The Bite of a Blade, the Sting of an Arrow

by Shadows-Dancing-In-The-Hall

Audrey's life had never been easy. The walkers were a new twist, but surviving pain and loss was nothing she hadn't lived through before. But...Daryl Dixon was new too. And Audrey doesn't know what to make of him. Daryl/OC

17. The Wolf's Teeth are Red

Here's chapter 17 :D Hope you guys like it! ^^ Thanks for all the reviews on last chapter and remember to leave some for this one as well! I love hearing from you guys! ;D

Oh! Btw. I did something different POV wise in this chapter :P I've decided that from now on instead of dedication whole chapters to one characters POV, I'll switch within ease individual chapter as i see fit :) That way there's no tedious recap. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the TWD characters nor do I own the show's dialogue mentioned in this piece.

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Chapter 17: The Wolf's Teeth are Red

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I am still staring at the horde of starving geeks, mind blank and fear replacing the blood in my veins, when a hand wraps around my elbow and tugs me back. The force throws me off balance and I have a split second of terror to think that the walkers had come up behind us before I suddenly feel Glenn's chaotic breaths on my neck and the tremble in his fingers as they press against my skin.

And all of the sudden, the world gets thrown into stark relief, high definition and quality sound. Since Glenn and I had rounded that corner, what 30 seconds ago, everything felt vaguely muffled, distorted sound and far away images. I knew what was happening, I wasn't disillusioned, but it must have been the shock because now everything is hitting me like a freight train and I'm right in the middle of this scene, no longer watching from a distance.

The others have fallen back a few steps I notice. Probably why Glenn had tugged me back, everyone retreating from the danger in front of us. Fuck. Like a few feet and a handful of spare racks are going to do anything when that glass break. When. Not if.

Heart suddenly beating too loud in my ears, I tear my eyes away from the storefront and turn to the rest of the group. Glenn is standing at my back, fingers still gripping grooves into my skin. There's a dull pain where I think I begin to bruise but I ignore it because the pain is keeping me just as grounded as the contact is keeping Glenn. Andrea is suddenly to my left, panting with tears still on her cheeks as she glares balefully at the man across from us. I follow her line of sight and finally look at the newcomer, the pause in conversation and movement allowing me to finally see him.

He's older than I had first thought, leaning closer to his forties than his twenties. He looks dirty and worn out and his clothes…a uniform? I furrow my brow as I take in his state of dress: brown pants, beige button up with a white undershirt and a gold star, pinned right over his heart. A cop. Small town probably because I don't think Atlanta PD wore this type of uniform, seeming straight out of a western movie or some crap. Something niggles at the back of my mind, suddenly, a hazy memory, a flash of beige I can't remember where from but I shake it away as I continue my perusal of the man's features. There's a few days worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, his dark hair greasy and unwashed but somewhat groomed. His face is pale but streaked with dirt and sweat, highbrow and sharp nose shinning with oil. Then there are his eyes: red rimmed and wide but with irises that are a crisp, pale blue. For the second time, I can't help thinking they look familiar, something twisting in my gut, but then Andrea suddenly speaks up and I'm turning to stare at her.

"What the hell were you doing out there anyway?" she demands, acid in her tone.

The man only pauses for a second before he responds, still breathing raggedly. "Trying to flag the helicopter."

His words make us all balk, staring at him in shock. I blink and curb the urge to rub at my ears because did he just say—?

"Helicopter?" T-Dog blurts, taking the word straight from my thoughts. He stares at the man like he thinks he's gone crazy. Which is a distinct possibility. "Man that's crap. There ain't no damn helicopter."

Yeah, no shit. We can barely find food in this city, let alone fucking jet fuel.

The rest of us are sharing looks of incredibility and confusion, even slight pity. Jacqui seems to be full of this latter emotion because she raises her hands, as if to placate the man, brown eyes wide and soft even as she flinches at the sound of rabid geeks not twenty feet away. "You were chasing a hallucination, imagining things," she says gently. "It happens."

But the man just seems angered by her pity and excuses, blue eyes going flinty as he snaps, "I saw it."

The conviction in his voice unsettles me and I feel Glenn shift uneasily at my back. Unbidden, I drop my eyes to the gun holstered on his hip and think that this man had run down a street full of geeks and had no injuries to tell the tale. He must be one hell of a shot to accomplish that. I feel a kernel anxiety unfurl in my gut, veiled in a blanket of distrust. As if the city wasn't dangerous enough.

Out of the corner my eye, I see Morales and T-Dog share a loaded look, a look that seems to share my sentiments, but they don't say them out loud. There isn't any time. Instead, Morales turns and casts half a distressed glance at the storefront before changing the subject.

"Hey, T-Dog, try that C.B. Can you contact the others?"

The other man drops his eyes to his hands, fingers curling empty and it takes me a moment to remember that I'm the one holding the radio, having been thrown it as the other two men had raced to save Glenn. Fumbling forward, I lift my hand and offer the device, unsure of how to do what Morales had said.

"H…here," I stutter. T-Dog nods in gratitude and begins to fiddle with the knobs and dials, brow furrowed in concentration. I spare half a thought to Shane and the others back at camp, can we reach them, could they reach us, but the man besides Andrea speaks up again, confusion thick in his voice.

"Others? The refugee center?" There's a tinge of hope in his words, a desperation, an almost pleading. The mention of the center is like a kick to the gut and I'm left feeling vaguely breathless, lungs too small and the need for air too large. Glenn tightens his grip unknowingly on my arm and I can hear the stutter in his breath, his eyes boring into my skull even though I won't turn to look. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. Here we, here I, meet this stranger, who might have signed our death sentences, and he's looking for the same thing I had been just weeks ago. I kind of want to laugh at the same time I want to cry.

Jacqui, surprisingly, is the one to scoff and deliver the news. "Yeah, the refugee center," she says derisively. "They've got biscuits waiting at the oven for us."

The man tilts his head in incomprehension, a dark doubt flittering across his features, and I'm thrown back weeks ago, standing in the woods with blood on my face and ice in my veins. "Fuck, there ain't no fuckin refugee center. The only thing in Atlanta is a bunch of walkers and a whole lot of dead people."

I didn't want to believe Daryl then and this man doesn't look like he believes us now but T-Dog interrupts before the questions can start, before the horrible answers can begin.

"Got no signal," he announces and my stomach drops into my shoes. But then he snaps his head up, eyes wide and feverish. "Maybe the roof!"

The suggestion stuns me for a moment and then my heart kick starts because this could work, maybe, if we can just reach Shane because Shane will know what to do. He has to. Some plan B, some kind of backup. Something. We just need to get to the roof and take it from there.

And, of course, that's when the gunshots start.

The first one sounds like a canon, makes us all jump. Stupidly, my eyes skitter first to the newcomer, glancing over the gun strapped to his hip, before Andrea points out that the sound is coming from above.

"Oh no. Is that Dixon?"

"What is that maniac doing?" Jacqui gasps but Morales is already moving, T-Dog hot on his heels, sprinting for the stairs. People start to follow, Glenn tugging at my arm, but I see the other man hasn't moved, alternating between staring at the howling walkers and ceiling where the shots are echoing down from. Not thinking, I reach out and brush his shoulder, nearly flinching when he snaps his gaze to look me straight in the eye. There's this hollowed, dizzied, look in his eyes, like he's been knocked over the head and the room is spinning and he can't process anything, can barely stand on his own two feet. I know the feeling, can sympathize completely but now is not the time for sympathy because Glenn is yanking harder at my arm, voice insistent and high pitched with fright.

"Come on! Let's go!"

I give the man one last glance before I turn to Glenn and nod, letting him pull me towards the stairs, half listening as the newcomer falls into step behind me, trying to quell the knot of unease that settles in my gut.

The sprint up to the roof takes me longer than it should have but with every step my ankle flared with pain, making me falter every so often. Needless to say, I'm breathless in more than just exertion when I finally make it to the final flight, sweat blurring my vision as my lungs ache. Morales is the first one to make it to the top and from my position at the bottom of the flight I can hear the door burst open, ricocheting off the opposite wall.

"Hey Dixon! Are you crazy?" I can hear him scream and even though I'm nearly delirious in oxygen deprivation, I can only think, 'Really?' Is that even a legitimate question?

I fumble onto the roof right behind Glenn, clinging to the back of his shirt as we stumble down another small set of stairs, Morales and the rest of the group on some kind of elevated ramp behind us. There's a stitch in my side and I'm leaning heavily on my left leg, propped up on my right by Glenn, but even through my gasping I can hear Merle's crazed sounding laughter like nails on a chalk board. I cringe at the noise and lift my head to find the older Dixon, the hairs on the back of my neck raising before I even see him.

Merle is standing on the edge of the building, butt of his rifle tucked against his shoulder as he aims down at the street. He fires off another round and laughs again, turning precariously to address us.

"Hey!" he calls out, feet slightly unsteady on the cement ledge. I have this insane thought that he might just fall off and, even as dark satisfaction fills me at the thought, I'm overwhelmed by a dark guilt for even thinking that. "Ya outta be more polite to a man with a gun!" He points the barrel of his rifle half jokingly and half in threat at Morales. My back goes rigid and I don't have to turn and look to see that the rest of the group is the same. Merle seems nothing but amused, grinning from ear to ear as he jumps down to the rooftop, both hands gripping his gun. "Only common sense."

I hear the scuffle of feet on gravel behind me and, suddenly, T-Dog's voice is echoing across the roof, enraged and tight with fear.

"Man! You wastin bullets we ain't even got!" In my peripherals, I see T-Dog scramble down ten feet away from me, body language violent and jerky. "And you're bringing even more of them down on our ass! Man, just chill!"

His tone is antagonistic at best and I can only stare in incredibility at his profile, my eyes bugged out and jaw gaping. Merle is out of line here, shocker, but Morales and T-Dog getting up in his face like this, especially with a loaded round in Merle's chamber…this can't end well. My arm twitches just slightly and I'm aching to grab for my katana but Merle's rapid approach towards T-Dog has me freezing in place.

"Hey! It's bad enough I've got this taco-bender on my ass all day," Merle snarls, gesturing harshly at Morales. The bruise that Daryl's punch had left on his face is stark and livid, making the expression even more grotesque. He paces slightly in front of T-Dog, like a wild animal, his slightly sunburned face twisted in anger. T-Dog leans back slightly, his own rage draining as he realizes whom he's been screaming at. Merle seems to notices the almost imperceptible flinch because he suddenly steps right up into T-Dog's face, challenging. "Now I'm gonna take orders from you?" he asks rhetorically. "I don't think so bro. That'll be the day."

And, like a switch being thrown, there's a sudden shift in T-Dog's features, unease and fear bleeding into annoyance and something hotter. I watch as his lip curls and his eyes narrows and there's a sudden suspicion pulsing in my head but please, please, let me be wrong. Let me be wrong because T-Dog couldn't possibly be so stupid as to—

"'That'll be the day'?" T-Dog repeats and fucking hell I wasn't wrong after all. "You got something you want to tell me?"

T-Dog steps even closer to Merle, almost puffing out his chest, and I have the simultaneous urge to laugh and turn tail. The unease in my veins is becoming sharper, more potent, setting my teeth on edge and my skin crawling. I turn to look at Glenn and see the same queasy look on his features and when he meets my gaze, his eyes are wide and deep, projecting the same oh shit oh shit that is currently on loop in my skull.

