, if there ever was one. It had a pink camouflage grip and REDNECK BITCH bedazzled on the side in pink studs. Daryl looked down at the gun, then to Simon. Simon was smirking with a shit-eating grin that even Negan wanted to punch. Daryl shrugged, nonplussed. Negan hid a smile. He couldn't help it- he liked Daryl, the defiant son-of-a-bitch.

Daryl peeked out to take a headcount. He lifted the handgun and-

BANG! BANG!

Two more down. Negan had no complaints, so long as that gun stayed trained on the ambushers. The gunfire had quieted down outside as the attackers started to reassess their attack.

"They're second guessing fuckin' with us!" Snake hollered. "Good shot, Hickboy!"

The men hunched out of sight from the windows, gathered around the duffle bag and doled out the remaining bullets. Not much left. After that, they were toast.

"Alright," Negan said. "We gotta make this fuckin' count. There's five of us, four of them. We took out most of those fuckers, now we're in the home fuckin' stretch. We've got the advantage of fortification, they've got the advantage of the great out-fuckin'-doors. Here's the plan…"

As they began to strategize, Daryl shifted to the window, peeking out to assess the attackers outside. His face darkened as a dull rumble grew louder and louder.

"We got company."

"What?" Snake asked. "Who is it?" He moved to the window and swore.

"Reinforcements," Daryl said simply.

A round of curses and sighs escaped from the group. Negan sat back heavily. They were sweaty, hungry, thirsty, and cranky, holed up in the bar in an ambush for most of the day. It was humid, still the tail-end of summer, though a hint of fall was biting in the air.

Negan's fingers were cramping from gripping his handgun, and despite their relative safety so far holed up in the bar, it felt tight. Walls closing in, and all. Just like home. Bullet cases littered the floor like confetti, along with broken glass. One well-aimed grenade tossed through an open window and they'd be toast. Hell, he was surprised they'd lasted this long being outnumbered and hungover as shit. Maybe, just maybe, they could make an escape through the back door, slip out into the woods behind before the biker fucks took notice…

Too late. An explosion of bullets rained in through the holes where the windows used to be. Wood splinters and dust clouded the air, already stifling and heavy. They all dove to cover, unable to leave for the sheer amount of fire power coming through. Some of them coughed and wheezed from the dust, and it was getting hard to see. Despite the heavy walls, holes began to puncture through. The building moaned and creaked, a great weight shifting.

"Who the fuck are these guys?" Snake cried. "They're using bullets like fuckin candy!"

A break in the gunfire. Reloading?

"Aim carefully! NOW!" Negan shouted.

The four men leapt from their cover, firing the precious few bullets they had left. Negan's insides twisted like a taffy pull at a carnival – there were more men out there, maybe less than twenty, maybe more. A few dropped to the ground, one motorcycle erupted in a pitiful, half-assed explosion which took out one more.

But then- more dropped. Head shot after head shot. Negan looked around, his men weren't firing off enough rounds to drop that many, nor were they that good of shots, except for maybe Daryl. The attackers shifted their attention from the bar to the woods surrounding the bar. More dropped, and the numbers were closer to ten now.

Simon screamed and clutched his shoulder. His arm was limp and blood ran freely down his arm, hit by a stray bullet. Daryl dove to his side and began to fashion a tourniquet. As he tried to keep him steady, Simon slumped to the ground, shaking and trembling.

"That your men?" Daryl asked Negan over the ringing shots. "Saving our asses?"

"I don't know."

It was the truth – he didn't. The Saviors weren't expecting them back until tonight, and wouldn't worry if they were a day or two late. Maybe they'd heard of a shootout and came on a whim? Unlikely, improbable, but not impossible. They were way the fuck away from home, but maybe…

"I got three bullets left," Daryl said. Snake had two, Simon was only swearing and mumbling unintelligibly but Daryl counted four left for him, and Negan had just one measly bullet left. Kevin still had a full clip, hopefully, but Negan wasn't holding out hope.

