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

24. Let's Not Talk About It, Let's Just Not

So I could bore you with my long winded apology. How college has been kicking my ass and so on and so on but you're not here for that! You are here for TWD. You are here for Daryl and Audrey. So read on! Enjoy! And tell me what you think, even though I don't deserve readers as faithful and awesome as you all!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC and her specific plot line. No profits were made from this.

Warnings: Language and violent sequences.

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Chapter 24: Let's Not Talk About It, Let's Just Not Talk

---

They drive for hours.

Out from the hills, away from the quarry, they abandon greenery for sparse houses and crackin asphalt roads. It's hot as any day dead in the middle of a Georgia summer and, not for the first time, Daryl wishes he could spare the fuel for a little A/C.

Air whistles humidly through the open windows and sweat dampens the collar of Daryl's shirt, trails sluggishly across his cheeks and down his neck. The whole situation's miserable, a suffocating funeral procession, but you wouldn't know it. Not if ya were lookin at the kid. She's curled up passively against the door, head propped on the corner of the window frame, starin blankly at the passin scenery. She hasn't moved since they left the quarry, hasn't said a word or made a single noise. If it weren't for the slight movement of her chest and an occasional blink, Daryl wouldn't even know she was still alive.

Silence, which Daryl has always found a companion, is now nothin short of grating. He almost wishes he hadn't snapped at Audrey when she slid into the passenger seat, reflexive words cuz she shouldn't be thankin him when he was still drownin in debt. But as he continues to drive, on and on and on with nothin but the sound of wind and tires eatin up the gravel beneath him, he realizes that even if he hadn't said a word…the kid wouldn't have been any different. Daryl ain't stupid and he can read people better than anyone might realize. The kid's silence has nothin to do with his sharp ultimatum. It's somethin else and that list goes on for miles.

Some time later, Daryl flicks a gaze to his right, just to make sure the kid's still breathin. She is, but what should be a rhythmic sound of in, out, in, out, is labored and hitched. Each inhale is a high-pitched wheeze and each exhale is a pantin huff, endin in a shudder. Daryl tries to crane his neck, catch a glimpse of the kid's face but she has it resolutely turned to the window, only the curve of her cheek and arch of her neck visible to him. He thinks there's a wet sheen to the skin along the corner of her eye, gleamin along the black and blue skin, but he turns back to the road before he can be sure. He offered the kid a ride; if she was gonna cry, that's her business.

However, as the minutes continue to stretch the sound only seems to get worse. It's loud, crashin upon Daryl's ears and since he can't escape it—no fuel to be spared for the radio, not that it would play anythin either way—he listens. And the longer he listens…the more the sound doesn't sound like quiet sobs. Audrey has started squirmin too, half aborted movements, twitches of her legs and ticks in her shoulders. It's gets so bad that Daryl can no longer keep his mouth shut.

"If ya hurl kid yer cleanin it up." After so much silence, his voice sounds like a gunshot.

The squirmin abruptly stops and so does the noise as the kid turns to look at him. Daryl spares her half a glance, a second to take in her dry cheeks and dull eyes, before he returns his attention to drivin.

"I'm not going to puke," she says. Her voice is steady but the labored breaths have started up again. He's hard pressed to believe her.

"Tch," Daryl snorts. "Ya sound like a dog who drank too much water and is bout to bring it back up."

There's no response to his analogy and when he clicks his eyes over again, the kid's head is tilted to the side, gaze trained on the side of his face. "I never had a dog."

Like that makes any sense at all.

Daryl grits his teeth to keep from snappin, tells himself the kid's off her rocker. "That's not the point." He exhales sharply and brings his hand to his mouth, chews on the mutilated cuticle of his thumb and spits the bloody skin out the window. He makes an impulsive decision and it comes out of his mouth. "Look…do I gotta pull over or what? We ain't got time to clean it out if ya lose it in here."

"I told you. I'm not going to vomit. I'm not nauseous."

"Then what's with the breathin? Ya got asthma or some shit?" Daryl used to have that, as a kid. Runnin through the fields and woods kicked it out of him pretty quick though. He hasn't had problems since before he hit fuckin puberty. But he still remembers what the sensation is like: chest too tight, ribs constrictin, throat too small. If Audrey's havin an attack…well it's not like he has a goddamn inhaler.

The kid shrugs, looks at him for a moment, green eyes contemplative behind their dull color, then looks back out the window. Her hair whips around her face chaotically and she tucks a strand behind her ear. "Something like that," she mutters and Daryl can't help his scowl.

"What the hell does that mean?" He ain't got time for riddles. If she's bout to pass out then he's gonna flag down that piece a shit Winnebago cuz he ain't bout to be blamed—

"It means breathing's a little difficult with a few busted ribs."

Daryl almost bites through his tongue. Almost but not quite and he settles for swervin the truck a little bit to the left. The kid's sword bumps into his thigh, clatters to the floor. It is suddenly so equally loud and silent that Daryl's ears ring and ache with the pressure.

"It means breathing's a little difficult with a few busted ribs."

"…a few busted ribs."

She doesn't say it, there's no malice or spite in her voice, but Daryl hears the words as clearly as if she had screamed them. I can't breathe because your brother tried to kill me.

He's an idiot, a goddamn idiot. Of course the kid was wheezin; of course she couldn't breathe. Her ribs bore the imprint of Merle's steel-toed boots. They were probably broken, if not then they were most definitely fractured. Fractured ribs, fractured wrist. Sprained ankle, broken nose. Bruised trachea, black eye, split lip and god knows what else. All due to Merle, his brother. Daryl is so deep in debt he can't even see the goddamn surface.

Havin nothin to say, Daryl white knuckles the steering wheel and focuses on the bumper of Walsh's Jeep, all to aware of the shame burnin through his veins.

---

Maybe I shouldn't have said it like that. Maybe I should have let him believe I was nauseous, let him pull over, and dry heaved for a bit to appease him. Except that would have wasted time and fuel that we don't have to waste, not to mention throwing up would only make the pain worse. I would have lost either way. Damned if I do and damned if I don't. My life's a perpetual catch-22. I accepted that a long time ago.

Daryl is stonily silent beside me. His knuckles blanch bone white against the steering wheel, split along the ridges. Some of the cuts are shallow, like paper cuts, and others are deeper, dried blood around their edges. The middle knuckle of his right hand is purple too, heavily bruised and slightly swollen. It looks to be broken. My ribs and wrist and nose twinge in acknowledgement, almost empathy. A tiny part of me wants to ask him if he's ok, ask if needs help. But even that tiny part doesn't have the energy to entertain the idea for long and it soon slides away. I go back to looking out the window, counting passing trees. I try to regulate my breathing, make it normal, but it's harder to ignore the pain now. My gut feels hot and burning, on fire, and I think of broken bones, nicked arteries and internal bleeding. I think about all my blood flooding out of my veins and filling up my chest so I can't breathe, so I drown. That wouldn't be such a bad way to go. Better than being bit; better than the fever. And doesn't the body release endorphins as it drowns so that it doesn't even hurt?

Or is that starvation?

I can't help the dry laugh that cracks out of my lips. Either way seems I'm set.

Some more time passes; I don't bother to count or keep track of it. One minute bleeds into the next and we're driving down this endless road, trees on both sides, and the warm wind dragging its fingers through my hair. At one point, Daryl drifts slightly onto the shoulder and dirt is kicked up into my face. I clench my eyes shut against the sting and, suddenly, I'm back on that godforsaken roof. Walker moans reverberate in my ears, the sun is blisteringly hot, and Merle sneers at me as he lunges for my throat. I snap open my eyes, welcome the sting of dirt, and press myself harshly against the doorframe. The painful press of metal against the skin of my upper forearm centers me and I stare unblinkingly forward as my ribs constrict inward and every inch of me abruptly feels so very tired and so very painful.

"Here."

Daryl's voice startles me and I glance over to see him extending a beer can at me, the top sawed off and the edges jagged. I frown at the offering, empty and dirty looking. I take it anyway.

"What's this?"

The metal is thin but warm in my hand. I peek into it again, thinking I missed something, some last dregs of beer, another pill, but the dull aluminum just glints back at me. I look up at Daryl in search of answers.

"Spit in it," Daryl grunts at me and I blink back in return. Well that wasn't an answer I was expecting.

Dropping my hands to my lap I ask, "Why?" For a brief second I can't help but think of those old Western movies where cowboys used to have spitting contests to build rapport. I wrinkle my nose and hope this isn't Daryl trying to make friends.

I'm too tired for friends. I'm too goddamn weary.

The hunter cuts a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. His gaze seems to jump sporadically over me, never landing for more than an instant, before he's looking back out over the road. "To see if there's blood," is his explanation. "If…if yer bleeding…inside…"

He chews on his words for a moment, switches to the skin of his left thumb. Still he keeps his eyes on the road. "There'll be blood," he finishes.

It takes a moment for me to understand what he's saying. Blood in the saliva. Blood on the inside, in your guts. Internally shredded. My first reaction is to deny any of it. I'm fine. Just a few bruises. But I'm tired of lying and pretending. It hurts. Bad. And maybe I'm internally bleeding. Maybe I'm not. Who am I to say?

Shrugging to myself, I bring the sawed off can to my mouth and gather as much saliva as I can. It isn't much and spitting it out hurts more than it should, muscles pulling too tight in my gut, sending flames licking up my sides. I almost expect to see red when I look down again. But my spit is clear with a little foam as it swirls at the bottom of the beer can. No pink. No red. No blood.