"Hey T-Dog, man, just leave it," Morales says, more like begs, and I can tell that he's no longer angry with Merle. Now he sees the gun in the redneck's hand and maybe he can see the dilation of his pupils for the distance he's standing but, either way, I can tell he's trying to diffuse this situation as quickly as possible. "It ain't worth it."

But T-Dog is having none of it and he flings a hand out, silencing his friend. "No," he says and then looks at Merle expectantly, waiting, wanting to hear what he has to say next.

Morales doesn't wait for those words to hit the air though, stepping up, arms out to his side to look as harmless as possible. Like Merle gives a shit about that. "Now Merle. Just relax okay?" he asks. "We've got enough trouble." Even from this height, the walker's moans waft up to us and with each second that passes, the glass below gets a little weaker, the crowd gets a little large, our death looms a little closer.

There's a strained moment of silence and we're all standing there, muscles tensed so hard they ache, waiting for what's going to happen next. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man in the cop uniform turn to Glenn, brow furrowed and gesturing vaguely towards the confrontation going on a few feet away. Glenn sees the look but quickly shakes his head, giving the impression to just leave it alone.

If only Merle would leave it alone but he's Merle fucking Dixon and he can't let anything go, especially with the chemicals I know have to be running through his veins.

"You wanna know the day?" Merle asks, prods, challenges and T-Dog meets him toe-to-toe.

"Yeah!"

Merle purses his lips and seems to chew on his words, what he's going to say, and I know it can't be anything good. The tension in the air boils, simmers, like a pressure cooker, a volcano, just on the brink of exploding. My eyes skim over the rifle in Merle's hands, flicker to T-Dog and land on the handgun he has tucked into the waistband of his pants. It's like two bombs are facing off and I don't know which one is going to blow first but I do know that one explosion will set off the other and than we will all be dead, blown to bits with shrapnel imbedded in our skin. The fallout will kill us. The only way we get out of this is if someone can diffuse the bombs; take the C4 and TNT out before the fuse can reach the powder. I glance over at Morales. He's not having much luck and Andrea, Jacqui, Glenn, plus Mr. Newcomer, don't look like they are very inclined to try. Their policies with Merle range from stay the fuck away to stay even farther. I remember my first official day in camp, when I first told Merle off and how everyone had looked at me like I just pulled the pin off a grenade and stuck it in my mouth. They aren't going to step in between Merle and T-Dog. They aren't that stupid.

Unfortunately, I haven't always been accused of being the sharpest tool in the shed.

Before I can actually think about what I'm going to do, I take a step towards T-Dog and Merle. And then another. And another. Glenn makes a chocked off, aborted noise behind me when he realizes what I'm doing but I shrug off his fingers when they curl around my shoulder. A tiny voice in the back of mind is screaming what the fuck are you doing but it's quickly eclipsed by Merle's voice when he finally figures out what to say.

"I'll tell you the day Mr. Yo," Merle taunts, making what I guess is some mock rendition of a gang sign. T-Dog's face goes tight, waiting for the end of that sentence, the punch line, and even though I had already assumed what Merle was going to say, it still make me cringe violently when the words vault off his tongue. "It's the day I take orders from a nigger."

That one word, that one disgusting slur, is like the breaking of a dam. The timers have run out and both bombs explode simultaneously.

"Mother fu—," T-Dog starts to shout, swinging without impunity, aiming to bash in Merle's face. But, unfortunately, Merle isn't a helpless asshole, all talk and no bite. I haven't personally witnessed his bite before now but fucking hell.

Merle dodges T-Dog's punch gracefully, not even phased, before he snaps the butt of his rifle out and into the other man's jaw. People start shouting as T-Dog stumbles back, blood streaming from his split lip and I'm moving before I know it. Just as I'm about to reach Merle, however, the man in the cop's uniform vaults passed me and aims his own punch but Merle sees him coming from the corner of his eye and cold cocks him across the cheek, the force of the punch sending the good intentioned man flying. I spare him half a pitying glance as he slams into the ground but that's all I have time for because that's when Merle finally spots me, four feet away and closing in.

The entire day Merle's been almost cooperative, cordial; I should of known it was only a front. The instant his red-rimmed eyes find me, the unadulterated rage and hate makes me flinch, almost freeze, but then Merle's thrusting the rifle at me and I have no more time to think.

I duck the jab and feel the wood brush the side of my head, metal pieces hot as I slide into Merle's personal space, the rifle too long to hit me now. The second I'm close enough, I shove Merle back, a hard blow to the sternum, making him stumble. I hear the clatter of Merle's rifle as he drops it but I don't turn to look, too busy blocking a punch thrown at my face. The force behind the blow is a lot stronger than I was anticipating, for a meth head Merle is fucking powerful, and I can already feel my forearm bruising as my feet slide along the gravel. Merle must see that I'm off balance because his next punch is even harder and I'm only half successful in blocking it. His fist checks me across the side and I grimace, air whooshing from my lungs, but roll with it, pushing closer to him again so I can throw my own hook. He sees it coming, I can tell by the look in his eyes that he does, but I'm too close for him to block and Merle isn't one to retreat so he takes the punch as it lands, right under his chin. The blow jars my arm harshly, bone grinding against bone, but the satisfaction of seeing Merle's head snap back, seeing his feet tangle to gain his balance, well it overrides the pain nicely.

Everyone is still screaming behind us, a mixture of Merle's name, pleas to stop, and curse words. It all seems far away though, muffled by the roar of blood in my ears and the harsh pants sliding off my tongue. Merle finally rights himself five feet away, lifting his head and adjusting his jaw like it hurts him, blue eyes hazy but on fire. I try not to smirk, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

"Goddamn it Merle," I gasp, forearm, side, and ankle throbbing. I raise my hands, palms up, trying to go for a ceasefire. I want nothing more than to reach for my katana but that won't help anyone here. "Cut the shit! All of Atlanta is banging against the doors downstairs and we don't have time for—"

I don't get to finish my statement. Midsentence, Merle's face twists horribly again and then he's throwing his arm out, like a spastic twitch, but more forceful. Confusion is just starting to rise in me when I realize that his hand had been full, a split second before the gravel and debris smashes into my face.

"Shit!"

The pain is stinging and sharp and my eyes clench shut against the dust. I duck my head and rub at my eyes, wetness already on my cheeks from the irritation. Something at the back of my mind complains about this being dirty pool, cheating, but it was Merle Dixon. Of course he was going to cheat. I'm just raising my head, blearily opening my eyes, when I hear Glenn shout and Merle's fist slams into the side of my head.

My head snaps to the side with the force of it, ears ringing and world slipping out of focus. I try to slide or duck away again, but Merle's smart, amazingly, and before I can take a step, his steel tipped boot crashes into my right ankle, so hard I swear it's broken, and I collapse to the ground like my strings have been cut. A ragged groan rattles in my throat, cheek pressed harshly into the ground, abrading, but I refuse to stay still, ingrained reflexes and a newly honed survival instinct making me roll over not a second after I slam into the roof. The blue-sky pinwheels overhead, dotted with swirling clouds, and I have a distinct feeling I might throw up. Before the possibility can become a reality, however, a shadow looms over me and I don't have to see clearly to know it's Merle, coming in for the kill.

Pain still pulsing through me, red-hot and everywhere, I scramble for the tanto on my hip, katana inaccessible as it digs into my spine beneath me. I've just wrapped my fingers around the hilt when Merle steps on my wrist and I'm positive I hear a crack this time. I cry out in pain and lash out with my left hand but Merle catches it and jerks me up, right into his fist again. Stars explode across my vision and blood coats the inside of my mouth, metallic, sharp and familiar. I'm still reeling from the blow and Merle yanks me up, a fist curled in the shirt at my collarbone, hot breath dragging across my chin.

"Told ya I'd get ya sugar tits," he growls in my face, his other hand gripping my cheeks hard enough to bruise. "Should of listened to old Merle."

I open my mouth to respond, or maybe spit in his face, when his hands wrench away from me, jagged nails leaving furrows across my jaw and collarbone. There's a heavy blow to my side, kicking the breath out of me and I roll over with a gasp, flames licking across my ribs. Blinking past the tears, I'm able to bring my vision into focus just in time to see T-Dog fully drag Merle away from me, fingers dug into the collar of Merle's vest like he's a rabid dog that needs to be subdued. If that isn't the most accurate description I've heard all day.

However, Merle's all revved up now, rage and energy coiling through his body and the second he's off of me, he's whirling and on T-Dog again, fist slamming into his sternum and knocking him to the ground. I try to keep the two of them in sight but the world tilts dangerously off its axis, spinning like a carnival ride, and my head falls back with a groan, eye clenched shut as I attempt to stay conscious.

Over the throbbing in my skull, a bone jarring beat, like a hellish drum or bell, I can hear raised voices and the sounds of bone and flesh colliding. Blood drips across my face but I can't tell where it's coming from: a split lip, a broken nose, or just otherwise torn skin. My whole face burns, feels bruised and swollen, I can't breath properly, and the appendages on my right side feel broken, wrist and ankle white hot. Black is just starting to skirt along the edges of my vision when I feel hands on me again, dragging across my arms, my shoulders. Snarling wetly, I jerk away and try to land a hit but then Glenn's voice is at my ear, urgent and frantic.

"Audrey? Shit, don't move! Oh man, oh man this isn't good. Audrey? Audrey! Can you hear me?"

I slit open my eyes against the pain and Glenn's disembodied head, pale face and wide, wet eyes, floats above me, lower lip caught in between his teeth. Fingers brush across my cheek, my temple, Glenn's fingers, gentle where Merle's were harsh and breaking. He draws them away when I hiss in pain, torn skin jostled, and I don't have to cross my eyes to see the blood on his fingertips, stark red and slick.

"Fuck," Glenn groans and dizzily I watch his eyes skip across my face, cataloguing the damage. "J…just say still Dree. Just…"

A sharp cry interrupts him and I watch as Glenn looks over his shoulder, Adam's apple bobbing as his face loses what little color it had retained. "Holy crap," he breathes and I don't like the tremble his fingers have on my shoulder, the hitch in his voice. There's real terror in the lines of his face and, after everything that just happened, to see him look even more afraid…

Gritting my teeth as hard as I can, I start to sit up, left hand pressed to the gravel as my right wraps around my side. Glenn whips around at the movement, mouth an 'o' of surprise and disapproval but I shake him off when he tries to stop me, gasping as pain burns through me.

"Stop it," I hiss at him, glaring through blurry eyes as he tries to push me back to the ground again. "L…let me see."

Glenn gives me this look that says I really don't want to but I ignore it and manage to get fully upright, ice crystallizing under my skin as I just barely see Merle's head and the top of his shoulders over a large pipe, gun cocked and loaded and right in what I assume is T-Dog's face.

The rest of the group is crowded around, keeping some distance, faces terrified and pleading, sure that they are about to watch T-Dog get murdered right before their eyes. Morales is hunched over with an arm wrapped around his torso, much like I am, face grim with pain and fear. Andrea and Jacqui huddle together and I can hear them whimpering from this distance, begging Merle to put the gun down.

But he won't. Merle will pull that fucking trigger without a second's hesitation if he really wants to. Fuck. For some reason, Shane's face floats across my thoughts, eyes hard and jaw taunt and distrustful of Merle but hopeful that things wouldn't blow up. Yeah. Sorry Shane. We just went nuclear.