More gunfire from outside, more screaming. Some odd whooping sounds echoed through the trees like a war-cry. Negan thought of the old westerns as a kid, Indians riding in on their painted horses. Maybe he was going fucking nuts.

"Do we go out back, make a break for it?" Snake asked. Simon swore some more in agreement and clutched his arm.

What a fucking disaster, Negan thought. They'd come out to scout and scavenge, and this area had been deemed fairly safe due to the isolation. There were barely any towns going up into these woods, and the ones that existed were spread out far in between winding roads and steep hills. Even on a bad scavenging trip they'd come home with something. They'd lost the car, all their ammo, and judging by the amount of glass around, most of the liquor in the goddamn building.

No one to blame but yourself. You're the fucking Big Boss.

Now or never.

"Let's get the fuck out while they're distracted," Negan said finally. If there was one thing he hated to do, it was turn tail and run. But sometimes, rarely in Negan's case, that was the only goddamn option.

As they gathered their few meager supplies and some odds and ends stashed behind the counter (mainly cigarettes and gum, to Negan's dismay), the back door pushed open slowly.

Kevin limped through, one hand clutched at a bleeding wound on his leg.

"Uhhh, boss? Sir?"

"What the fuck is it, Limp Dick? We're getting the fuck out of here while we can. There anything useful back there?"

"Uhhhh," Kevin glanced towards the back room. "I guess…"

"What the fuck happened to your leg? If you say 'uhhh' one more fuckin' time, I will put a bullet through your fuckin' skull."

"There's kids back there. I cut my leg on something sharp in the back."

Negan stood straight up and stared at Kevin for a minute. The other men glanced around, then flinched when a bullet ricocheted off a hanging lamp. Then, it was all quiet.

"In the back room?" Daryl asked, shuffling towards the back door.

"Yeah, some jagged metal was stickin' out when I was lookin' around-"

"No, where are the kids?"

Kevin shrugged. "Oh, outside. Buncha kids shootin' at the guys out front." He leaned over the counter and glanced outside. "Only a few left now. One's bleeding out. They're really fuckin' good shots."

Negan shook his head. The poor idiot must've cracked his head, too. "Let's go."

They made their way to the back door. Negan pushed it open, only to drop the bag and lift his hands up in surrender. The others followed suit.

A kid, barely nine or ten, had a shotgun trained on them.

Fucking Kevin was right!

The kid wore a ratty cowboy hat and boots, a rusty Sherriff's badge pinned to his flannel shirt. He wore a scowl that wouldn't look out of place on a weathered old cowboy. Behind him, two more kids, no taller than Negan's hips, squatted behind an overturned tree, rifle barrels trained on Negan and his men.

The color drained from Simon's face, which already was deathly pale.

The kid spat on the ground near their feet. "Drop 'em."

The Saviors looked around in confusion. The Kid cocked the shotgun, that CHCK-CHCK sound that causes any man's asshole to clench when he's somewhere he isn't supposed to be.

The Kid looked at each man, through squinted eyes. The shotgun barrel stayed aimed at Negan's face. "First shot's birdshot, which you'll be pickin' out of your teeth if you try anything. Second shot is buckshot. Won't be too worried about teeth then."

Negan nodded and turned his head slightly towards his men. They dropped their guns to the ground. Lucille was placed near Negan's feet gently. One of the kids looked at the bat and cocked an eyebrow, but none of them spoke. Negan realized he had a grin pasted on his face that he couldn't quite wipe off his face, and he struggled to force a serious face on. It was silent, otherwise. No gunfire, no moaning, no glass. Just the kids, and the Saviors.

Negan looked around, taking a tally of all the ones he could see, adding a few extras for cushion that were likely hiding out of sight.

"Well, well, well. Aren't we lucky ducks that you kids showed up?"

He hoped it was luck, anyways.

/ / / / /

AN: I asked, you answered, so here is the next installment! With the last story, I tried to update weekly, however this story will likely be biweekly updates due to busy life things and other projects. Hope you enjoy, and stay lovely, lovelies! xoxoxo