"Nothing," I report to Daryl. Instead of being relieved, he just grows more rigid and stiff. He doesn't say anything after a few beats and I take it upon myself to throw the can out the open window. As I turn, however, the motion is too extreme for the bandages around my ribs and I feel them give with a muffled snap. Instantly, blood begins to flow to my sides, bringing pain along with it. I hiss at the sensation and throw my head back against the seat.

Why can't the numbness in my chest transfer to the rest of my body, ice sliding through my veins, putting out the fires?

Because that would be too easy something whispers in my head and God do I know my life can never be made easy. It has to be hard. It has to hurt. Otherwise, it wouldn't be my life.

Eyes still clenched tight, though I can't remember closing them, I lift up the hem of my shirt and grope for the unwound, tail end of the bandage. It eludes me in the darkness; every time I think I've got it, it slithers away again. Eventually, I reach skin, warm and sensitive and I realize I've just unwound the whole bandage, the slightly coarse cloth pooled against my hips and at the small of my back. Opening my eyes, I stare blindly at the ceiling of Daryl's truck and resign myself to pain.

It's not like I don't deserve it. I deserve so much more. What are a few busted ribs when Jim's dying in the RV in front of me? What's a fractured wrist when Amy's body decays in a forgotten quarry in the hills of Georgia?

What's a sprained ankle when all my friends and family are dead?

A rusty patch of metal on the ceiling catches my attention and I can't help but think how it looks like dried blood. I reach up and let my fingers trail across it, fine, red flakes drifting down and landing against my cheeks. The thought comes to me then of why am I still here? Why am I allowed to be surrounded by so much blood and pain and always come out the other side?

I've been asking myself this question in one form or another since I was five years old.

No answer has ever been forth coming.

---

The sight of the kid's ribs makes Daryl want to punch the steering wheel. It makes him want to slam on the brakes and get out of the truck and just fucking shoot something. It makes him feel so fucking angry. It makes him feel so goddamn shameful.

Goddamn it Merle, he snarls to himself. Goddamn it!

He only catches a small glimpse, a few seconds as the kid reaches up to play with some rust on the ceiling, but it's enough. Enough to see the battered skin underneath the ratty t-shirt. Enough to see the spanning swirls of colors: black on blue on purple on red. Enough to see the actual print of Merle's steel-toed boots, dug deep and staining.

His brother literally kicked in her ribs. He knew Chinaman hadn't be lying, the emotion too real on his face when he had told Daryl what happened, but seeing the actual damage, all of it—face and wrist and ankle and now ribs—it makes Daryl feel sick and feverish.

Because Merle's his brother and he's exactly like their Pa was and that must mean Daryl ain't no different than either of them. He's got the same blood. He's got the same poison. He always told himself that he wasn't deservin of the looks people gave him; that he knew who he was and the rest of those people could fuck off. But maybe…maybe they were right all along. Cuz Daryl might not have broken Audrey's skin but he might as well have. In a way, he let it happen; in a way, he pushed the kid away from himself and right at Merle. How was that any different? How was that any better?

The resounding It's not in his head pulses in time with a headache and forces his next words out of his collapsin throat.

"I can honk if ya want."

It's only when the kid turns to look at him, diluted confusion in her wide green eyes, that he realizes his blurted statement made no sense. A hot flush crawls up his neck and blooms across his cheeks, three parts shame, one part embarrassment, and he tries to explain.

"If ya wanna…the chink's probably missin ya," he grinds out cuz he can't say it; can't make the words if ya wanna leave cuz my brother tried to kill ya and I ain't no better roll off his tongue. "Ya can switch."

He doesn't know what else to say or how to put it so he lapses back into uncomfortable silence, starin out the windshield. For a moment, the kid says nothin. Then, she makes this funny little noise, a huff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. He cuts a quick glance at her and finds her smilin. It's small, a bare upturn of her lips, but her eyes ain't so cold anymore. They've got some life in them, if only just a spark.

"Tired of me already?"

"What? No." Daryl realizes what he's just said and tries to backtrack, tongue gettin tangled on the journey. "I mean…" He casts his mind about, lookin for the words. He comes up wantin and subsides in his seat with a growl, cheeks burnin hot now. "The piece of shit the old man drives has more room. Ya'd probably…it'd be better in there."

He sounds like an idiot and he knows it. He wishes he never said anythin at all. Better yet, he wishes he never opened his goddamn mouth in the first place and offered her the ride.

That little huff repeats itself but Daryl keeps his eyes firmly on the road, not wantin to see Audrey laugh at his expense. "And yet here I think the Winnebago would be that much more constricting," she muses. Daryl wonders what she means, it's an RV with only bout four people in it, there'd be plenty of room, but then she keeps goin. "Thanks for the offer but…I'm fine where I am."

Her voice is soft and quiet and a small glance finds her lookin out the window, face strangely fragile lookin. All of the sudden, she looks at him, catches his gaze, and he can't look away for the life of him. "Unless you'd like me gone?" she asks and Daryl had never given that any thought, only thinkin she must be squirmin to be so close to him. "Don't want to be any trouble."

Daryl winces, thinkin it's a jab, his own words of ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble cyclin back on him. He waits for the scowl or the sharp, glass eyes. He waits for the betrayal to leak into the kid's voice. But none of that happens. Audrey just stares at him plainly, an honest to god question in her eyes. She's really just askin if he'd prefer her in the RV, out of his truck. Perhaps out of his life.

Tch. Yeah well he'd tried that. And no matter how hard he wished he did…the truth was he didn't want her gone. Selfishly, some small, distant part of him that was increasingly becoming louder, wanted the kid around. For her smiles. For her laughs. For just…her, the first friend he's ever really had and goddamn. Isn't that pathetic? He sounds like a twelve-year-old girl.

And cuz he's a twelve year old girl he just grunts and growls, shifts in his seat and mutters, "Don't have the time to stop," even when he'd just said, not two minutes earlier, that they did. It was a lame excuse but nothin better came to mind and when the kid hummed, soundin pleased, he tried not to acknowledge the warmth slowin unfurlin in his chest.

Tried and, ultimately, failed.

---

Daryl's acting…different. Strangely. I can't place it, my brain's too fuzzy, my chest too cold, but he's different. Other. I think maybe I should figure out why. Then I think I can't find the energy and decide to just let it be. Isn't my business. Isn't my place to worry. I'm supposed to stay on my "goddamn side" and not talk too much because my ass will be left on the side of the road otherwise. Daryl said that. I remember. And I don't think I want to be left on the roadside. I definitely don't want to ride in the Winnebago. Too many people and hands reaching out. Are you ok? Do you need anything?

Or worse yet. Hands kept to themselves but eyes all over me. I can't believe she said that about Amy. How callous. How cruel. Disgusting. Appalling. Who is she? I don't even want to know.

All those things, pressing upon my skin, threatening to split me open. I couldn't take it, all that pressure, all that silence, making my ears pop. Not to mention Jim's still dying in there. Another one lost. Another name soon to be forgotten. In fact, now that I think about it, I don't even know the man's last name.

I didn't even know Amy's.

See? It's already begun. Something flutters at the edge of my mind, a scrap of words, "There are many names in history but none of them are ours." (1) How true. So unimportant are we. There will be no one to remember us, to tell our stories. If the world ever gets back on its feet, we'll just be more of the forgotten, casualties and relics of a long lost civilization. Amy and Jim and Abby, Mom, Irina, Sensei. Mathias. Annie Marie. Kaleigh.

Audrey.

I count myself amongst the departed. I'm pretty much dead already. These expanding lungs mean nothing. This beating heart is of little consequence. It's all inevitable. I'm already on a countdown. Just don't know how many seconds I got left. All part of the grand surprise I guess.

A serrated smile cuts across my lips as I imagine the Grim Reaper in a party hat. Surprise. I've been waiting for you for a very long time.

Yeah I know. I know.

The humid Georgia air steals into Daryl's truck, scraping past my face. My hair dances chaotically and snaps into my cheeks, stinging points of impact layered on top of cuts and bruises. I try to tuck the strands behind my ears. They fall out the second my fingers slip away. Turning my face away does little more.

"Just roll up the window kid," Daryl mutters. I look down at the rusted out lever, a crank instead of a modern day button. Most likely it will stick just like the door did. My right wrist throbs at the thought of closing the window even a little; that would probably make me throw up like Daryl had first mentioned. So I think left hand but that doesn't work any better. I can't turn my torso like that; my ribs won't allow it. Yet another thing I can't do. I frown out the open window, shut my eyes against the stinging wind. I sigh and it sounds like an admission of failure.

Until there's a metallic whine and suddenly, the wind's gone. I open my eyes to find a half closed window, the glass dirty but solid all the same. I don't remember doing that; I didn't do that. Confused, I turn to Daryl in search of answers only to find the hunter a lot closer than I anticipated, stretched almost halfway across my lap. His blue eyes—blue so blue, Amy and Mom and Irina—clash with mine and he's so close I can see the flecks of hazel, the light frames of blond lashes. He smells of sweat and smoke but not completely so. His ribcage is a warm press against my thigh, fingers just barely trailing across my knee as he withdraws from the window crank.

And then he's gone.

He jerks back as if burned, returns his hands to ten and two on the steering wheel. His jaw ticks and his Adam's apple bobs sharply as he swallows around it. There's color high in his cheeks, ruddy and blotchy, and a bead of sweat trails from his temple to the hinge of his jaw, slips down his neck and into the collar of his sleeveless, orange shirt. He doesn't say a word but the stings on my cheeks begin to fade and he didn't have to do that. I don't know why he did that. I should thank him nonetheless though; Mom raised me better than that—Audrey you can do better; be better. Have some manners, some respect for yourself and others.

So I do.

"Thank you."