Glenn is still trying to push me back but I struggle to my feet, nearly buckling as my ankle just gives, taking no weight at all. A whisper of a hiss worms its way through my clenched teeth but I shove it down and away, hobbling forward a step and praying to any power listening that I don't end up on my face or with a bullet lodged between my eyes.

"Yeah! Alright!" Merle crows, spitting on T-Dog as he stands, his back to me. The second he's off the other man, the rest of the group darts forward and drags him back, out of Merle's reach. I don't have to see his face to know he's grinning.

"We're gonna have ourselves a little powwow huh? Talk about who's in charge!" he declares, waving a handgun around, rifle laying discarded a few feet away. The man in the cop's uniform lays near it, half upright, looking dazed. Yeah. Know how you feel buddy.

Keeping my eyes trained on Merle's back, I try to approach as slowly and quietly as possible, left hand reaching up over my shoulder since my right one hangs throbbing and essentially useless at my side. I don't want to kill Merle. He's the biggest, most violent, bastard I've known in a while and ok, maybe I want to see him bleed a little, get knocked down a few notches. But I don't want to kill him. However loosely I use the term, Merle's still human. And there are too few of us left as it is.

Plus, even if I'm loath to acknowledge it, Merle is Daryl's brother. They're family, possibly the only ones left. Daryl might have said some things, I might be pissed off at him, I might hate Merle…but I wasn't going to kill Daryl's last living family member.

That being said, bluffing my way into getting Merle to back down doesn't sound like a bad idea. And my sword's plenty sharp; I cleaned and honed it not half an hour ago. A keen blade against his neck should cow Merle. If I could only get there.

Everyone is still crouched at Merle's feet, a few feet away. T-Dog is bleeding heavily from a split lip and there's a nasty bruise blooming on the arch of his cheekbone, livid against his skin. Andrea and Jacqui kneel on either side of him, propping him up, Jacqui dabbing at some of the blood on the injured man's face. Morales is still standing but barely, leaning heavily against the roof's ledge. They don't see me, not yet, eyes still trained on the homicidal maniac before them. I hope it stays that way. Surprise is the only hand I have left to play.

"I vote me," Merle says, still rambling about his dominance. I slowly extract the katana from its sheathe, the angle awkward as I have it situated for a right handed withdraw, the rasp of metal no more than a whisper. "Anybody else?" Merle asks rhetorically and I'm just about to flip the blade around, almost in arms reach, when Jacqui gasps, low but enough to be heard, and Morales' eyes shoot over Merle's shoulder, locking onto me.

Oh crap.

Element of surprise ruined, I try to rush forward, jerking the katana over my shoulder, keen edge glaring white in the afternoon sun. The tip cuts sharply through the air and lands against Merle's collarbone as he whirls, nicking the exposed skin and drawing a bright bead of blood.

Merle's gun hovers six inches away from my face, thumb pulling back the hammer and finger on the trigger.

For an endless moment, the two of us stand there, squared off and frozen, sweat and blood cutting trails through the grime on our skin. I'm panting harshly, though I try not to, and each wheeze feels like a knife is slipping between my ribs and twisting just so. My left arm trembles ever slow slightly as it extends the katana, pushing it none to gently against Merle's chest and my right one still dangles at my side, pulsing, throbbing, head and ankle pounding in time.

The scowl on Merle's lips is a harsh slash on his face, chapped lips ever so slightly bared. The gun he has pointed at my face doesn't waver, doesn't shake, and even though I can see the dilation of his pupils from here, I know Merle's in enough control of his facilities to realize he's got me pinned, blade against his throat or not.

And there's the smile that proves it, slow stretch of too dry and wrinkled skin, a perverse light flashing in opaque blue eyes. My stomach flips and my heart jitters a stucco beat against my bruised ribs.

"Now, now," Merle coos, sickly sweet. "Seems we got ourselves a hero now don't we? Well go ahead baby girl." He doesn't move the gun that's trained on me but he spreads his other arm out wide, taunting me. I grit my teeth and clench my fingers on the hilt of the katana, palm slick with sweat.

"Merle," I grind out, voice a tad too high to be commanding. "Enough alright? Just put the fucking gun away. The geeks are getting closer to breaking through those glass doors down stairs the longer we fuck around here. Just…enough."

The smile doesn't falter but it takes on a certain sharpness, a predator's baring of teeth. Merle locks eyes with me and leans into the sword I still have against him, tip digging deep, slicing through layers of skin and meeting the halting resistance of bone. I've hit Merle's clavicle.

"Democracy time ya'll," Merle shouts, addressing the group behind us. He hasn't heard a word I've said. I tighten my grip on the katana as fear begins to wrap around my heart, constricting, like suffocating vines. I don't want to kill this son of a bitch but he just wont back the fuck down. There's a bullet in that chamber, I know there is, but how many does he have left? Enough to kill us all? I wish I could ask what he thinks to accomplish, how this is going to get him out of here and how the hell he expects to stroll back into camp with none of us in tow, but it's pointless. Merle isn't thinking. This is the meth or the coke or what the hell ever is in his system talking. There's no logic, no thought process. It makes him that much more dangerous and I try to keep my gaze locked on Merle's face, just so I don't have to look down the barrel of his gun. "Show of hands! Me, as king hoss." His grin widens for a moment and he spares a glance over his shoulder, finger still poised to shoot me in the face. "All in favor?"

No one answers him and the silence is deafening. Blood is still dripping down my face and I hear Glenn's anxious shifting behind me, T-Dog's muffled groans of pain behind Merle, the backdrop of snarling geeks underneath it all. Merle scans the rest of the group, waiting for a response and then nods after a moment when he receives none.

"Alright. If ya'll wanna play."

Before I can blink, Merle whirls around and lunges for me. My arm jerks in surprise, a reflex lashing out, and I feel the tearing of skin, a minute resistance and then a give, right before slams his fist against my nose, sending me careening into the roof's stone ledge, cement scraping harshly against my back.

My head swims and I hear the clang of metal as the katana collides with the floor, the screams of anger and the sound of scuffled feet on gravel, like someone had started forward to help but then stopped sort. I'm barely standing, draped across the roof's edge, but I've retained enough higher functioning to hear Merle's next words and actually be able to process them.

"Come on now! Let's see 'em! Hands up, ya'll! All in favor?"

There's another moment of silence and when I loll my head forward I can see the blurry images of uplifted arms, skin colored, blurred stalks. My stomach roils in protest at the movement and I have to close my eyes to stop myself from hurling.

"That's good," Merle crows and I hear the crunch of gravel as he moves. "Now, that means I'm the boss right? Well then—ah ah ah!" There's another scuffle on the gravel and Merle's teasing takes on an angry undertone. "Don't ya move gook! Not unless ya want some metal in yer teeth." (1)

I groan and try to lift my head, succeed in almost falling on my ass. Glenn. Please, please don't do something stupid. My friend must hear my mental plea because Merle doesn't say anything else to him, just begins to laugh and I hear his slow, measured steps approach me.

"Well then," he repeats, like he's giving some important speech. "If I'm the boss, I think I better start makin some 'xecutive decisions don't you?" It's a rhetorical question and no one answers, no on breathes. I squint open my eyes and come face to chest with Merle, vision blurred by the blow to the head and the other man's proximity. I try to squirm away but I've got nowhere left to go and when I try to reach my tanto, left handed since I can't seem to get the right one to work, the angle is too off, to awkward, and Merle's hand is around my throat before I can think of an alternative.

The pressure is tight, excruciatingly so, and I immediately scramble at Merle's hand, nails trying to dig into his skin, eyes bulging and lungs heaving. Merle doesn't seem phased by my meager attempts to escape, he just grins crookedly and lifts me up by my neck, windpipe collapsing under his fingertips. I kick my feet out, try to find some purchase, but Merle has me off the floor, the backs of my thighs just brushing the top of the ledge behind me.

"Looky what I caught," Merle chuckles, tilting his head and smiling like he's just found something extremely fascinating. "A pussy cat with no claws."

"M…merle!" I gasp out sharply, red and black dots dancing before my eyes. I can't breathe. I can't breathe!

The edges of my vision begin to dim, go gray and then quickly black, but suddenly, there's blue, deep blue, opaque and hazy. Merle's hauled me up close to him, nose to nose, and I can see the murderous light in his eyes, the unrestrained eagerness. He's been waiting for this opportunity for days; weeks. I suddenly realize it's probably why he came on this trip in the first place. I should have caught it the moment he started to be cooperative, almost complacent.

"I told ya to stay away from my baby bro," he snarls quietly, right up against my cheek. I sputter and choke, running out of oxygen. I try to get my legs under me but he has my left one pinned and my right's racked with pain. "Told ya, didn't I? Ya thought ya could pull one over on me? Huh?" He tightens his grip and my struggles get weaker, my vision dimmer. All I can see now is the crazed blue of his eyes and the vague flash of yellowed teeth.

"Last mistake ya ever gonna make baby girl," Merle whispers against my ear, like he's confiding a secret. "Should have know: no one fucks with a Dixon. No one. Especially not an uppity city cooze like ya."

I gurgle something out in response, probably a plea, I can't tell anymore, and Merle draws away from me, a blurred image of skin and sweat. Sharp, jagged nails dig into my throat and then I distantly feel him lift me higher and I'm dangling, tops of my calves and bottom of my knees pressed hard against cement.

Merle cackles, a far off sound, and then I feel myself tipping backwards, over the edge of the roof. I try to start struggling anew but I don't have enough oxygen and my attempts are feeble at best. I hear screams and shouts, and stories below me I hear the moans of walkers, but over all of that, louder than the blood pulsing in my ears, is the sound of Merle's voice, low, and quiet, and taunting. Like a child, crooning a song.

"Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed." (2)

I'm rapidly fading but those words resound in my skull, ricocheting and if I my lungs weren't already empty I would have been left breathless.

Those words…that poem…

The quarry lake flickers in my mind's eye, clear blue water dappled with sunlight, the warm scratch of a stone beneath my thighs and soft leather between my fingers. I read that poem just over a week ago, the day Amy and I got in that stupid fight. I remember it perfectly because that was…that was the day I started the bet with Daryl but…but I never read that poem to him. Countless others but never that one, though I can't remember why. I had read it to myself, I thought silently, but if Merle knows it, and I assume he doesn't read poetry for himself, that means…that means he's been watching me a lot longer than I thought.

That means Daryl and I never had a chance.

….

Daryl.

The older man's name suddenly stamps itself behind my eyelids, a searing brand. Blue eyes, sandy hair, and dirt imbedded in his very skin. Scowling mouth and harsher words, glare that could melt glass and the worst attitude in the state of Georgia. The hunter, the jackass…my friend. Not partner, fuck that shit; he's my friend and I will be god damned if I die before I win our fucking bet.

And I sure as hell am not going to die at the hands of his fucking brother, weak and whimpering; helpless.

Just as my vision narrows to the barest pinprick, a thin flicker of gleeful blue eyes, I drum up the last vestiges of my strength, scrape the bottom of the barrel, and push everything I have left into my right leg, pain be fucked, kicking out as hard as I can, shin connecting solidly with Merle's groin.