Not very eloquent but Daryl doesn't need that. Definitely doesn't want it. I probably couldn't find the words anyway.

The hunter grunts but doesn't fall silent like I expect. "Ya don't need to be strainin yerself," he grumbles, soft and almost kind. I've only heard him speak like this a handful of times, and always he scrambles to follow up with something biting and harsh, as if to save face.

"I mean," Daryl grunts quickly, right on cue. "I don't need Walsh on my ass again."

I look at Shane's jeep through the windshield, bouncing along the road in front of us. Distantly, I seem him tug off his ball cap, drag a hand through his hair. I can only imagine the expression on his face: worry and determination. "I wouldn't worry about Shane," I say. "He has other, more important worries than my collection of scrapes and bruises." Which is true. Jim's dying. We're all heading nowhere and fast. Sticking around to say "I told you about those Dixon. I fucking told you so," was probably not so high on the former cop's priority list. I can only see the profile of Daryl's face but even that looks almost guilty at my few short words. I wonder as to why. Something to do with Merle, my mind supplies, but specifics elude me and I don't have the drive to chase them. Besides, kind of a touchy subject right? Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.

You brother tried to kill me.

I inadvertently, most likely, killed him.

He kind of deserved it.

But so did I.

These things don't need to be released into the open air. Let them fester. Let them rot. They'll come due eventually but for right now, let's pretend they don't exist huh?

"It's not too bad anyway," I tell Daryl, laying a palm against my side. The small touch smarts but I bite back the flinch. "No internal bleeding right?" I run my fingers along the ridges, dips and curves of bone mostly smooth beneath my questing hands. "And I don't feel any broken bones.

Daryl snorts and his hands clench until the splits on his knuckles start to bleed. "Ya got pretty high standards for bad kid." His words are strained and tight, even with the small huff of sharp laughter tacked on to the end. Nothing about this situation is funny but I find myself nearly smiling regardless. The expression feels bleak and hollow. I wonder how it must look.

"I've had worse than this Daryl. You don't have to worry about me." The hunter's eyes find mine again and I catch a glimpse of the emotions behind them: guilt and curiosity and, if I didn't know better, concern. The sight makes my skin feel paper-thin and the glass smile shatters off my mouth. I drop my gaze to my lap and pick at Amy's blood, dried beneath my fingernails.

When the holes don't relent burning through the side of my skull, I bite my lip and look out the window, something akin to discomfort writhing through my veins. "Stop with the looks," I mutter to Daryl, to Amy's eyes in his skull. Everyone please. Just stop looking at me like that. "If I wanted pity and suffocation, I'd be in the RV."

I think of Glenn and his heart on the sleeve expressions. I think of Dale who thinks he means well. I think of how I can't stand to be near them at this moment, emotions bleeding from their pores, hot and molten and trying to melt the glacier in my chest. I didn't want that. I didn't need that. I needed silence and to be left alone because being near people meant attachments and attachments meant pain. I thought being with Daryl would be different because he'd made it so very clear before he wasn't my friend. But, and God the irony, it seems like he's finally come around.

Just a little too late though. I'm done with friends. They're too fragile. Like glass figurines; like flowers and infants and brittle, old bones. They seem to break so easy; they seem to die like breathing.

Daryl is silent after that and he keeps his screaming glances to himself. I pass the time by pressing on the stitches in my arm, worrying the split in my lip that much deeper, until I can taste pennies against my teeth. At first it hurts, as does breathing and moving and being, but it soon slides into numbness, icy water filling up my chest. Or maybe it really is blood and Daryl was wrong. I don't care much either way. I've resigned myself to quietly drowning, refusing to resurface, when I first notice the smoke.

The caravan stops. I see Dale step out of the RV and shake his head, Shane kick his jeep in anger, Rick looking up to the sky in search of answers. I find myself laughing before I can catch myself and it tastes like dirty, ashy, snow; broken pieces of the glacier in my chest now lodged in my throat.

Come in from the cold Audrey. You'll catch your death!

The memory is blurry and muted but I can still see the vague silhouette of a woman standing in a brightly lit doorway. She's wearing a red coat and it looks like blood. I remember looking down at the snow in my hands, grey from pollution, and watching crimson droplets bloom across it like flowers. How pretty, I'd thought. What a shame to go inside. But Eleanor dragged me in not too long after and I can't help but think that if I'd only caught my death then, I wouldn't be chasing it now and it wouldn't be following me, nipping at my heels. An endless, futile circle. A loop I can't break.

I wish it would snow now. Freezing to death doesn't seem so bad. And when Jacqui runs out of the RV, tears on her cheeks and Jim's name on her lips, I think the cold would actually be a mercy for the man burning out of his skin.

---

The man wants to be left behind.

No more fightin; no more foolishly denyin the truth. He's done for and he's finally fuckin accepted it.

It's everyone else that seems to be havin a problem.

"It's what he says he wants," Grimes tells the group. They're all huddled around the doorway of the RV. The former cop looks haggard and sickly pale, like he's the one signin the death warrant and not some walker burned to ashes miles behind them. Daryl purses his lips at the way everyone seems to be on the verge of cryin and turns to look out into the forest. Someone's gotta watch their asses.

"And he's lucid?" one of the mother's asks. She has short hair and small blue eyes. Glancin over at her, Daryl can still see the bruises her dead husband had left behind.

"He seems to be." Grimes fumbles with his hat, rubs at his nose and brow, drops his shoulders like the world's pressin down on them. "I would say yes."

Someone makes a distressed noise, a high-pitched whine about to give way to a sob, and Daryl grits his teeth, looks anywhere but at anyone else. Not surprisingly, he finds himself starin at the kid. She's standin off to his right, closer to the end of the RV than the rest of them. She doesn't seem particularly interested in what's happenin either. Eyes in the trees or eyes on the ground, she ain't listenin. Daryl wonders why she even got out of his truck. Perhaps to keep up appearances for the others, for Chinaman, who's on the opposite end of the Winnebago, next to the old man in his fishin hat; who keeps glancin over at Audrey like he wants to say somethin but can't find the words. The chink couldn't be more obvious with his feelins if he dropped to one goddamn knee but the kid ain't even givin him the time of day. Daryl doesn't think she has it in her, not right now. He thinks she's a little bit more than broken, a little bit more than twisted. He remembers her laughin in the cab of his truck as they pulled over; he remembers the dullness of her eyes.

She ain't the same as before; she might not ever be the same again.

And Daryl doesn't know what to do with that information. The kid had her friend fuckin die in her arms. There's nothin he can say. Empty platitudes meant jack shit and the kid was sick of them, had said so just a few minutes ago, unable to meet his eyes. So the only thing he can do is stick close and make sure she doesn't wander off or bite her blade. Cuz she's his—Christ on a fuckin crutch he can't get used to that words—friend. Merle would kick his teeth is.

"Yeah well Merle ain't here," he reminds himself sharply and glancin at the kid, her bruises and dead eyes, Daryl can't help but be the slightest bit grateful for that.

A cleared throat draws Daryl's attention away from where Audrey's drawin patterns in the dirt with the tip of her shoe. It's the old man. By the expression on his face, he's got somethin to say. Daryl tries not to slam his head back into the RV.

"Back in camp," the old man begins. "When I said Daryl might be right, and you shut me down, you misunderstood." The hunter doesn't remember this asshole ever agreein with him but, then again, he tries not to listen to the rest of the group if he can help it.

"I would never go along with callously killing a man." And that's why Daryl never bothers to listen cuz if they ain't whinin bout somethin, they're judgin him. The other man says those words like they physically sicken him, and Daryl doesn't miss the way his dark brown eyes seem to burn into him accusingly before going back to address Grimes. The hunter bites the inside of his cheek, tastes blood, and looks away again. For a split second, he regrets stickin round cuz nothin's changed. These people still hate him at best, think he's nothin but shit. Sure, Daryl had flown off the handle a little back at the quarry but fuckin sue him. He had been runnin on no sleep, no food, he'd just lost his brother and almost goddamn died. But, while his presentation left somethin to be desired, he had been right hadn't he? There was no cure except a blow to the head. Miles down the road and hours away and it was just as true. He'd like to point it out, shove it in their faces, but gets distracted when Audrey suddenly brushes up against him, much closer than she used to be. Daryl turns his head to look at her but she's still busy messin with the ditch dirt they're standin in, tentative movements from her injured foot makin haphazard designs. He squints at what looks to be a wilted flower beside a windin river? Road? Somethin serpentine in shape.

Shiftin to get a better look, he almost misses Walsh saying, "So we just leave him here? We take off? I'm not sure I could live with that."

Grimes nods his agreement, the two cops in tandem with each other, but Daryl is just done with the pair of them. What else were they gonna do? Jim was gonna change any time now and then they were up shit creek without a paddle. They could either deal with it now, before it got bad, or leave him behind. Option two was a fuckin cop out but Daryl would take it over gettin goddamn bit.

And when Grimes' wife and Walsh's bitch speaks up, it's finally a sealed deal. They're gonna leave the man behind, on the side of the road like discarded trash.

Chinaman looks green beneath the gills.

The old man looks wearied but resolved, the same with the two cops.

The women are all on the verge of tears.

And the kid…the kid's too busy pickin at the bandage on her wrist and destroyin all her drawins with a casual sweep of her foot. Daryl thinks he sees the letters A-M - before he's just left starin at the top of Audrey's shoe, grey and new, speckled with blood. He refuses to think bout whose blood it is and instead shoves himself away from the RV. The sudden movement catches Audrey's attention, finally, and she looks up, blinkin in confusion.

"What happened?" she asks quietly but her tone, flat and unaffected, suggests it's all for show.

Daryl shoulders his crossbow and turns his back to the rest of the group, abruptly aware of how close the kid is, barely a foot away. "Judge and jury's elected to leave him behind," he says. For a second, Audrey looks like she doesn't understand who he's talkin bout but when the Winnebago rattles a bit, muffled voices echoin from inside, she quickly gets it.

"Oh. Jim." She looks up at the window above her head and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Is he still alive?"

"Not for much longer."

The kid hums. "Are they going to…?" she trails off, cuttin a glance at Daryl out of the corner of her eye. He shrugs and moves around her, back a bit towards his truck cuz the women have openly started to cry at his back and he wants nothin to do with that.

"Don't know. Not my goddamn business," he grunts. He turns around when he thinks himself far enough to avoid the waterworks and finds the kid has followed him.

"Are you going back to the truck?" she asks, head tilted to the side, hair fallin to the side just so, exposin the light pink scar his bolt left behind the first day they met. He tries not to compare it to the gash on her brow, the broke nose and split lip his brother has left behind but it's hard not to. Same blood. Same poison. Same person. He ain't so very different from Merle.

Before he can answer, the sound of crunchin gravel reaches his ears. He twitches for his crossbow and the kid swings around, hand on the short sword at her hip, when Chinaman rounds the back of the RV. The chink's slanted eyes go wide as he sees the pair of them.

"Whoa!" He throws his hands up, palms out. "Just me!"

Daryl scowls at the younger man. "Yer gonna get yerself shot like that chink," he spits. Cuz Christ. It's not like walkers didn't sneak up on them two days ago and tear through half their group. It's not like they're still havin to deal with that aftermath.

The chink keeps his hands up and shifts from foot to foot. "Sorry," he mutters. His eyes go from Daryl to Audrey and stay there, expression growin softer as he steps closer. "I was coming to ask if…if you were gonna say goodbye."

The question's not directed at Daryl and he knows that. He also knows Chinaman would probably get a better answer from him.

Audrey considers the man in front of her, decides he's too close and takes a step back. Once again, she ends up brushin against Daryl and the hunter would move away if one of the cars weren't already at his back. In result, he left with the kid's elbow lightly pressed against his side, left with basically lookin over her head. He forces himself not to fidget and wonders if finally thinkin of Audrey as his friend means he's gotta stand bein close to her now. The only times he's ever been physically close to people was usually right before he decked them in the face.

"It's…they're moving Jim up that hill a bit," Chinaman says when Audrey doesn't give a response. He points off to right, where the shoulder slopes upward into the trees. "We…we thought it best to give him some shade." Eyes dark and sad, he drops his arm and waits for the kid to reply.

For a moment, she doesn't and Daryl waits for the inevitable, random outbursts that showcase how out of it she really is. But when she finally opens her mouth it's only to say, "I don't think I can make it up that hill."

Lucid and not as cold as he was expectin. Daryl thinks the kid's a great actress when she needs to be.

Chinaman doesn't even see it though, doesn't even hear the way her tone is flat and apathetic under a thin veneer of her normal voice. "I'll help you!" he eagerly fumbles out, stumbles forward to grab the kid's uninjured wrist. Daryl is suddenly flooded with heat as the chink's fingers overlap against Audrey's skin. Molten and scaldin, he doesn't understand the itch through his muscles when the chink tugs her forward. He thinks back to when Walsh did the same thing, three days ago, and how he wanted to punch the son of a bitch. The kid's not a goddamn toy and doesn't need to be hauled around with broken bones and sprained ankles!

"Uhh…" Audrey trails off, pitches against Chinaman as her balance is thrown off. But she doesn't even get the chance to fully answer, to come up with some other excuse. Before she can get another word out, the chink's pullin her along after him, towards where the rest of the group is trudgin up the hill. Grimes and Walsh are at the head, Jim supported between them, and it's yet another funeral procession, line of head hung people shufflin up into the trees, into the hills.

Daryl grits his teeth, casts half a glance back at his truck, before reluctantly followin. Just to make sure the idiots don't do somethin stupid to get someone bit. But one thing's for certain…

He ain't diggin any more fuckin holes.

---

If it wasn't for the rise and fall of his chest, I'd say Jim was already dead.

His skin is grey and pallid, beaded with sweat. There are black circles under his eyes; his clothes are disheveled and askew. Eyes closed and breathing nothing more than labored wheezes, I can't help but think Daryl's pickaxe would have been more merciful than this.

Everyone's in tears or on the verge of them. Even Shane has a hitch in his voice.

"Hey Jim," the former cop says. He's bent over the dying man and, though I can't see his face, his voice tells of devastation all the same. "I mean…you know it doesn't need to be like this." He says it like we have other options and Jim's choosing the wrong one. He says it like Jim's not dead either way.

Jim grunts and sighs, a death rattle in the back of his throat. "No. It's…it's good." He winces and cracks open his eyes. "The breeze feels nice." Suddenly, he starts to cough and Shane leans away, conscious of infection. Beside me, Jacqui begins to loudly sob and Glenn tightens his grip around my shoulders. I've tried to move away but he won't let me get far, says he's making sure I don't fall. I think he's just using me as support because I can feel the way his muscles tremble as he fights to stave back tears.

"Okay," Shane whispers. He leans forward again and pats Jim's leg, like that will somehow make dying like this better. "Alright." He stands back and draws abreast of Rick, stands in front of Lori and Carl to shield them from the view.

Pointless and futile. Carl saw worse last night.

When the coughing fit subsides, Jacqui steps up and goes to her knees before Jim. Her shoulders shake but when she speaks, it's surprisingly steady. "Just close your eyes sweetie," she tells him in that motherly manner of hers. "Don't fight." She abruptly leans forwards, presses a kiss against the sharp jut of Jim's cheekbone. The dying man shuts his eyes again at the caress, moves into it. Something dark and nasty at the back of my head wonders if there is something there, two broken people who went looking for solace past the end of the world. I thrust the thought away, almost succeed in feeling guilty, and go back to my previous endeavor of counting the fallen leaves around me.

I hadn't wanted to see this and just because Glenn needed some shoulder to cry on doesn't mean I actually have to pay attention. I've seen enough deaths to last until eternity and I know the future still holds more. Sue me for playing hooky on one.

There's a crunch of leaves and I see a flash of beige in my peripherals as Rick approaches Jim next. Curiously, from what I had seen, the former sheriff looks nearly as heartbroken as Jacqui. Which is strange since Rick's known Jim all of about two days. I wonder if it's just the principle of the matter, a lawman unable to save someone in need. Rick crouches at Jim's feet, mutters something only the other man can hear. Glancing up, I see there's a gun in Rick's hand, the handle instead of the barrel proffered. So. They're giving Jim a way out, even if they're too chickenshit to take it themselves.

The dying man's glassy eyes flutter shut and then open again. He shakes his head, pushes Rick's hand away. I can't hear his voice but I see his lips frame the words, "Take it. You'll need it. I'm okay." He refuses his only way out and resigns himself to living death. I furrow my brow, half wanting to demand why. It's a fucking bullet. Take it. You know what happens if you don't.

But he doesn't and Rick relents and the goodbyes continue, the gun stowed away. Dale goes up to replace Rick and imparts a few last words; then Andrea; T-Dog, Lori and finally Glenn. I don't listen to what they are saying. It doesn't matter either way. I'm just considering turning around and hobbling back down to the road, now that Glenn is distracted and Lori and Carol have already taken the children away, when a thought stops me cold.

It's the barest frame of a notion, filled in with wisps of a nightmare, a memory, but it's there. And I can't get rid of it. And maybe, even if I couldn't save Amy or Abby, anyone I've ever cared about, maybe I can still help Jim in one last way. Resolved and not giving a second thought to my actions, I stay rooted to my spot, eyes down cast as Rick and Shane file past me. Rick pauses as if he wants to say something but when I turn my face resolutely away, he keeps going. Shane doesn't stop but he does pat my shoulder, another awkward attempt to make it all better. I repress the urge to move out from under his touch.

When it's only Glenn and Jim and me, Glenn turned around and Jim not caring about my presence either way, I reach up and harshly rub my eyes. Pain flares, sharp and bright, especially under the swollen, tender skin of my left eye, but the motion produces the desired affect. Within seconds, tears well up and wet my lashes, spill onto my cheeks when I press so hard I see starbursts of red and orange and purple. I try to make my expression as morose as possible but can't seem to remember the exact way to align the muscles in my face. In the end, I settle with pressing my lips tightly together and hope it'll work all the same.

"Audrey?!"

Glenn's voice draws my head up and I find him staring at me in pain, concern, and…relief. I think here we go and he's at my side in seconds. "Are you okay?" he whispers, reaches out for me, hand on my hip and another on my cheek. I force myself to let him draw me closer, to not pull away. I force myself to nod, and then shake my head.

"Yeah…no. I mean I just…I want to say goodbye." Not really, not truly. Glenn doesn't need to know that.

"Yeah, yeah." His thumb strokes across the arch of my cheek, soft and gentle. My skin feels tight and uncomfortable. "I'll…I'll help you. Here, let's just…"

"No." This time I do pull away. I cast my mind about for an appropriate excuse. "No I…I want to do it alone. I…just a few seconds." It's hard to keep my face so animated; the tears are already drying on my cheeks. "Please."

I don't know if it's the tears, the way I crack my voice, or the expression I've managed to make but after a few seconds of staring into my eyes—please don't see; please don't see I'm lying—Glenn relents. He nods and just gives in, all too fucking easy. I try to feel guilty; I can't manage it.