The hand on my throat squeezes so hard my windpipe is more than likely crushed but then a guttural groan of pain rattles in my ear and the grip gives, just that much, and I have enough energy left to get my left leg under me too and shove. Merle's hand wrenches off my throat and his body stumbles back from the force, cursing and sliding on gravel. No longer pinned by the bulk of Merle's body, I start to collapse, but the momentum of my kick has me careening backwards, an unanticipated effect, and my ass scrapes across the cement ledge as I start to topple off the roof. There's no time to react, no time to grapple for a hold on something, and I clench my eyes shut, ready for the weightlessness of falling and hoping that I impact with the cement hard enough to kill me.

Just as I'm about to plunge to my death, however, hands suddenly claw at my forearms, my thighs, and then an arm wraps around my waist and hauls me forward, straight into someone's chest and we go sprawling to the ground, my head smacking harshly into the sharp ridge of a collarbone. For a split instant, my mind's still on fight mode, MerleMerleMerle, cycling through my head and I start to thrash, gasping, flinging my limbs out as hard as I can. But then fingers latch onto my wrists and the pain in the right one wrenches a groan from me, just as Glenn's voice lands wetly on my temple, lips pressed against the skin there.

"Audrey it's me! It's me! Calm down," he gasps and I go limp against him, coughing, raggedly trying to draw breaths through my damaged throat. Glenn lets go of my wrists, making me hiss in pain again, and then one of his hands cradles the back of my head, pressing me into his shoulder, drawing me close to his chest, making soothing noises. "I got you. I got you."

Even though his voice is high and reedy, scared and shaking, it's Glenn. Glenn who shared candy with me; Glenn who laughs when I can't the pronunciation of hello in Korean right; Glenn, my friend, who just fucking pulled me off the edge of a building and saved my life. I might not be able to think much past that but I still realize what he just did. Still gasping, chocking, I curl the fingers of my left hand in the fabric of his shirt and do my best to gurgle out a thank you. The syllables come out mangled, unrecognizable, and fuck they hurt but I think he gets what I was trying to say because he holds me tighter.

I'm still reveling in the fact that I'm alive when an enraged yell tears through the sound of my jagged gulps of air and my entire body goes rigid because fuck, Merle's going to shoot me now, not toss me off the roof, and I brace for the impact, curling against Glenn's chest to try and shield him.

The shot never comes. Instead, Merle cries out again, this time in shock, a little bit of pain, and there's a loud thud from a few feet away. Not having the energy to lift my head, I turn it ever so slightly to the side, eyes barely open, left one almost swollen shut.

Merle's laid out flat on his back not five feet away, blood trickling from the side of his mouth. Shock sparks through me as I see the man in the officer's uniform standing over the redneck's prone form, face twisted as he throws away Merle's own discarded rifle. Uncomprehending, I watch as the man squats over Merle, knee pressed into his turned cheek, deft hands snatching up Merle's wrist and slapping a ring of metal around it. Not pausing for breath, the man clips the opposite handcuff to a rusty pipe a foot away, hauling Merle up and shoving him against an AC pipe, fists clenched in the collar of Merle's vest.

Merle grunts and tries to twist away, snarling something at the man but I don't catch the words, hearing fuzzy and muffled, like I'm submerged under water. My vision flickers suddenly, like a TV going out, unfocused static, and I have just enough time to think oh crap, to have half a second to try and stay awake,before my eyes roll back in my head and I sink into unconsciousness, the last image I see being the man in the cop's uniform, crouched over Merle, Merle's own gun pressed tightly against his temple.

---

Daryl's hours away from bumfuck nowhere and half past the edge of the world. The only things for miles around are trees and dirt and the creatures that lived there, animals that scampered and insects that crawled. Anyone one else would be scared shitless; Daryl can't think of anything better.

It's just about noon and the sun sears down from directly overhead, baking the very air. Daryl leans against a tree and takes a healthy swig from his canteen, the water tepid and slightly gritty but it slakes his thirst nonetheless and in this weather, he'll take what he can fuckin get. There's dirt caked beneath his jagged nails and the back of his neck is burned a stinging pink; his sleeveless shirt is drenched with sweat and a bone deep weariness aches beneath his skin. He's been movin nonstop since he stormed out of camp yesterday and he rubs tiredly at his eyes more often that not now, orbs itchin up a storm. But he's so fuckin close and he'll be damned if he gives up now.

Thirty yards away, a fawn drinks from the stream Daryl had just refilled at, oblivious to the hunter lounging in the shadows, watching. It's a small thing, thin and almost sickly; which is precisely why it is still alive. Daryl had thought bout shootin it the second he saw it, two hours outside camp cuz some meat is better than none, but really, it would be more hassle than benefit. And besides, why kill the thing straight off when Daryl could track it back to its herd and kill Bambi's mama instead? Might have to drag the damn doe miles through the woods but it'll keep them fed longer than some dried scraps of squirrel, that's for damn sure.

Daryl flicks his eyes over to the fawn again, finding it nestled down in the long grass along the stream's banks, feeding. It's lazy and complacent and it doesn't look like it's goin anywhere anytime soon. Son of a bitch. Growling under his breath, Daryl stoops down and snatches a fallen switch off the ground, unsheathin the knife at his hip in the same movement. He makes himself more comfortable against the tree, shoulder slippin into a slight groove in the bark, and sets about whittlin the stick in his hand, crossbow hot on the length of his spine. It's mostly a mindless activity, any dumb ass with a dull blade could do it, but Daryl is tired as hell and he needs somethin to keep his hands busy, keep his brain turnin.

The next half hour passes slow as hell and soon Daryl has a small pile of whittled, lethal lookin sticks at his feet. They're too small and thin to be arrows but this was always supposed to be just somethin stupid to keep him awake so the hunter doesn't give that much of a shit. Every so often, Daryl will let his eyes flicker up and out, trackin the location of the fawn, but it seems to have fallen asleep a few minutes ago so the glances become fewer and fewer. In any other situation, Daryl would be comin out of his skin by now, irritated and impatient, but huntin was different. Huntin, if ya did it right, took time and skill and patience; principles drilled into the younger Dixon's skull at a young age. He could track a buck for days if he had too; it didn't faze him. He'd wait this fawn out and when he saw its mama, that's when he'd strike and not a moment before.

"You're such an impatient bastard. Ya know that Daryl?"

Those unexpected words have the hunter pressin too hard on the stick in his hands, the wood givin with a muffled crack. Daryl curses and snaps his head up, lookin to see if the fawn had heard him, but the small deer sleeps undisturbed, speckled brown flank risin slowly with deep, measured, breaths. Shit. Dodged a damn bullet. Beratin himself, Daryl bends over and picks up yet another brittle branch, startin all over again, the paper-thin shavins floatin harmlessly to the ground. He refuses to acknowledge the words, concentratin on the warm wood in his hands, the hot edge of his knife, slice, cut, shave, switch. It works, for a little while. It never lasts though, no matter how fuckin hard Daryl tries. He'll push and push and push the thoughts away, bury them deep down, but after a few silent hours of nothing more than the dry rustle of summer grass and the echoes of his own heartbeat, they come crawlin back to the damn surface again, refusin to be ignored.

That stupid, goddamn, kid.

Daryl bares his teeth in a silent snarl and his carving becomes more aggressive, violent, pent up anger bleedin out of him like a poison. Even after all these miles, all these hours, the hunter can still feel those assholes' accusin eyes on him, branding hot into his skin. Can almost taste the fear in those brats' eyes, wide and limpid, sour in the back of his throat. Can feel all their hatred slidin across his skin like oil, seepin into his pores. It was all that fuckin kid; all her damn fault. He wishes he never found her in the first place, wishes that he never chased her, never offered to bring her back to camp. He wishes he never met Audrey damn Bennett.

And then he gets pissed off cuz somethin roils in his gut, balkin against all those thoughts and he doesn't know why.

Anger burns through him, a red-hot flare. The heat's been under his skin for a full day, smolderin deep down, flickerin embers, but it leaps up now, scaldin flames. The grip he has on the knife is his hand tightens and then a stab of pain filters through his rage. He snaps his gaze down, expectin to see bright red blood.

He doesn't; at least not any that's fresh. Teeth clenched tight, Daryl flexes his hand, the spilt and bruised skin of his knuckles ripplin with the movement,l pinpicks of pain. He thinks that the knuckle of his middle finger might be broken, it's swollen and slightly inflamed, but he'd cracked it hours ago, somewhat puttin it back in place. It's the best he could do. And maybe he deserved a lil pain anyway.

Merle is gonna kick his teeth in when he gets back. Daryl might even let him. Sure, his brother's an asshole but he was always talkin shit; that was nothin new. Daryl layin him out is a rare occurrence though and it was all cuz of her. Goddamn Audrey. She's been the source of every single problem he's had in the last few weeks. Why he hasn't brought in big game. Why those people have been up his ass. Why Merle is pissed as all get out now. All her fault. She's made his life hell and that's a damn feat since it's the apocalypse.

There's this part of Daryl, a small part, miniscule and shoved to the back of his mind, that tries to point out Audrey wasn't all bad. Tries to bring to attention images of the kid hunched over his dryin rack, blood on her wrists and concentration in the lines of her face. Tries to recall bright smiles and sparkling eyes and the taste of candy on his tongue, the sound of quiet laughter and liltin words. But that small part of Daryl's mind is ignored; he won't acknowledge it. It had been a mistake to talk to that stupid…it had been a mistake. Daryl never should of done it. He'll let Merle deck him a few times so he learns his goddamn lesson. That kid was nothin but trouble. And he was done with her.

Resolved, Daryl's just thinkin about how he's gonna approach Merle on his return when he lifts his head, a perfunctorily glance, and sees that the patch of grass on the creek bank is bare, empty. The fawn is gone. Cursin, Daryl snaps to attention and throws the stick in his hand away, shovin his knife angrily into its sheathe as he starts off towards the stream, ready to start trackin again. Fuckin A. All that damn kid's fault.

---

The first thing I become aware of is pain. And a lot fucking of it.

It's like I'm submerged in Jell-O at first; everything feels suspended and weightless as I float in that precarious void between awake and blissfully not. I'm swimming towards consciousness; I can feel it, rising towards the surface. But it's slow and halting and I'm weighed down; two strokes up and three back. I'm being pulled back down then, farther and farther, sinking towards the black bottom when a loud bang filters down through the depths and sinks its hooks into me, hauling me, bodily, towards reality.

When I break the surface, it's like I'm inhaling glass and my stomach vaults into my throat. The pressure's too much and I have a serious case of the bends, every fiber of my being screeching in agony, joints popping and muscles tearing. (3) It's almost enough to drag me under again but, through some cruel twist of fate, I'm still awake, gasping and floundering like a fish on dry land.

Through the hazy of my pain, a voice filters through and I blearily think Glenn, but the voice is deeper than that, the accent wrong, more of a drawl than Glenn's sharper cadence. Recognition flits across my mind but it skates away before I can grab it, leaving me listening to a voice I can't place.

"Audrey? Girl, you awake? Guys! Guys, I think she's wakin up!"

There's a commotion that follows the words, more voices and the sound of stomping feet, the rattle of loose gravel. The last sound, clattering around in my skull, is what finally makes me pry open my eyes, hissing and blinking harshly against a stark white light, searing into my retinas. The blinding light only lasts for a moment more and then it's gone and my eyes can focus, unfocusedly staring up at the shadow blocking the sun.

T-Dog's face looms over me: bruises and abrasions on his cheek, a cut on his lip and liquid concern in his way to close brown eyes. Sluggishly, I finally place the voice that had been calling me as his and I try to open my mouth, pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth, but all I can taste is sandpaper and all I can manage is an indistinguishable, painful rasp.