"Alright," he says. He reaches out and takes my left hand, squeezes I guess to give me strength. "I'll…just…"

"Wait by the road," I tell him. "I'll be done in a few minutes."

Please just leave. Don't ask questions. Just go.

Amazingly, Glenn gives my hand one last squeeze and finally draws back. He passes me without looking back at Jim and when I glance over my shoulder to watch as he makes his way down the hill, ever so often stopping to look back, I know his eyes only see me. Finally, when I think he's far enough, can't see the details, I move forward.

Jim looks surprised to see me; at least I think he does. He doesn't have much strength to fully make expressions any more. He gazes up at me with sunken in eyes and wheezes quietly, his hourglass almost up. I bite my lip, let the pain center me, and wipe the fake tears from my cheeks as I squat down to look him in the eye.

"Hello." I can't think of anything else to say.

Jim swallows harshly, his Adam's apple bobbing before he rasps out, "Hi."

My ribs and ankle protest my position; sweat is beading on my brow; I'm acutely aware of the time slipping past us, and the eyes on my back. "I…I'm not sure what to say," I begin honestly.

A startled laugh bursts out of the man before me, jagged and harsh. He looks so frail, haggard and worn. "Well," he huffs. "'I'm sorry' seems to be a popular choice."

"Something tells me no amount of apologies would make you feel better."

Jim nods slowly, lets his head loll back against the tree. His eyes though, they stay pretty focused. "You'd be right there." Abruptly, he chokes, sputters. Craning his neck to the side he begins to cough and blood, bright and scarlet, dribbles from his lips. Without thinking, I reach out to steady him but he pushes my hands away. His skin is more than feverish where it touches mine, nearly in flames. "No!" he gasps out. "No, don't. I don't…don't wanna hurt you."

I bite my lip but heed his words, last wish of a dying man. This coughing fit lasts longer, is more violent, and when it ends Jim can barely keep his eyes open. He manages, just a little, just so he can look me in the face. "Miss Bennett, you don't have to me here," he mutters and I think it might be the first time he's ever said my name. "Go on. I'm fine. I'm okay."

You're not. You're dying.

"Why didn't you take the gun?" I blurt out instead of refusing him. I want to know before…

Jim groans and tosses his head from side to side. The fever is eating away at his lucidity, slowly, but he's still in enough pain to be clear and focused on my question. "Because you all need it more than me," he answers.

Because you still have a chance is what he leaves unsaid but I hear it all the same. I don't tell him a chance of living hell is no chance at all. I don't tell him that a part of me wishes our places were reversed. I don't tell him anything. Because, in the distance, I hear an engine suddenly turn over, a car rumble to life.

I've run out of time.

We both have.

I have to say it; there's no more time to waste.

Shifting so I'm on my knees and leaning right over Jim, I tilt my head down and look into his half lidded eyes. He tries to move away but no longer has the energy. "Jim," I say firmly, quietly. "Do you want this?" The dying man moans out a broken laugh and I realize I've been misunderstood. "That's not what I meant," I rush to tell him, thinking I hear someone call my name. No. Not now. I still have to do this. I need to do this. I cannot leave.

"I meant…" The words don't come to me. For all my love of books and words, I am utterly speechless. Not knowing what else to do, I fumble for my hip, tug, and the slowing setting afternoon sun glints off the length of my tanto, poised between Jim and I.

The older man gasps at the blade, clicks his fading eyes up to mine. There's a question in his face, a question…and a plea. "Miss Bennett," he starts again but I cut him off. I need to hurry, get this out. He needs to make a decision.

"I can't change what happened. I can't and I'm sorry," I say and for the first time, it's the truth. "But…I can give you a choice."

And there it is. My haphazard thought. What I really stayed to do. All out in the open. I tell myself Jim is dead anyway; I tell myself I'm saving him from an existence of living death. I know I'm grasping for excuses to cover up the truth of my actions. Glenn would be so disgusted if he was here, so ashamed. He wouldn't understand; he would hate me. In some ways, I hate myself. But that is nothing new.

Lifting my hand, I level the tanto with Jim's eyes but he isn't looking at the blade; he's looking at me. There's a glimmer in his eyes that cracks something in my chest, sharp and close, and I inhale sharply at the pain. I push through it; ignore it. It will be gone soon anyway, drowned under ice and snow and blood.

"I…I can't ask that of you Miss Ben—" Jim tries. I interrupt him once again.

"You don't have to. I'm offering. If…if that is what you want," I say and isn't this a fucked up world? Here I am, politely offering to kill a man and he's looking at me like I'm some saving fucking grace.

Please. Please Audie.

Jim finally drops his eyes to the tanto, takes in the light slanting off the blade. He gulps, licks the blood off his lips. Actually considers what I've offered. "How…" He clears his throat. "How would you...?" Trails off. Can't bring himself to say it.

How would you murder me?

"Base of the skull," I murmur. The words slide off my tongue now. Turning my neck, I demonstrate on myself. All so very clinical. Like I'm discussing the weather. "The small hollow there. It's…it's quick."

Quick and slick. A rush of blood. A jerk. It's over.

Laughing again, higher pitched and broken, Jim says as if in jest, "Almost sounds like you've done this before."

Blonde hair. Amber eyes. A broken house and a city in flames. Please don't let them take me Audie.

"I have," I respond. The words feel like glass coming up, tearing pieces of my throat. I taste blood and bile. Never said it before. Never out loud.

I have.

I have I haveIhave.

I've killed.

Jim has just enough energy to widen his eyes but I don't want to see the disgust in them, the abhorrence. Already, something is swelling in the back of my throat, making it hard to breathe. What a peculiar feeling. What happened to the ice?

"Do you want it Jim? If not then I'll go. But if you do…if you do we don't have much time left." The man's breath has grown short and choppy. His skin burns from a foot away; his muscles have started to twitch and will soon give way to full spasms. I've lingered too long; people will come looking soon.

Going once.

Going twice.

This is a man's life and I'm rushing it as if impatient.

"I…" Jim begins, stops, starts again. "I don't…want to be like them." He shudders, terror in his voice. "I don't want to become one."

He looks up at me, eyes suddenly clear, and reaches forward, fumbles for my hand. He finds it and clings, one last chance of human contact. His skin blazes so hot I wonder how his brain hasn't boiled. I wonder if he really realizes what I'm asking, what he's agreeing to.

I tell myself he does. I tell myself he wants this and I'm only helping ease his pain.

"I…shouldn't ask this…of you but…please. Please," Jim struggles out, words distorted and watery. Blood clogs this throat and taints his words.

I nod and swallow, the feeling in my chest constricting my lungs. What is happening? "Okay. Okay."

Suddenly, the hilt of my tanto is slick in my hand. My heartbeat roars through my ears. I start to feel something crawl through veins, thick and slow and I try to out run it. Move fast so it can't catch me. One moment, I'm kneeling there in the dirt; the next, I'm hunched over Jim, my right hand cradling his head, the left inching forward to do what I have been asked to. I don't remember moving and it suddenly strikes me how surreal this is: side of the road, middle of nowhere Georgia, and I'm holding this man's life in my hands; I'm about to take it away.

A few months ago I was normal.

A few months ago…

I freeze when I've wormed my hand between Jim's head and the tree; I don't know why but I do. Something in me says I should say…anything really. But nothing comes to mind. What do you say right before you kill a man? They never taught this in school. Are you supposed to say I'm sorry? Are you supposed to let them have last words? Are you supposed to say nothing at all? I don't know. I don't know and now I'm stuck here, running out of time, Jim's last breaths fanning across my collarbone.

When I can't bare the silence any more, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I hope you find your family." I remember what Jim said, about losing his family, having them ripped from him. It's not an I'm sorry, it's not an empty platitude. The sincerity of my statement tastes like blood in my mouth and it's only then that I realize I've bitten through my cheek.

Jim blinks and then goes lax; he smiles, nice and easy and nods like he's ready. Last chance.

For what? To back out? To go through with this? To save Jim? To save myself?

All of the above and yet none of them at all.

Sliding forward, I place the tanto at the base of Jim's skull, tip catching on the skin there. The area is fragile, soft, like the spot on the top of a baby's head. It should be so easy. It will be. Is this really happening? It is. Take a deep breath Audrey. This ain't so bad. This ain't nothing new. What's a little more blood? You're already going to hell.

Jim starts to shudder harder, bones rattling beneath his skin, painful gasps slipping across my neck and I've run out of time. This is it. Inhale. Exhale. Close my eyes. Just a flick of the wrist, a bite of a blade. No different than all those walkers you put down.

Different in every fucking way.

"Goodbye Jim."

Just as my hand twitches upward, just as the blade slots home, right before brain turns into organic mush, I hear two words, mouthed into the skin of my throat.

"Thank you."

Hilt meets base of skull with a slick give, warmth blooming across my hand. Jim wrenches in my grasp once before falling still, last breath brushing my chin. He's gone. I did it. I saved him.

You killed him.

The words crash against the inside of my skull with the sound of shattering glass. I blink and fumble back, thrown off balance. The feeling in my veins swells and, suddenly, bursts.

Murderer.

"Thank you."

Just like Kaleigh.

"Please Audie. Don't let them take me."

You killed them. Murderer.

It happens so very suddenly. One moment, everything is grey and cold, tinged around the edges with pain and monochrome color. Jim was going to die anyway; I'm saving him; I don't care either way, can't feel it either way. And now…it's neon and hi-def, sounds in stereo, and sensation…sensation is excruciating. I just killed someone. He was still living. He was still breathing. I made it so he wasn't anymore. I killed him. It's like I've been tossed out of a freezing lake, feeling coming back to me in a rush of blood. My heart feels like it will slam to a stop; I know it won't.

Jim's blood feels like acid on my skin, burning, scalding, down to the bone—youkilledhimmurderer-and I can't breathe. Can't breathe, can't breathe, dots in my vision as I gasp for oxygen, suffocating. Ever since Amy died, I've been in this glass box, watching the world pass me by behind soundproof planes of ice. Nothing could reach me; I couldn't reach out. In fact, I didn't want to. Didn't want to feel so I didn't. Opted out. But now, I have no choice. But now, that glass box has shattered, the floors fallen out from under me, and I'm left with all these jagged pieces skewering every inch of my skin.

Oh god.

You killed him! You killed her!

MURDERER!

I don't realize I'm moving until I fall on my ass, pain jolting up my tailbone. But it's nothing like the pain in my chest, the crawling sensation I tried to ignore before revealing itself to be my ribs cracking open, stabbing me from the inside out. I blink and tears I was unaware of tumble down my cheeks. Vision blurred, I can vaguely make out the outline of Jim, slumped against the tree, seemingly asleep. Except he's not. He's dead. I killed him. Looking down, my eyes fall to the tanto still clenched in my fingers, scarlet coated silver gleaming wetly in the afternoon sun. Jim's blood. Kaleigh's. Should be mine. I deserve it. Not them.

It should be mine.

The words are screaming in my skull and after so long of muted volumes, muted feelings, I think I might come apart at the seams. What have I done? I scramble for the ice in my chest, the snow, the glacier, but it melts beneath my fingers, melts into lava and consumes every inch of me. Distantly, I'm aware of a whimpering noise. It takes me a moment to realize it's me.

I try to get a grip; try to calm down. I remember I had something to do, somewhere to be. But I can't. I can't and I just sit there in the dirt feeling my skin split open as I hear a crunch of dry leaves behind me. Someone's coming. The group. The road. The caravan They'll see. They'll know. My fingers tremble along the hilt, slick and warm, and I turn around just as the footsteps reach me, ready to face Glenn's horror and condemnation because I deserve it and so much worse.

But Glenn's nowhere to be found. Instead, Daryl stands in his place, five feet away, his blue eyes burning into me. For a moment, I think this is even worse and I don't know why. Silently, I wait for the disgust to shine through the shocked expression in his eyes, the slight part of his lips. Silently, I wait for anything.

You killed them.

I know. Tears stream down my face, feeling like acid. I know. And now Daryl knows it too.

---

Daryl doesn't really understand how he got here. He was headin back to his truck a few moments ago, the kid in the hands of Chinaman and the rest of them, and then he was walkin back up the hill again. He vaguely remembers turnin around, seein the chink and everyone else standin by the RV, Audrey somehow missin. He kind of recalls edgin closer, hearin them talk, hearin Chinaman say somethin bout leavin her up there to say goodbye. But then the old man pulled the chink away, needin his help on some last minute fixes to the RV, and everyone started goin their own direction. The kid was still up there though and suddenly, Daryl found himself stepping off the road again, ignorin Walsh's eyes on his back as he trudged back up to where they left the dyin man and where, apparently, Audrey was still sayin goodbye.

Somethin bout that didn't sit right with Daryl. Maybe it had somethin to do with the kid's cold laugh in the truck; maybe it had somethin to do with the dullness of her eyes. Either way, Daryl was confused as to why she would stay behind to say goodbye when five minutes ago she didn't seem to care bout Jim's death either way. Yeah. Somethin wasn't right.

And it seems like his instincts were right cuz here he is, towerin over Audrey, a bloodied sword in her hand and her suddenly crystal clear eyes tearin into him as tears stream down her cheeks.

For a second, he doesn't comprehend what he's seeing. He doesn't understand the kid sprawled in the dirt, the blood, the devastated expression on her face. But then he looks up, sees how Jim's slumped against the tree. He sees the splatter of blood on the bark behind his head. He sees…and quickly gets it.

His lips part, a surprised inhale, but he has nothin to say. The kid doesn't say anythin either. Nothin to explain or defend herself; she doesn't lie. She could. She could just say Jim died while they were talkin and she put a sword through his skull just to make sure he didn't get back up again. But Daryl wonders if she could even manage that. She looks broken, like she did two nights ago, blood on her hands again and her friend dead a few feet away. This time, however, her eyes don't go blank. This time, she gazes up at him with terror and guilt and agony and he just knows Jim hadn't stopped breathin before he bit Audrey's blade.

He's shocked. Thrown for a loop. Never in a million years would he have thought the kid could do this. Under that shock…under that he doesn't know what he's feelin, can't pinpoint it exactly, but it's somethin like respect; it's somethin like admiration.

Audrey makes a noise then, sharp and shattered. Daryl blinks and focuses in on her, takes in her face, so animated after so long. Her lip's tremblin as she gazes back at him, her eyes wide and limpid and…pleading. Tears carve grooves in her cheeks and there's a fine mist of blood along her neck and collarbone, stark against her pale skin. She's shakin ever so slightly and breathin in wheezin gasps. Daryl thinks she's gonna vomit or have an asthma attack. He starts forward, not knowin what he's gonna do, but Audrey wrenches away, shuffles back until she's pressed against Jim's outstretched legs. Daryl pauses, hand extended, and takes in the terrified light in her eyes. There's somethin else there too, a glimmer, a spark, and he remembers seein it just yesterday, a flash as they cleaved in the heads of fallen camp members.

Recognition is like a punch to the gut and he loses what little breath he had left in his lungs.

He couldn't place it then but now it's suddenly all too clear why the look was so familiar. He had seen it a million times before, seen it almost everyday of his childhood. That look…it was the same look his Mama always had: three parts a broken heart and one part fear that another blow was comin and this one would break her completely. Daryl doesn't know what the kid's thinkin, can't even begin to guess, but it can't be anythin good and if she's reactin like this, she must be back to normal. And by normal he meant wearin her heart on her sleeve only to have it skewered. For the amount of discomfort the kid's detached apathy caused him, Daryl almost wishes for it back. Anythin but this. It reminds him a little of the day he first met her, told her they was nothin left in Atlanta. How it broke her; how she grieved. Except this is worse. Much worse. Then, she got angry; she got pissed and screamed and ranted at the world. Damned God for everythin.

Now, she just looks shattered, crushed. She looks like her world's fallin out from under her and she's resigned to let it happen. It's painful to see and Daryl doesn't know what to do. He ain't like Chinaman, ain't like the rest of them. He doesn't know how to say comfortin shit; it never works anyway. He's never even had a goddamn friend before. What's he supposed to do?

Nothin comes to him but he's gotta do somethin. They're bout to leave. And the others…

Daryl suddenly decides they can't see Audrey like this. It's a sudden thought but it seizes him with intensity. He remembers how they reacted to his plan back at camp, how they recoiled from burnin the bodies and anythin the kid said in line with his own words. If they see this…they'll be the final blow that completely breaks her. Daryl might not care for any of those assholes, might not care what the fuck they think, but they were the kid's friends and them reactin to the blood on Audrey's hands wouldn't end well for anyone.

So he moves without thinkin and he moves without hesitatin. He steps forward into the kid's space, bends down quickly before she can move away again. She flinches bodily at his proximity, cringes like he'll hit her. He ignores it, guilt prickin in his chest all the same, and snags the short sword from her lax fingers, palm slidin through the warm blood that's coverin the hilt. With his other hand, he tugs a rag out of his back pocket, soiled and already dirty. The fabric's white, an old wifebeater, and it immediately stains vermillion as he rubs it along the length of the blade and across the hilt. Sword clean, he moves on. The kid's right where he left her when he looks up: laid out in the dirt, cringin back into Jim's dead body. Her shoulders shake and Daryl thinks she's cryin, can't see her face as it's downcast, starin at the blood on her hands, bright and curlin in interestin patters. It's like a brand on her skin; Daryl needs to get it off and fast.

"C'mere kid," he grunts. Audrey snaps her head up as if she had forgotten he was there and the hunter can't stand the look behind her wet emerald eyes. He reaches down and grabs her wrist, tugs her up as slowly and as easily as he can manage. She still hisses in protest, stumbles on uneasy footin, careens into his chest and for a second he freezes, feels her press into him, thin and warm and tremblin. He smells blood and sweat and somethin familiar that he cannot name, somethin sweet.

Then she pushes away, pulls back, and Daryl sees the way she's shakin her head, garbled words fallin off her lips. She fights him, halfheartedly, and he ain't got time for it.

"Hey! Hey quit it," he grunts. He gets hold of her left wrist, the uninjured one, and pins it between their chests. "Kid, enough!" Somethin in his tone pulls her up short cuz Audrey goes still after that, chest heavin and starin up at him with wide, wide eyes. Relief is instantaneous but soon evaporates when he realizes they still gotta get goin. Those assholes will be lookin for them soon. Droppin his gaze, he takes a step back, puts some air between them though he doesn't let go of her wrist. Quickly, he starts to wipe the blood from her skin.

"Gotta go kid," he says quietly, the same tone he used to calm frightened mares with. "Come on." When no more blood can be see, at least from a distance, he tosses the rag to the ground and kicks it away into the tall grass. Hide the evidence. Let no one see. The kid's breathin heavily and she's starin at him with incomprehension, those green eyes of hers diggin under his skin. He pulls away, skin stretched tight, and picks up her sword where he'd dropped it in the grass.

"Come on," he repeats and motions for Audrey to follow him. She blinks, once, twice, and starts to turn, look back at the body behind her, but he doesn't let her. He extends his arm, makes to grab her wrist again, but misses when she shifts back. Off balance and overreachin, he ends up grabbin her hand.