Fingers card through my hair suddenly, gentle but shit even that hurts, and it's Jacqui that speaks to me next. "Audrey, sweetheart. Just relax. Relax honey we got you. We got you." Her tone is sweet and coaxing, soothing, and I feel my eyes drift shut again, body unclenching.

"Audrey it's me! It's me! Calm down! I got you. I got you."

Glenn's voice, frantic, relieved, scared, echoing across my memory. A cement ledge. A ten story drop. Walkers. Pain. Guns. Merle.

My eyes fly open with a ragged gasp and I begin to thrash again, throwing off stilling hands and pleading words and the chains of pain that bind me. Head throbbing, swimming, side in flames, I struggle upright, eyes casting widely around, fear and adrenaline soaring through me, my sluggish mind trying to catch up.

MerleMerleMerleMerleMerle

I finally spot him five feet away, sunburned and sweaty…and shackled to a pipe. My chest heaves and I stare at him wide eyed, uncomprehending, until the dizzy image of the man in the cop's uniform crops up in my mind, knee to Merle's cheek, gun to his temple.

"Take a picture bitch," he snarls and the gravel in his voice makes my skin crawl. "It'll last longer."

"Give it a rest Dixon. No one asked to hear your lovely voice."

Morales suddenly kneels down beside me and I turn to face him, blinking owlishly at his familiar face, still racked with confusion. "M…Morales," I say, or at least try to. All that comes out is a sharp edged croak. I wince at the searing pain and unconsciously reach for my throat, fingertips dancing across deep grooves and tender skin. "W…what—?"

The older man spares me an odd look. It's one part sorrow, one part pity, and two parts guilt. I'd tilt my head at him but the stiffness in my neck hinders me.

"How you feeling mijita?" he asks. I furrow my brow at the question and he must sense I don't understand because he continues. "You passed out. We…we got you in the shade but you've been out cold for bout half an hour."

Passed out. Ok. Things start to click in my head, a scattered jigsaw puzzle. I…I remember…I remember the shots, the walkers, the newcomer. And then…the rush to the roof. Tension follows, and heated words. T-Dog's twisted features and Merle sneering nigger. Punches and pain and…

"I remember," I rasp and then I look around, see Glenn shuffle forward lip caught between his teeth; see Jacqui and Andrea and T-Dog, all looking relieved; see the man in the beige and brown uniform, a few feet back, rubbing at his neck in an awkward fashion but seeming similarly relieved. He catches my eyes and gives me a tentative smile, worry imbedded in the fringes. "It doesn't look like I missed much."

T-Dog scoffs and the look on his face is pinched and tense. He takes off his hat and rubs at his scalp, a tired motion. The CB lies discarded in his lap. He doesn't spare it a glance. "Yeah, you're right about that," he huffs and gestures around us. "Still stuck in this death trap."

I purse my lip and nod, grimacing when both motions hurt and hissing when the grimace pulls at my torn lip and then just sitting still when the hiss scrapes out of my raw throat. Holy fuck. I feel like I've been put in a meat blender. Glenn's hand is suddenly on my forearm and I glance up to see he's drawn closer, sat back on his calves, gaze darting across what I know are the bruises and gashes on my features before they settle on my eyes. "Hey," he says quietly, carefully, like if he speaks any louder he'll hurt me. "Ju…just take it easy alright? We'll find a way out of here."

Even though that is becoming increasingly unlikely with each second that passes, I appreciate the effort Glenn's giving. Nodding, albeit slower and softer, a bare bob of my chin, I pat his hand and give him the biggest smile I can manage, which isn't much. "Course we are. Now, help me up so I can help out will ya?"

Glenn's eyes boggle out of his head and he starts to stutter. Andrea is the one to tap me on the shoulder and give me this wary look, saying, "I think you should stay seated. You uh…you…"

"Took quite a beating," I finish for her and for some reason I'm grinning when I say it. It's not funny, not by a long shot, but I can't stop smiling. I think I have a concussion. "Yeah I know. Was kind of there. Doesn't change the fact that we need to get the hell out of here. Might be bruised now but if we don't find a way out of this building, we're all gonna be dead."

The older blonde winces at my blunt statement and I feel Glenn's fingers on my arm clench down slightly. Everyone shares a loaded look but no one tries to stop me when I grope behind me with my left hand, latching onto the lip of the roof's ledge T-Dog and I are propped up against, hauling myself up, slowly, and suddenly with the help of five other sets of hands. I really should have stayed seated, would have if we were in any other situation, but we're not and even though I want to curl up and die at this point, I'm not going to sit on my ass.

Even though we take it slowly and even with all the help I can't even get fully upright. A full minute later and I'm hunched over at the waist, leaning heavily on the wall behind me and on Glenn, teeth gritted so hard they're chipping, and my whole body in flames. I have my right arm pressed tightly to my side, trying not to jostle that same wrist, all my weight thrown onto my left leg as my right one throbs. Glenn's babbling in my ear about sitting back down but I shake my head, trying to ignore how the world wobbles.

'Deep breath. Take a deep breath, Audrey, even though it hurts like acid in your throat. Take a deep breath and get down to business or you're gonna end up dead and everyone back at camp is going to starve.'

I repeat this to myself over and over and over again, until it's a constant track in my mind. In reality, I probably shouldn't be this lucid, this logical. Our simple scavenging trip has been thrown into a blender, Merle just tried to kill me, literally kill me, and now we still might die anyway. I should probably be in hysterics or something like that. I don't know. But I'm not. I'm calm and thinking clearly. This might be shock settling in; in fact I think this is precisely what it is. Shock and some funky defense mechanism that I have when shit goes south. It's happened before, too many times to count. Later, if there is a later, I will most likely break down but now, in the battle zone, when there are things to do and miles to go, I can just…detach, shove things away and focus on what needs getting done. I'm not particularly sure if this is healthy or not but if it gets me through the day well hey, who's complaining.

With this mentality, and also with the spare thought of I am not going to let Merle think he's taken me down for the count, I manage to finally straighten my spin, breathing quickly as shallowly through my nose so as to try and appease my aching throat. Dots dance in my vision, spatterings of red and black, but besides that, oh and the little addition of spiraling pain, I'm all right. In some ways, I guess I'm lucky. For one, I could be fucking dead right now. So just being alive is a plus side, even if it doesn't feel like it at this exact moment. Secondly, although I feel like mincemeat, I don't think I'm as fucked as I'm assuming. I'm conscious so that means I can't have that bad of a head injury, possibly just a slight concussion. My face is just one throbbing mess but I can see out of both eyes, the left one is half swollen but I can still see clearly, mostly. Lifting my left hand, I slowly probe along the planes of my cheeks, shift my jaw from side to side. No broken bones there. A split lip and some bruises but it could be worse.

Like my nose for example. Just a slight brush and I hiss harshly, squinting against the pain, eyes watering. Ok, well that's definitely broken. Glenn and Jacqui flutter anxiously at my side, asking what they can do to help but I wave their hands off. Taking a deep breath, ouch, I wrap slightly shaking fingers around the bridge of my nose, lightly feeling around the break in the cartilage. It's high on the bridge, jagged under the skin and pulsing. I almost laugh because it's the exact same place where I broke my nose before, almost ten years ago. This probably will hurt just as much now as it did then.

"A…audrey? What are you—?"

I don't let Morales finish his question. Not thinking about it, because if I do I might chicken out, I lift my chin and stare straight ahead, taking another deep breath and inadvertently meeting Merle's eyes over Andrea's shoulder. The man glowers hot and ugly, pissed and hateful, and I do my best to scowl right back, defiant as hell, when I jerk my fingers roughly and snap the broken cartilage back into place.

A groan is punched out of me, rattling against my clenched teeth, but I don't double over, trying to shake off the painful sensation. I blink open my eyes and everyone's wide eyed around me, looking at me like I just pulled out my own tooth. Smiling gently, I ghost my fingers once last time across my face, making sure everything was it it's rightful place, before I drop my arm.

"Broke my nose when I was younger," I explain, running the back of my wrist across my upper lip, dried blood flaking off my skin. Not attractive but efficient. "Had to right it then too." That's not strictly true. Sensei offered to set it for me; I was just too much of a stubborn dumb ass to listen to him.

T-Dog breathes out something that might be Jesus but I ignore it and turn to Morales instead, learning quickly how to deal with the shifting dizziness. "All right so anyway. What progress have we made in getting the hell out of here? I don't know about you guys, but I'm kind of tired of this particular scenery," I say, gesturing out vaguely to the Atlanta skyline. Morales looks like he wants to say something else, eyes skitter across my face, the blood that I can feel coagulating on my temple, underneath a particularly smarting gash, but he keeps all comments to himself, saving them for a later time. Instead, he sighs heavily and rubs a hand through his curly hair, weariness in every line of him. I can't help but feel relieved and grateful when the attention finally shifts of me.

"Not much. The streets are still packed." He turns around to face the city, craning in head to look down below. His face twists. "The vehicles we came in are to far; we'd never make it down this street, the alley, and the other street. We thought about going under. Sewers, ya know? But that was a bust. We just came up here to think about something else when you uh woke up."

Sewers…well that's clever. Too bad it didn't pan out, though I'm not a big fan of dark, enclosed spaces. Humming, I turn my head slightly to glance down at the street, my stomach swooping uneasily at the thought that I had almost became concrete paint. One look though and my brow furrows in confusion. "Hey…does the crowd seem…smaller to you guys?" I ask, turning my head to address the group. "I thought there had been more before."

As one, the group flinches and goes pale. "What?" I question.

Andrea swallows harshly, exhaling shakily. "The…the first plane of glass broke. Lot of…lot of the geeks are crowding in the space between that and the second door."

My eyes widen and I feel a tremor run the length of my spine. I push it down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. "O…ok. So…new plan. Ideas?"

Everybody kind of looks at each other for a moment, stuck at an impasse, before the man in the cop's uniform steps up and holds out his hand towards Morales. "Can I see the binoculars?" he asks quietly. The other man tilts his head in bewilderment but unhooks the item from where it's hanging against his chest, handing it over silently.

The man, I should learn his name, nods in thanks and then goes over to the ledge, pressing himself against it, elbows balancing on the cement as he raises the binoculars to his eyes. Curious, everyone follows suit, falling into line behind him: T-Dog, Morales Andrea, Jacqui, me, albeit slowly and gingerly, and finally Glenn. I'm gazing at the back of the man's turned head, too queasy to look down again, when I feel a soft brush on the skin of my upper arm, right below the edge of my sleeve. I turn to find Glenn looking at me intently, a furrow between his eyes. Cocking my head, I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong, or what's specifically wrong since our lives are one big fucking mess right now, when something gently touches the side of my face, cool and light. My lips part in surprise but Glenn keeps wiping the blood off my skin, pressing slightly in certain places and pulling away quickly when I wince. After a minute, I slowly maneuver my body so my left hand can reach around and rest on top of his where it lies against my temple. Glenn starts at the movement, eyes flickering towards my own, but I smile softly in thanks and take the wet rag from him, shifting so it's pressed against the bloody left corner of my mouth. He blinks and I watch his Adam's apple bob before he suddenly looks past me, intent on something completely different. I turn back to see what that is.

The cop, former cop, just like Shane back at camp, has lowered the binoculars and from his profile I can see a frown of concentration etched on his features. He clears his throat and then shifts to look at Morales, passing the binoculars to him. "That construction site," he says, pointing down the street as Morales puts the lenses to his eyes and looks. "Those trucks—they always keep keys on hand."

I frown and try to find where he's pointing, a knot of unease building in my throat when I realize I have to squint slightly to see the site. It's all the way down the block, the far end. Too far to reach unless this guy's gonna rip off his shirt and reveal his Superman or Spiderman. Or some sort of bird hybrid. Like that one mutant on the X-men…anyway. Morales seems to seem to think the same thing because he drops his arms with a shake of his head, jutting his chin out towards the street.

"You'll never make it past the walkers. Wouldn't make it five damn feet," he says.

Shoving away from the ledge, the man rounds on Glenn, pointing at him almost accusingly. I feel Glenn go rigid at my side and I kind of want to step in front of him. "You got me out of that tank," the man tosses at Glenn and I'm turning with a bemused curl to my lip, tank?, but the younger man is moving away from my side, hands fluttering around, looking agitated.

"Yeah but they were feeding," he grouses, shuddering on the last word. "They were distracted."

"Could we distract them again?"

I'm narrowing my eyes at the man, because exactly how are we supposed to distract a horde of walkers and live, but another voice speaks up, unwanted and loud. "Right! Listen to him; he's on to something," Merle chatters up from the ground, voice overly cheering and supportive. All of us turn to him with a scowl and I particularly want to shove my foot down his throat because more than being irritated by his general presence, I hate the thrill of residual fear that sparks down my spine. "A diversion. Like on 'Hogan's Heroes.'"

Jacqui snaps something angrily at him but the rest of the group turns away, ignoring the hostile redneck.

The former cop starts to question what draws the walkers, pointing out that they are drawn to sound, obviously. I try not to roll my eyes because if they were deaf as well as dead bastards we'd be home free. Glenn says something off to my side but I don't quiet catch it, wincing to myself as I shift my hip to lie more heavily on the roof's ledge. Quietly, and with gritted teeth, I try to rotate my ankle because, plan or not, we're gonna have to move soon enough and I need to know how much I can move. The pain is instantaneous and I go stiff, not breathing. But, after a still moment, I shift it again, ignoring the flares of agony and determining mobility. It hurts, it hurts really fucking bad, but beyond the pain I discover that the ankle itself can't be broken, there's no popping noise, and when I glance down, there's no flash of white sticking out of my skin. So, not broken. Sprained then but…as I rotate it more and more, the pain lessens somewhat, not so crippling. The sprain can't be that bad. I think it's more bruised from Merle's kick than anything, the blow exacerbating the overexertion that the muscles had already been experiencing. This means, even if it makes me hurl, I can move on the leg if I need to. It's not like those first days out of Dalton. If I can just grit my teeth and bear it, I can walk, possibly even run. That will definitely come in handy.

Suddenly, I catch a snippet of the conversation going on a few feet from me. "They can tell us by smell?" the man is questioning and I hear Glenn scoff.

"Can't you?"

I glance up in time to see Andrea nod and look at the former cop in a kind of duh fashion. "They smell dead. We don't," she points out bluntly. "It's…pretty of distinct."

The man hums slightly and his brow pinches again in thought, lips pursed as he glances around at the five of us. His eyes may be bloodshot and he looks more than a little haggard but I can see the gears turning behind his ice blue eyes, calculating and contemplating. He takes a deep breath, and spares a glance at the street, holding the look like an answer is going to jump out at him from the sidewalk. After a moment, he turns back to us with this fire in his eyes: one part determination and three parts desperation.

"Then we just have to smell like them," he states simply, like he's telling us the sky is blue and the grass is green.

Morales gives a nervous and confused chuckle and cocks his head at the man, most likely thinking this man is batshit. I'm kind of inclined to think the same. "I know the end of the world doesn't exactly make for the most hygienic conditions," he laughs. "But I don't think any of us smell that bad. We ain't dead." Yet is the word he leaves unsaid but we all hear it loud and clear anyway.

However, what Morales just said makes me pause, mind turning.

They smell dead. We don't.

It's pretty distinct.

Then we just have to smell like them.

…ok. Either I've gone a completely different direction towards batshit or I might actually understand what this guy is getting at.

Clearing my throat, I grab everyone's attention. I lock eyes with the man across with me and cluck my tongue, tilting my head towards the street. When I speak, I address Morales. "We aren't dead," I say and quickly continue before people can interrupt. "But that doesn't mean we can't play the part."

Bewildered murmurs follow my statement but there is surprise in the former cop's ice blue eyes, and a little bit of admiration. I grin. Ok, so I did understand what he was saying. That just means we are both likely fucking batshit.

"What the hell are you sayin girl?" T-Dog interjects, wide eyes trained on my face.

I shrug and gently shove off the ledge, taking a tentative step forward towards Glenn. White flames dance up my leg but I grit my teeth and hobble forward another step and another, bridging the distance. "It's not like walkers are geniuses," I talk as I make my slow progression forward. "They're basically animals: instinct and a handful of senses. No thought to back those things up." I arrive at Glenn's side breathing slightly raggedly and dodge his helping fingers, lifting my left hand to tug off his cap. He makes a mumbled protest but I ignore him. "So, what happens if you trick those senses, that instinct? The walkers got nothing. Blind, deaf and dumb. Then all we gotta do is play the part."

"And what part is that mijita?" Morales asks, still not seeing my point.

Chuckling dryly, I flip Glenn's cap in my hand and reach up to pull it onto my own head. Tugging on the bill, I meet everyone's eyes with a humorless smile.

"Whose up for a little costume change?"

---

There are protests all around, arguments and explosions that this was idiotic and insane and would never work. Morales bickers at the former cop's back all the way down the stairs, angry and voice high pitched. I could hear the blatant fear in his voice even from my position at the back of the group, riding piggyback on Glenn. When the cop had made for the stairwell, everyone fell into step behind him, not because they agreed but they were trying to talk sense into him. Too bad this is a completely nonsensical reality we live in. Refusing to be left behind, I had started after them, biting through my tongue as I hobbled. Glenn had tried to make me stay back but I wasn't having it. I wasn't about to let this go down without me and I sure as hell wasn't staying on the roof with Merle. I'd roll my self down the ten flights of stairs first. Seeing that I wasn't kidding, Glenn had groaned and before I could say anything, stooped down before me, facing away. I had balked and told him he couldn't carry me all the way down but he cut me off, scooting back and grabbing the back of my knees, slowly tugging me to him. No other place to go, I had gingerly crawled onto his back, careful of my ankle and wrist and side. Still hurt but I managed to stay on and Glenn started forward.

We're at the bottom now and my 'steed' is panting quietly. I feel guilty and mutter something about me being too heavy but Glenn shakes his head, saying I'm actually really light but ten flights was ten flights. Glancing down at my fingers as they bob below Glenn's chin I can't help but think that the appendages look skeletal, bony and pale and unhealthy. I tear my eyes away and don't look again.

Glenn sets me down on the same rickety table in the back storage room that I had been lounging on when he and his 'guest' had made their surprise appearance, following the herald of echoing gunshots. I give him a grateful smile and he nods before darting back into the main room where everyone is grabbing supplies, still arguing. While the group's heated words echo back to me, I drop my eyes to my lap, really looking at my right wrist for the first time since I woke up. The skin is tight and more than a little swollen, varying shades of red and rapidly darkening purple and molten blue. My fingers tingle, numb, and every minute twitch of my arm send knives through my nerves. The angle of the bone doesn't look off though, even under the swelling, so I don't think that it's broken. Steeling myself, I try to rotate it as I did my ankle. And instantly, I'm sent leaning off the table, bile rushing into my mouth and dribbling down my chin, acidic and burning, like the tears blurring my vision. There isn't much to come back up though, mostly water, so I dry heave for the majority of the fit. When I'm able to breathe properly, I sit up and wipe at the tears on my cheeks. If that's not broken than it's most definitely fractured. Big time.

"Sweetie?"

Sitting up with a gasp, I lift my head to see everyone standing in the doorway, dressed in what look like lab cots and rubber gloves that encase their forearms. Concern is blatantly in every one of their features, even the new guy's, and I fidget, uncomfortable in my last vestiges of pain.

"I'm fine," I rasp, still tasting bile. "Wrist is just a tad worse off than I thought."

It's silent for a moment but then the man who had proposed this idea in the first place steps up, touching Morales' shoulder and then Glenn's as he moves towards the door. The rest of my group looks like they want to come and coddle me, hesitating, but the man, although he has appeared kind for the most part in the small time frame we've known him, isn't so inclined to waste time on some stupid girl that got her ass beat. There are more pressing matters at hand. Coughing lightly, I jerk my chin after the man and after one last look, Morales and Glenn follow him to the door, Glenn with a bat in his hands and Morales flexing his empty fingers.

After the three men share a look of understanding, it takes no more than a handful of seconds. The door is thrown open, Morales and the cop leap outside, Glenn on their heels, and then they are all right back in the door, gasping and pale, plus one. Morales and the man drop the walker's body in the middle of the room and take a step back. No one moves for a moment. I can hear three distinct gulps in the silence. But, it's not really silent; out on the main floor the geeks are still hammering against the glass doors, howling. I don't know if that's what sets everything into action, but the moment of stillness abruptly ends. The man walks towards me and picks up the helmet that rests at my side, a sheet of plastic curving in to protect the face. He also hefts the iron crowbar that's leaning on the table into his hands and turns to face the axe that's hanging in the glass case across the room. I furrow my brow as he begins to walks towards it.

"H…hey. Wait."

Six pairs of eyes flicker towards me and I blush slightly when I see a thin irritation in the newcomer's. "You…the axe is messy and the weight of it…no offense but you seem ready to keel over already. U…use my sword." The katana is currently strapped to my back, having picked it up from the dusty rooftop before we came down. Thankfully, I didn't see any damage to the steel.

The man considers me for a moment, eyes flickering up to the hilt that's now protruding over my right shoulder instead of my left, but then he shakes his head. "I wouldn't know how to use it," he says quietly. I can't help but laugh and the sound is slightly off, slightly hysteric.

"Sorry to break it to you, but you aren't exactly performing brain surgery. It's a blade. You just stick it in and cut."

Everyone flinches at the bluntness of my statement, even the man and he's the one who was going to use an ax to literally chop this body into pieces. Jesus. Sighing slightly, I shift to the edge of the table, feet dangling inches off the floor. "Nevermind. I'll do it."

"Audrey," Morales intones from a few feet away. There's pity in his gaze. "Mija there is no way you are going to be able to use that sword. You can't even touch your wrist without vomiting. Hefting that thing and doing…this," he gestures vaguely to the body at our feet. He shakes his head. "Until that wrist is healed, you won't be able to use that steel at all."

Narrowing my eyes at Morales, at the very slight tone of condescendence in his words, I do a quick scan of the distance between everyone and I and then grope behind me, with my left hand, fingers wrapping around a slightly flat rubber ball that I had playing with earlier. Pulling it in front of me, I bounce it once in my palm, twice, and then throw it up towards the ceiling. The second the ball rolls off my fingertips, I dart my hand over my shoulder and grasp the katana's hilt, unsheathing it smoothly and snapping it horizontally in front of me, just in time to cut the falling rubber ball in half. Wide eyes gape at me and I'd feel impressed if I hadn't been doing that particular move since I was fourteen, bored and trying to show off for Sensei.