He goes rigid when he realizes what's happened, thinks bout pullin away. The kid's hand is thin beneath his grip, sharp bones pushin against frail thin. It's warm too and slightly damp. Lookin down, he sees how his fingers completely engulf hers, callous scrapin against the top of her hands. His cheeks burn hot, though he doesn't know why, and he's just about to tug back when the kid inches closer. He looks up to find her starin at him again, gaze wide open and trustin and he can't find it in himself to do it. Can't shove her away cuz when he thinks bout it, all he can picture are bruises bloomin beneath his hands, his brother's, and the poison he never wanted, coursin through his veins. Grindin his teeth, he tightens his grip and pulls lightly on the kid's hand. She follows the movement slowly, like a small child, and soon enough they're trailin down the hill hand in hand. Every so often, the kid will seize, stop, and Daryl will turn to see her lookin up the hill. Her eyes will grow wet again, her face will bleed through several different heart wrenching emotions. He never pauses to watch them; he just tugs on her hand a little firmer, makes her get movin again. By the time they reach the road, she doesn't have to be prompted anymore, instead nearly glued to his back, shudderin breaths fannin across the back of his neck. He thinks they feel like sobs.

It's right before they step off the shoulder that Daryl realizes he's still holdin Audrey's short sword in his hand. He curses, tries to let go of her fingers, but she suddenly won't let him. Her hand clamps down on his, nails diggin deep, and he hears somethin that sounds suspiciously like a whimper crawl out of her throat. He tries one more time and gets the same result: harsh clench and a whine. Cursin again, feelin Walsh's eyes on him, he pulls the kid abruptly to his side, usin his body as a shield from pryin eyes. Audrey gasps, stumbles, but steadies herself with his hand and it's while she's distracted that he slips the blade back into its sheathe. The muffled rasp doesn't even register for the kid and Daryl tries to ignore how tightly she's holdin his hand. The angle is awkward like this, however, him holdin her left hand but tryin to keep her on his left side. It doesn't work, they keep trippin, and eventually Daryl has no choice but to firmly yank his hand away.

"Keep walkin," he says to the kid when she gasps and fumbles. His fingertips cradle her elbow and he propels her forward. "Yer fine. Go on." He's all too aware of how people are starin, his neck burns with the weight of their stares, but he ignores them all as he nudges Audrey back to his truck. However, as they pass Walsh's Jeep, the bastard of course stops him, hand on his shoulder and up in his face. Daryl bares his teeth and wrenches away; Audrey stumbles and catches herself on the bumper of the Jeep, hisses when she jars her wrist.

"The hell ya want Walsh?" Daryl finds himself snarlin before he can even process his words. Fire burns through his veins and he ain't above punchin this son of a bitch; has been itchin for it since day one and just give him a goddamn excuse.

The former cop scowls at his tone, brown eyes hard and sharp as he glares. "What's goin on?" he demands. He jerks his head at the kid, looks back at Daryl like he wishes he could still arrest him and throw away the key. The accusation ain't even subtle.

"Gettin back on the road," Daryl spits out. He just wants to get back in his truck. "Do I need yer goddamn permission to drive my own vehicle now?" He's bein antagonistic and knows it. Daryl just doesn't give a shit.

Walsh purses his lips and tugs up the brim of his cap, puffs out his chest and shifts so Daryl can see his shotgun loungin in the passenger seat at his back. He cuts a glance at Audrey and back at Daryl, leaves the question hangin between them. Daryl knows the kid's tears ain't exactly hidden, knows she's still makin the odd noise here and there, knows how just fuckin lost she looks. But it ain't his goddamn fault and he's fuckin tired of everyone just assumin that anythin gone wrong has got Dixon written all over it.

"He died," he grinds out bluntly, not in the mood to pussy foot around. "She saw it. Anythin else?"

The announcement of Jim's death seems to catch Walsh off guard. His expression is actually startled blank, mouth fallin open. He gapes, grasps for words, but Daryl doesn't wait around. Shoulderin past the former cop, he collects the kid from where she's leanin listlessly against the Jeep and shepherds her back to the truck. Once he's got her in the passenger seat, blades off and on the floor, he jogs around to driver's side, jumps in and starts the engine. In front of him, everyone else begins to do the same. Daryl is antsy, waitin for Walsh to get the fuck behind the wheel. He just wants to get goin; he just wants to get gone. It takes a few minutes but eventually, they do and Daryl can breathe a little easier.

Until he looks over and sees the kid cryin in the seat beside him. Teeth dug sharp into her split lip, the kid shakes with silent sobs, face gleamin wet in the afternoon sun. She looks like she's bout to come apart at the seams; she looks like she'll just shake out of her bones. Daryl squirms in discomfort, neck and cheeks on fire, and turns his attention to the road. He slams the gear into drive and pulls out after Walsh, joinin the caravan once more.

He doesn't miss how the kid presses her face into the window, doesn't miss how she cranes her neck and stares back at that hill long after they've left it behind. He doesn't miss any of it.

He just doesn't know what to do bout it.

There ain't a manual for this kinda thing. How to be a friend. Bullshit. Daryl is fumblin in the dark here. The kid's just killed a man. Sure it was a mercy killin; sure Daryl understood and didn't see much wrong in it. But the kid, apparently, saw it different. And the hunter didn't know what to do. A part of him regrets decidin Audrey was his friend. Then he's reminded it wasn't really any of his choice. The kid snuck up on him and now he's gotta deal with this shit cuz…well just fuckin cuz.

When they take a sharp turn in the road, unexpectedly, and the kid gets thrown into his side and never really rights herself, stays pressed lightly into his arm, Daryl wonders what the fuck he's gotten himself into.

#

Just as the sun sinks below the horizon, they hit the CDC.

From the get go, things look like shit and it only goes downhill from there.

There are bodies everywhere, cloggin the streets, the sidewalks, strewn across barricades and military tanks. They can't get the cars close enough, are forced to park more than a hundred yards from the actual buildin. In the growin dark, Daryl ain't likin the odds of walkin out in the open.

But it's not like he's got a choice. The rest of the group starts pourin out their vehicles and Daryl sees Walsh stop and stare at him through his windshield, makes a curt gesture for him to get out.

Tch. Easier said than fuckin done.

He turns to his right and what he sees ain't any different than any other time he's looked in the past hours. The kid's still cryin though the sobs have stopped. It's just silent tears now, the occasional sniffle. Doesn't mean it's any less uncomfortable. Doesn't mean Daryl now knows what to do. He thinks bout grabbin Chinaman, givin the kid to him. The idea is gone as fast as it came and Daryl finds himself openin the kid's door before he even realizes he's out of the truck.

Audrey jumps bodily the second the door open. She cringes away, doesn't even notice it's Daryl before she's tryin to crawl across the bench seat. The hunter puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her so she's lookin in his eyes. "Hey! Listen up kid," he says. She stills under his fingers and blinks up him. "We gotta get inside the damn buildin so ya gotta get up on yer feet." He steps back and nods at her, motions for her to get on her feet. She doesn't, just starts to shake her head.

"I…" she says and her voice is wrecked. "I…Daryl…Jim…I can't..." She starts to shake again and Daryl hears Walsh snap his name at a distance. He turns to see the cop glarin at them, makin sharp movements for them to get their asses in gear. Daryl bites his tongue, tastes blood, and whirls on the kid. He reaches in the truck, grabs her good hand, tugs her out of the car. She falls into his chest again but he rights her immediately, leanin past her to grab her swords.

"Here." He pushes the smaller sheathe into her left hand, quickly slings the full length sword over her head, ignorin how he has his arms all the way round her. She needs to be armed. They're in the goddamn city; walkers are probably everywhere. They ain't got time for her to be babied and coddled.

"W…wha?" Audrey slurs when he steps back, still holdin her short sword limply. Her eyes, bright with unshed tears, stare up at him in confusion and she might not be detached like before, but she's still out of it, just in a different way. It could still get her killed.

Runnin out of patience, Daryl grabs the kid by the shoulders and shakes her. She flops in his grasp, thin and frail, and cries out when it starts to hurt. Guilt is a knife in his ribs but Daryl pushes through it. "Snap the fuck outta it kid," he snaps at her. "Ya hear me?" She nods spastically, pain in her eyes, but finally there's some recognition there too.

"O…w. Y…Y…yeah," she gasps. "Yes."

"Good." He steps back, feels vaguely sick at the indents he's left pressed into her shirt. "Now put…put that on," he points to the blade at her hand, then turns around and looks for walkers, lets the kid pull herself together. He hears her sniffle, a ruffle of clothin, a cleared throat and then a minute later she's at his side. The sword's at her hip, her cheeks are dry though her eyes are still red and she still trembles ever so slightly. It'll have to do though; they have to get movin.

They catch up to the others quickly, even with the kid's ankle, and Daryl avoids meetin any of their eyes. Especially Walsh. If the sound wouldn't draw so many walkers, Daryl is sure the former cop would put a round right between his eyes here and now for how hard he's glarin. He must of seen him shake the kid. Daryl can't get himself to care cuz it got her movin didn't it? Walsh can fuck off.

Nevertheless, the chink glues himself to Audrey's side the second they're close enough. Sneaks a glance at him and it's scared and accusin. Seems like Walsh wasn't the only one to thinks fuck it and sticks to the back of the group, makin sure nothin pops up and bites them in the ass, passes the kid off and pretends he doesn't feel funny while doin it. Chinaman will watch her, draw her to the center of everyone else, with the kids and other women. She'll be safe enough. He grounds himself in other things, the bodies, the scene before him, anythin to not think bout the way the kid keeps lookin back at him, green eyes finding his even across the distance.