"Guess it's a good thing I'm ambidextrous huh?"

Ignoring the way Morales' jaw falls open, I turn back to the other man, raising an eyebrow in question. "Well? What do you say Mr…?"

"Rick," the man replies and ah, finally, a name. He purses his lips at me and his gaze is calculating, considering. He looks on the verge of saying yes when all of the sudden his eyes narrow, zeroed in on my face.

"How old are you?"

I blink at the sudden question, because what the fuck, but answer nonetheless. "Seventeen."

The man, Rick, goes slightly pale at my response, blue eyes stark in his face and…oh my god. Really? I have to deal with this again? The riot act from one cop is enough for me thank you very much.

Scowling as best I can, I slide off the table, landing on my left leg and walk towards the prone form on the floor, slipping past Rick without a glance. "I'm not a child," I toss over my shoulder, the words feeling stupidly redundant in my mouth. I mean I just took a beating from hell and I'm still moving about so come on! "Besides," I say when I arrive at the walker's body, gazing down at the rotten flesh and moldy clothes. "It's not exactly the first time I've shed blood." My words are quiet, slightly bitter and are a lot stronger, a lot more confident, than I'm really feeling. In all honesty, I might just hurl again.

'Deep breath. Take a deep breath, Audrey, even though it hurts like acid in your throat. Take a deep breath and get down to business or you're gonna end up dead and everyone back at camp is going to starve. Shove it all down. Don't feel just do. Do it for Amy. For Carl and Sophia. Morales' kids. Deep breath.'

I twirl the katana's hilt in my hand, feeling oddly numb, considering where to start, neck and cut down or groin and cut up, when sturdy, calloused fingers wrap around my shoulder and tug me ever so slightly away, making me teeter on my left leg. Off balance, I lurch to the side and bump into someone, Rick, whose hand is still overlapping the bones of my shoulder. He's right behind me, close enough to feel the heat radiate off his body, and when I turn, his blue eyes are distorted by the sheet of plastic between us. I send him a bewildered and irritated glance but he cuts me off before I can argue.

"Look. I don't mean to…offend you but I just don't feel right about this," he says and when I open my mouth, he holds up a quieting hand. "And not just because of your age. You're injured, badly, though you try to down play it. And if this works, we need to get out fast so you need to save some strength. Right?"

Pursing my lips, I narrow my eyes at Rick and consider him, his words, the logic. He's right though, even if I want to defy him if only on principle. But that would just be stupid, waste more energy and time that we don't have. Just like I had to swallow my fear and pain, now I'll swallow my pride. Our lives may depend on it.

After a moment, I finally nod and ease out from under Rick's hand. He looks grateful, relieved, and I can't help but laugh suddenly as a thought occurs to me. "What?" Rick asks, confused. I shake my head.

"Nothing, nothing. It's just…you kind of remind me of someone, a man back at camp. You just have a little more…tact I guess."

Rick still looks puzzled but I wave my hand dismissively and hobble back to the table, wincing as I haul myself back up. "Never mind. Forget I said anything. Continue."

Looking like he'd rather not, Rick nods and steps back over to the glass case and smashes it without preamble, pulling the axe out and setting the crowbar down. From there, he's all motion. He hefts the axe up and sets his jaw, squares his spine and moves close to the body, eyes hard. He spares all of us a glance, as if to ask permission, and when he receives what he was looking for, he takes a few steps back, hauls the axe over his shoulder and takes an almost running start.

Everyone shuts their eyes and cringes away, even I wince, but the sickening crunch never comes because, at the last second, Rick skitters off, panting, dropping the axe to hand limply at his side. We all give him a curious look, I'm thinking maybe he just can't do it, when he suddenly slips the mask off, throws the axe to the side, and takes a knee, rifling through the walker's pockets. A vague sense of disgust wells in me as Rick slips out a worn looking wallet because really? He's gonna steal that shit? What is money even worth nowadays? Nothing but possible kindle for a fire and shitting kindle at that. But Rick surprises me, surprises all of us, because instead of pocketing the money, he slips out a slightly bent license and begins to read.

"Wayne Dunlap," he starts quietly and something twists in me as I realize he's stating the walker's name. I want to speak up but he's still talking, hushed facts and details of a ghost long gone. "Georgia license. Born in 1979. He had $28 in his pocket when he died and a picture of a pretty girl. With love, from Rachel." He hands the license to Glenn and cradles the old photo in his fingers; like it's so fragile it might crumble into dust if he breathes just a little too harshly. I'm shaking my head minutely, trying to warn Rick, to stop him, but he's still staring at the picture, trembling ever so slight. When he looks up, his eyes pass over all of us but I don't think he sees a single one of our faces. "He used to be like us—worrying about bills or the rent or the Super Bowl." He stops and tucks the picture into his own pocket, taking the license back from Glenn and doing the same. He leaves the money and the wallet on the ground. "If I ever find my family, I'm gonna tell them about Wayne."

The group looks misty eyed about his impromptu speech, moved and inspired, but I'm still shaking me head and I don't realize I've made some noise akin to a snort until five other pairs of eyes round on me, confused and almost disapproving. I flush under the scrutiny and duck my head.

"What is it?" Morales asks and I shake my head, shrugging with one shoulder, unable to meet their eyes.

"Nothing." When I look up and no one looks convinced, waiting for a real answer, I sigh and drag a hand through my hair, a nervous habit that makes me grimace as it pulls fresh wounds. I look down at the walker on the ground, seeing hair and rotten skin and blood stained clothes. I don't see Wayne Dunlap whoever that had been. He's been dead a long time. "It's just…it's…easier if you don't think of them as human. At least in my experience." I shrug again and tear my eyes away from the ground, looking instead to the opposite wall, still not meeting anyone's gaze. "Especially if you have to draw blood."

Silence meets my statement and I don't move, don't turn my head. Not even when there's a quiet shuffle and the sound of metal grating against cement as Rick picks up the axe. Not even when Glenn says, "One more thing—he was an organ donor." Not even when there's a powerful grunt and a bone jarring thud, following the sound of squelch of giving flesh and breaking bones. I don't move and I don't turn my head.

Because even if the walker on the floor is a male and 5'10, with short brown hair and ratty old Keds, all I can see is the glimmer of long golden hair streaked with blood and amber eyes turning dull and rheumy as a moan vibrates through my skull.

---

The work is arduous and more than a little disgusting, even if I've detached myself as much as possible. It's the smell that mostly gets me: festering and cloying, fetid stink coating slimy on my tongue. More than once, someone gags as we coat Glenn and Rick in guts and gore; at one point, Glenn even vomits. At first, I had balked at Glenn going out, again, but Rick had volunteered and no one else stepped up until Glenn had shakily raised his hand. I'm still not comfortable with it but I try to keep up a running dialogue with Glenn as I work, I don't even know what I'm saying, but it doesn't matter. It's just chatter, something to fill up the silence, keep his mind, and mine, off of the fact that I'm smearing walker blood all over him so he can stroll out onto the street and walk amongst them. Glenn doesn't look like he's particularly listening to the exact words I'm saying but he seems grateful for the effort nonetheless, smiling at me wanly as I talk.

We finish our sordid paintings in about ten minutes and I start to strip off the protective gear Morales had thrown on me: the gloves and the coat and even another mask. I'm covered from head and toe basically but Morales had said I needed the extra protection since I had open wounds. I'm extra careful not to get any blood that's not my own on me and when the dirty garments are off, I drop them on the floor and kick them away, Morales, Jacqui, and Andrea following suit. T-Dog had already divested and made his way back up to the roof, something about trying to contact camp again. I think he just didn't want to be here when we throw Glenn and Rick to the wolves. I don't think I want to be either.

Taking a deep breath, I turn back to Glenn who's standing alone near the door, pale and quiet, a crowbar clenched tightly in his hands. Rick is saying something to Morales and the other two women so I walk, ok limp, over to my friend silently. He watches me approach with wide brown eyes but doesn't say anything when I finally get within arm's reach.

"I don't think red's really your color," I say, eyeing up and down, putting a hand under my chin and trying to look thoughtful, playful, when really my lungs feel inside out.

Glenn barks out a startled laugh even though it's really not that funny and I watch as some of the tension eases out of his shoulders. I drop the façade and smile gently at him, feeling a knot build in my throat. Behind me, I hear Rick finalizing last minute details and my stomach flips. I take a step closer to Glenn and slowly lift his cap off my head.

"Try not to bring back any more trouble huh?" I whisper. Glenn shakes his head.

"Believe me, I've had enough. I'm keeping my head down from now on."

Biting my lip, I raise on tiptoes and press a quick kiss to Glenn's cheek, fleeting and soft, just like when I darted out onto the street to clear the way what seems like a lifetime ago. Usually, I'm not this…affectionate I guess is the right word but it's this habit of mine, picked up from Mathias a long time ago, something to ward off nerves and fear with friends. I hope Glenn doesn't mind. When I pull away, I lift my hand and place the cap back on his own head, tugging it into place.

"Haeng un," I whisper and Glenn's eyes widen. (4) I can't help but grin and blush. "Did I say that right?"

Chuckling quietly, my friend looks surprised but…pleased. "Actually, you did. Can't believe it."

I roll my eyes at him but suddenly, he's all serious, grave, scared eyes looking back at me. I swallow sharply.

"Haeng un to you too," he says and then Rick's stepping up and I'm stepping back, biting the inside of my cheek as hard as I can, refusing to let tears fill my eyes as I turn on heel and walk out of the room, unable to stay but hardly able to leave.

It takes me nearly ten minutes to heave myself up the stairs alone and by the time I reach the door to the roof, I'm bent over gasping, sweat running into my eyes and blood replaced by pain and fatigue. It's another two minutes before I can right myself and by then I hear Morales, Andrea, and Jacqui, racing up the stairs. Not wanting them to be caught being a roadblock, I push open the heavy steel door and blink in the blinding sunlight.

T-Dog's sitting on the ground under the shade of the cement ledge, fiddling tiredly with the CB again, ignoring Merle who's, not so quietly, cursing at him. He looks up when he hears the door open and beckons me over. I get there as quickly as I can.

"How'd it go?" he asks when I'm close enough and I shake my head.

"I don't know. I left a few minutes early to get up here in time to see them hit the street. Morales and—"

At that moment, the stairwell door bursts open again and the rest of the group sprints onto the roof, Morales yelling at T-Dog to try the CB again. T-Dog gives him half a look that says, 'What's the point?", but he does it anyway. The other man rushes over to the ledge and I stumble to his side, craning my neck to look down at the street, heart slamming in the back of my throat.

For a moment, I don't see anything except shambling walkers. But then Morales, who has the binoculars pressed tight against his eyes, jabs his finger down and says, "There." I follow the line of his finger and, blissfully, see the red of Glenn's cap, right in the middle of a crowd of walkers, unharmed. I sag against the wall in relief, even when Merle begins talking shit behind us because Glenn, and I see Rick too now, is safe. For now. Please let it stay that way. Let us have a little luck.