---

The smell is really the first thing to hit me.

Yes, the pain—god the pain raw and red hot—is there too, and so is Daryl's voice—Snap the fuck out of it. Ya hear me? But it all happens so fucking fast. I'm in Daryl's truck. I'm crying. It hurts. I killed him. And then Daryl's talking to me, he shakes me, more pain, I'm moving. Before I can fully realize it, Glenn's at my side, hovering at my shoulder, and the smell.

It's horrid; gag inducing. More tears flood my eyes and I start to cough, pressing the back of my wrist to my mouth to keep from vomiting. It's then that I notice the bodies. They're everywhere. Beneath my feet, at my side, stretching to the horizon. It's a battlefield and it looks like our side lost.

All around me, the group coughs and gags. I hear someone whimpering and this time it's not me, turn to look and find Sophia and Carl pressed to their mother's sides, clinging. Rick and Shane keep shushing everyone, demanding silence, for people to keep moving. For a moment, it doesn't even process where we are. I don't even know what we're doing. But then, we pass the sign: cement with a blue insignia. CDC: Center for Disease Control.

The CDC.

A cure.

Now unnecessary.

Because Jim's dead.

I killed him.

Murderer.

The though almost stops me, almost makes me drop, but then someone prods me in the back and I turn. It isn't until I'm staring into Jacqui's brown eyes that I realize I was expecting Daryl.

"Come on sweetie," Jacqui whispers. Her voice is watery and scared. "Keep going."

I can do nothing but obey as Glenn pushes me forward, through the rank smell and hordes of flies, both threatening to suffocate me, both trying to snake down my throat and drown me.

Keep going Audrey. Keep going.

Come on sweetie.

Snap the fuck out of it.

We gotta get inside the damn buildin so ya gotta get up on yer feet.

Keep going. Keep enduring.

Even though you don't deserve it.

The shutters are down when we finally reach the building. Pristine and silver, they seem to mock us. People begin to shuffle about, nervous, frightened. Glenn has one hand wrapped around a shotgun and the other on my shoulder as Rick and Shane try the doors. They're locked, of course. Closed. Barred. The truth of the situation permeates the air in the way Lori gasps, how Carl whines and when T-Dog curses. "There's nobody here!" he says. I look back to see him bouncing from foot to foot, rifle jittery in his hands. Glenn's grip tightens on my shoulder.

Rick shudders out a breath, looks around in a crazed way. "Then why are these shutters down?" he mutters, almost to himself, like he's grasping for ideas because he can't be wrong. He can't be. In my gut, I have this sinking feeling he is. Does it matter? Jim's dead anyway. And now, maybe, so am I.

Tears sting the backs of my eyes and I hate them, hate the weakness, hate how the self loathing in my veins makes me want to wrestle Glenn's gun from him and shove it under my chin. I look down, see Carl a few feet away, remember my promise to keep him and Sophia safe. Realize I will most likely fail him, fail him like I've failed everyone I've ever cared about.

A bullet is no less than I deserve.

"Walkers!"

Daryl's voice is like a gunshot of its own in the dark bruise of twilight. I whirl to see him get a geek in his sights, aim, and fire. The bolt punches through its forehead and the body drops with a wet sounding thud. Carl begins to cry in earnest, as does Sophia, and their mothers pull them tight as if their arms alone can protect them. Glenn curses, bright and scared in my ear. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" It's nothing like Daryl though who, upon seeing three more bodies in the distance, four, five, ten, whirls on Rick like a rabid dog.

"You led us into a graveyard!" he roars. Stalking forward, he advances on Rick and even in the dark, I can see the intense gleam in his blue eyes. He's scared, pissed off, and has every right to be. We're out in the open, too far from the cars, it's almost full dark, and walkers are coming. My throat goes dry and, despite the fact that I deserve it, the notion of getting torn to shreds sends a spike of terror down my spine.

Dale tries to reason with the hunter says, "He made a call!" But Daryl is having none of it.

"It was the wrong damn call!" he shouts. "It's got us killed!" He pushes forward into Rick's face, throws a hand out behind him and gestures to the building number of walkers on the horizon. They can't seem to navigate the barricades, stumble and fall, but they get back up. They always get back up.

"Just shut up Dixon!" I turn to see Shane shoving himself between Daryl and Rick, bodily pushing Daryl back until the hunter stumbles. "You hear me?! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" He gets a hand up in Daryl's face and I can see how this is escalating, see how Shane's making a fist and getting ready to throw it. Too many feelings, too much adrenaline. We don't have time for it.

I don't even realize I've moved until I'm catching Shane's arm and dragging him back, ducking around him and standing in front of Daryl. The cop gapes at me but I don't let him get a word in, mouth already running away from me. "Shane stop! We have more important things to worry about!" As if to support me, a walker groans not too far away, loud and bone chilling.

Shane blinks and growls, eyes clicking over my shoulder to glare at Daryl, but he seems to come back to himself because his eyes clear and he whirls back on Rick. The two cops start talking in rough voices, arguing, but I pay them no mind. One crisis averted, I glance back at Daryl to see him scowling at Shane's back. I reach out and touch his arm, draw his attention, and nod behind him.

"We need to make sure they don't get too close," I tell him. I unsheathe my katana and wince at the painful pull of muscles. "Don't…don't waste a bolt if they're still farther out."

Daryl looks at me as if I'm insane; maybe I am. I know I'm all over the place, crying one minute, on battle mode the next. But it's easier like this. Life on the line, I don't have to think of anything else. Just stay out of a walker's reach. Fight. Survive. Nothing else. All other matters fade away. I'm aware that it's a coping mechanism. I'm aware it's not healthy.

Caring about that in this instance is a little hard to do.

At our backs people start to argue, voices overlapping each other, high pitched and frantic. Shane shouts, Rick responds, Lori and Carol yell out about something, and all the while the children cry. I can't keep track of any of their words, noises blending one into the other. Shane's a feral animal, moving through the rest of us, trying to push us back to the cars. Some people stumble past me, arms pulling, words fervent and pleading—Let's go! We have to move!—but then Rick's shouting about a camera and the pulling stops.

Rick points to a small white camera, mounted above the shuttered doors. "It moved!" he cries, eyes wide and blue and begging. Shane snarls, says Rick's imagined it, they need to get moving and now. But Rick's adamant; won't budge even when Shane starts to wrench him back. "I saw it! It moved!" He jerks forward and starts banging on the doors, loud echoes spilling out into the night.

From beside me, Lori suddenly shoves Carl into my side, runs forward to her husband. "Rick! There's nobody here!" The former sheriff ignores her, talks up at the camera.

"I know you're in there! I know you can hear me!"

"Rick! Let it go!" Shane pulling at his partner again.

"There's nobody here Rick! There's nobody here! Listen to be! There's nobody here!" Lori, trying to make her husband see reason.

"We're desperate! We have women, children! No food, little fuel! We have nowhere else to go!" And Rick's not hearing any of it, banging on the doors again.

Carl whimpers at my side, presses his face into my ribs. I wince at the pain and reach down instinctively, awkwardly curl my hand around his shoulder and try not to jar my wrist. "It's ok Carl," I mutter to him, eyes taking in the growing numbers of geeks shambling toward us. "It's ok." My sword dangles at my side, scrapes across the ground, and I wonder how we are going to make it back to the cars. I wonder if any of us will make it at all.

Daryl curses at my side and I watch him shoot another bolt into a walker who's gotten a little too close. It tumbles to the ground but more rise up to replace it. I glance over and see Daryl's only got three bolts left. Our ammo is in a similar state and discharging guns will only draw more.

"You're killing us!" Rick shouts at my back.

Carl cries, wetness on my ribs, and I've made a decision before I realize it. Prying the young boy from me, I turn to Daryl, catch his eye. "Watch him," I say and confusion colors in his blue eyes before he must realize what I mean. He bares his teeth at me.

"Kid, just shut the hell up. Ya ain't—"

"We need to cut a path back to the cars," I snap back, adrenaline like heroin in my veins. I'm already starting forward, hauling my sword up. "Guns will draw too much attention; you have three bolts left. Hand to hand is the only way to—"

"Forget it!" Daryl snarls, takes a step forward so he's in my way. I glare up at him, trying to come up with a retort; vaguely away of Carl tugging at my hand, pain in my wrist, walkers moaning only yards away and all the while Rick screaming:

"You're killing us! You're KILLING us!"

"It's not like I don't deserve it!" I spit back at Daryl, first thing to come to mind, and his face contorts into something unnamable. He opens his mouth, inhales sharply, ready to fire back, when there's a sharp thud, an elongated hiss, and the two of us spin to see a square of blinding white light as one of the shuttered doors suddenly opens wide.

---

(1) A piece of a poem titled Little Beast by Richard Siken. His poems are beautiful and amazing. If you have the time, and are so inclined, I suggest you read them. Title is also from a Richard Siken poem titled Wishbone. Sadly, I don't own either of these brilliant poems and I don't use them for profit.

So? Thoughts? Comments, questions, concerns, confusions, all are welcome! Just drop them in the little box below and I will answer as promptly as possible ;)

Also! I was browsing the interwebs recently and I found this picture of a girl and SHE LOOKS EXACTLY HOW I ENVISIONED AUDREY. I don't know who she is, it's not me so I claim no rights to this, but I thought you guys would like to have some visual representation :) So just head over to my profile and go to the link! :D

Anyway. Thanks for reading and hopefully reviewing!

Until next time!

~Shadows

PS: WHO'S CAUGHT UP ON SEASON 3?! WHO HAS BASICALLY JUST SCREAMED AT THE TV EVERY SUNDAY LIKE I HAVE?!