But, of course, the universe can't allow for that. I mean, I'm Audrey Bennet, good luck can never come my way or the world's like to just spontaneously combust. Three things happen quickly in as many minutes. First, the CB finally crackles to life, weak but there, and T-Dog jumps on it, shouting into the device, trying to reach camp. What I think is Dale's voice responds, shaky and dim but, no matter how T-Dog shouts and twists the knobs on the CB, we quickly lose the connection, getting only static. Then, as we spin back to the street, searching frantically for Glenn and Rick, on edge with the ominous failure, I notice that it's harder to spot them and not just because of the distance. It's darker, too dark for a clear Georgia afternoon. That's when I look up and see the rain clouds, hear sudden thunder rumble across the sky just before the heavens open. And, finally, when I drop my gaze again, starting to hyperventilate with fear, I see Glenn and Rick, surrounded by geeks; geeks whose senses have been returned to them, thanks to the rain, and who are suddenly rounding to the newly revealed meals in their midst. I can hear their snarls and growls from here as Glenn and Rick start running, swinging and cracking skulls.

It's like I'm watching this fucked up horror movie that I can't pause, can't stop, can't rewind and am forced to stare until the events play out.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck. Nonononononono!" I exclaim, tearing my hair, eyes cranked wide, unable to blink. Morales curses sharply and I hear Jacqui whimper beside me. Tears leap unbidden to my eyes and quickly spill over, hidden by the rain. Oh my god. Oh my god. Glenn's going to die. Glenn's going to die and I let him go out there, again. Glenn is going to die!

Except, miraculously, amazingly, he doesn't. And neither does Rick. They make it to the fence that borders that construction site and clear it with little problem, landing safely on the other side. I crow with delight and relief, pumping my fist into the air, ignoring the pain it causes, and even though some walkers climb the fence, tumble to the other side, it doesn't matter because Glenn and Rick have jumped in the cube van they had been aiming for, the engine roaring to life and the tires squealing as…as Rick flips the truck around, knocking over traffic cones as he does, and drives the opposite way down the street.

I'm still stunned that they made it to the van safe and sound, even with the mishap, so when Andrea gasps next to me and moans out, "They're leaving us," it takes me a minute to actually process what she's said. When I finally do, I balk at the notion and denial runs hot through my veins. No. Glenn just wouldn't do that, no matter if Rick is driving. He wouldn't just leave us like that. He wouldn't. He…wouldn't leave us, me, to die. Nobody else thinks along the same lines though because Morales starts smacking the ledge, begging them to come back, Jacqui hissing something else just as desperately. I keep my eyes locked on the street, refusing to believe them, concentrating on the spot when Rick turned the corner, trying to understand what's happening. But my head's spinning, still woozy from the climb up and Merle's shouting loud obscenities behind me, screaming at us, throwing loose gravel at the back of our thighs to gain our attention.

Snarling, I whirl on Merle, fear and confusion making me high strung. "Goddamn it Dixon! Shut the fuckup so we can concentrate!"

Merle blinks at me, shocked that I've addressed him so bravely, especially after he thought he put me in my place, but I don't have the patience for him, not now. He actually falls silent as I spin back around, towards the street, looking for that white cube van. There's a two minute window in which there's nothing, no contact, no sightings, and doubt is just starting to crawl into the dark corners of my mind when the CB in T-Dog's hand crackles to live and, in a severe case of déjà vu, Glenn's voice explodes out of the tiny device.

"Those roll up doors in the front of the store, facing the street—meet us there and be ready!"

For a split second, we all look at each other in surprise, incomprehension, eyes wide and jaws flapping, but then it clicks and I whirling around, hobbling as fast as I can towards the stairs, slinging on Glenn's pack as I go, mine being down stairs in the storage room. The thing is heavy, rattling with cans and boxes of food, strap digging painfully into my left shoulder and I gasp in pain as I stumble, landing heavily on my right foot. Behind me, I can hear the commotion as the rest of the group follows my lead and snaps into action, shouting out orders and tugging on their own packs. I ignore them and grit my teeth, trying to steel myself for the fucking sprint that I'm going to have to perform in order to get down stairs. I set my right foot down, test the give, bite my tongue so hard I taste blood, and start forward quickly, gasping raggedly when each step brings a blinding pain. I've made it down half a flight when the door bangs open behind me and frantic voices rush forward, bottlenecking when I block the way. Morales quickly has a hand on my elbow, telling me to let him get in front and he'll carry me down but I know that he can't do that. We have half the supplies up here and he can't carry them and me down ten flights. Morales is in his late 30s with a bad back. We wouldn't make it.

I shake my head. "No. You can't carry me. I'm fine. I'm fine. Let's just go."

Not listening to his response I throw off his hand and actually jump forward, landing wobbly, on one leg, three steps down. I hear Jacqui call out in caution but ignore her and do it again, and again, faster and faster, down the stairs. My vision swims and I stumble more often than not, banging my knees and probably fucking up my left ankle as well but fuck it. I will not be a burden. I came on this trip to help and even if I have to throw myself down the rest of the stairs, I won't hold us up. Jumping and hopping is not as fast as running and Andrea and Morales cut in front of me to go get the rest of the backs but I'm making excellent time and if there's tears streaming down my cheeks and blood in my mouth so fucking be it if we all live.

It only takes me four minutes to reach the bottom this time and I slam into the bottom wall at the foot of the stairwell, my momentum taking me too far forward. Luckily, I manage to save jarring my right wrist but my side still screams in agony. Panting, I shake it off and jerk my head at Jacqui, telling her to go on ahead. The older woman shakes her head sharply and switches the two packs she's carrying to her opposite side, pulling my left arm over her shoulder and slipping her arm around my waist. I gaze at her wide-eyed, dizzy with pain, but she only smiles gently and together we stagger towards the roll up doors, geek moans echoing across the floor.

My hearts racing and I'm barely standing upright by the time we get to the metal doors but we're here, Andrea and Morales panting beside us, all of our bags and supplies piled at their feetand I can't fucking believe it. We're all looking at each other with the same expression of, Is this real? Are we really going to make it out of here? Are we really going to survive? I'm braced up against the wall, wheezing, dots in my vision and I have this horrible suspicion that I might pass out again when the roar of an engine sounds drastically close, followed by the crashing of glass farther out in the building. All of us basically shit ourselves because holy fuck the doors have finally given and where the hell is T-Dog with Merle and—

"Shit," I screech when a figure bolts out of the hallway and into the room the same second the roll up door vibrates with an insistent pound. T-Dog gasps as he slides to a stop beside us and Rick calls, "Open up!" Morales and Andrea yank on the pulley system to wrench open the door and the second we see Rick and the gaping back of the cube van, Jacqui's shoving me forward as everyone else starts flinging bags into the back. I still have Glenn's own pack on my shoulder and it's hard as hell to heft myself up with only one leg and one arm but I jump as high as I can and twist at the last possible second, landing solidly in the bottom of the van, the breath knocked out of me, pain the only thing I'm aware of. The ceiling of the van swims unsteadily above me but then everyone is piling in, Rick vaulting past me and into the driver's seat. I'm lifting my head, struggling into an upright position when Morales slams the door shut, just as a handful of walkers slam against the back of the van, their fists echoing on the metal. Rick slams the gear into drive and peels out, swerving onto the street and speeding away.

It's silent for a full two minutes as we all pant and gasp and wheeze but when I finally have enough oxygen in my lungs to keep my heart pumping and actually formulate words, I turn to glance around the van to make sure everyone is safe, that we actually got out of that death trap alive. It's when I'm looking at everyone's faces that I subconsciously count heads and…we're missing people.

"Where's Glenn," I rasp out, still tasting blood in the back of my throat. I'm feeling my blood freeze in my veins, each individual cell, but Rick quickly assures me that Glenn's fine, that he's driving the car that had drawn off all the walkers with the alarm. I don't know what alarm he's talking about cuz I hadn't heard anything over the shredding of my lungs and the screaming of my nerve endings but if Glenn's safe and sound than I'm not really particular about details.

Which brings me to the other missing occupant. My mind's still sluggish and fuzzy but I have enough control of my facilities to turn to T-Dog, a question in my eyes and a half hope in the back of my mind that Merle's taking another vehicle or hanging onto the back of the van or…something.

T-Dog meets my gaze for half a second but then his eyes skitter away and his jaw clenches in…in guilt. "I dropped the damn key," he says roughly, voice cracking as he references the handcuff key that Rick had handed him.

Disbelief settles in my gut, roiling and pungent, and I can only gape. Everyone else shares a glance but no one says anything, keeping quiet, unremorseful. I should be too. Merle beat the crap out of me, tried to kill me, tried to kill us all…but guilt and shame and a pain that's not physical settles deep in my bones.

We left him behind. I…can't believe it. It's like a dream, a nightmare, surreal and farwary. Out of anyone…Merle was the last person that I would have thought wouldn't make it back. After everything, it's no more than he deserves. But, despite how I felt about the man…Merle was a human being, loosely but true. And…and he is...oh god was, Daryl's brother, last of kin, family.

Daryl…

I bite my lip and turn my face into the curve of my shoulder, feeling nauseous as Rick speeds away from Atlanta, down dead streets and passed abandoned ghosts shambling blindly towards infinity. I close my eyes and feel the darkness pull me down again and this time, instead of fighting, I let it, hoping that in oblivion, I won't feel so guilty, so ashamed that I'm alive and…

The darkness engulfs me and I know nothing more.

---

The sun is just starting to set on Daryl's second night away from camp when he happens upon a dirt packed back road, an abandoned truck stranded in the middle of it. He's wary about approachin it, cross bow raised and cocked, but as he circles the vehicle, he discovers he's alone. There's no trapped walker in the cab or the bed; everything is empty and quiet, save the cicadas in the trees. He was going to keep walking, the fawn he's trackin is slowly makin itself through the field on the opposite side of the truck, but somethin catches the hunter's eye through the wide open door of the vehicle. Daryl keeps one eye on the fawn as he shifts forward and leans in, arm rooting along the bottom of the cab towards the glint of glass he had seen.

It take's only a minute to locate it and with a quick pull, Daryl's holdin a thick, full bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey, the amber liquid swirling inside the glass. He blinks at the find and contemplates leavin it, he has no bag and he's gonna have to drag some kill back to camp in the end but, at the last second, he draws the bottle towards him, a small smirk stretchin across his face. Quickly, he makes a sort of half sling with the rag that's tucked in his back pocket and secures it around his waist, slipping the bottle inside and tying it down. Certain that it ain't gonna go tumblin to the ground, Daryl nods and then starts after the baby deer, anticipation already burnin hot beneath his skin.

His brother might wanna fuckin kick his teeth in for the blow Daryl gave him but Merle can't turn away a good drink and even if his brother's a grade A asshole, Daryl's gonna make his life easier and make amends. Hopefully, he can get Merle lazy drunk again and they can just shoot the shit instead of beat the alcohol out of their systems.

Either way, Merle's gonna love this shit and Daryl can't exactly say he's frownin on the opportunity to drink his problems away.

He just hopes he gets fucked up enough to forget the color green and the sight of freckles against pale skin.

---

TBC.

(1) Gook- derogatory term for one of Asian descent

(2) Poem by Emily Dickinson

(3) The bends aka Decompression sickness. Usually happens to deep-sea divers who surface too quickly.

(4) Haeng un- good luck in Korean

So what did you guys think? Plot wise, canon wise, POV wise, I wanna know! :D Just press the little blue button below ^^

(that kind of rhymed...I didnt mean it to xD)

Next chapter Daryl finds out the fate of his brother and angsty drama ensues! :) SO stay tuned!

Until next time!

~Shadows