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

20. This is the Way the World Ends

So these past few days have been balls to the wall crazy. A lot of my friends were leaving out of state for college so I had to run around and squeeze in a last few minutes with them! Sorry about the resulting wait!

But here is chapter 20! :D I cant believe I've gotten this far with the story. I never dreamed I would and I have all you lovely readers to thank! So THANK YOU! From the bottom of my heart. :) You are what keeps Audrey's story alive so keep being awesome and dropping reviews! ^^

Warning: Language and some slight gore/violence.

Disclaimer: Do you see me rich and hanging out with this awesome cast? No? There's a reason for that. I own nothing.

---

Chapter 20: This is the Way the World Ends; Not with a Bang but with a Bite.

---

It is miserably hot and I try not to fidget as sweat makes the bandages I'm wearing damp and uncomfortable, a headache thrumming heavily behind my eyes. The cicadas hum particularly loud and the vibrations reverberate down to my bones. It sets my teeth on edge and I'm restlessly tired.

Carl is sitting across me, perched sloppily on a scuffed up crate with a small table between us. His brow is creased with concentration, his pale blue eyes skipping around on the worn pages between his fingers and I find my gaze lazily tracing the tattered cover: the large white title, the golden seal of a Newberry award set high and to the left, the lined face of an old man gazing off to the side. His eyes are shadowed, his beard and hair overlong. Not for the first time, I wonder at the secrets in the furrows of his visage, the memories too horrible to tell, the whole history of humanity locked up inside his head, his burden alone to bear.

I wonder if I'll wear that same expression one day: a far off look searching for better things, better times. If I even live that long that is.

There's a silence between Carl and I as he finishes off the chapters I assigned him. His lips move wordlessly as he mouths the passages he reads but the sounds don't breech the barrier of his straight, white teeth. We had started out as we always do: me, reading out loud to him, him, listening, taking notes, answering questions once I was finished. But a few pages in and I couldn't get the words out around the hot pain in my temples, my tongue heavy and slurring, as if the very wish for painkillers had me fuzzy. I tried to have Carl read out loud to me, we did that sometimes, as if practicing for public speaking, but even his quiet voice had me clenching my eyes shut and trying to breathe through a migraine. I almost sent him away and stumbled to my tent but there was something in his eyes, a silent, sad quality, that had me suggesting that he just read a few chapters quietly to himself and once he was done, I'd answer his questions and we'd have a discussion. I had hoped that, by then, the pain would be manageable.

Honestly, it's only getting worse.

As if on cue, my wrist pounds with a watered down version of agony and I purse my lips to keep from hissing out loud. I drop my gaze to the offending appendage in my lap and carefully flex my fingers. The pain only doubles and I come to the conclusion that I didn't come away from my confrontation with Ed exactly unscathed. I should probably unwind the bandage and check it out but I have no desire to touch the pulsing limb and see the mess of bruises on my skin. Still, the fear is Ed's eyes and the blood that I was able to stain my katana with was more than worth it. And watching Shane beat the ever-living shit out of the bastard? That was definitely worth walking all the way back up to camp. Even if my ankle doesn't seem to agree with me.

"Hey Audrey?"

I blink at my name and turn to see Carl staring up at me. There's a question in his eyes, quietly demanding to be answered. I do my best to curb the urge to just shut my eyes and put my head down.

"Yes Carl?"

The young boy frowns and then turns the book in his hands to face me. "What's this word?" he asks, finger pointing at a random combination of letters near the end of the page. The ink swims hazily across my vision and I have a hard time focusing long enough to read the word. I can tell it starts with an S but beyond that, the letters are lost to me.

Sighing, I rub tiredly at my eyes, wincing when I press on tender bruises. "I can't read it," I admit. "How's it spelled?"

Carl flips the book back around. "Uh S-I-N-U-O-U-S."

It takes a moment for me to process the word, to piece the letters together. "Oh. Sinuous," I say when I finally get it. I repeat the word slowly for him so he can hear the pronunciation. "It basically means that something has a lot of twist and turns. Like a winding road or something." The definition isn't the best one I could give but I think it's adequate enough.

Mouthing the word to test it out, Carl nods and flashes me a small smile. "Oh. Thanks," he says. I reach across the table, ignoring the flare in my side, the tilt of my vision, and ruffle his hair. He frowns and bats my hand away.

"That's what I'm here for," I laugh. Dropping my eyes to The Giver, I jerk my chin at the splayed open pages. "How far are you anyway? Almost done?"

"Uh," Carl stutters. He flips back a few pages. "Chapter 13. But I just started."

I hum in acknowledgement. I had told him to read to chapter 15, five chapters from where we had stopped the last time, but I don't know if I can wait through the last 2 sections and then go into an in depth discussions. Three chapters will have to do for today.

"Ok. I think we can stop for now." I lean forward and gently extract the book from Carl's grasp. I'm just about to leaf through the pages, force myself to try and read some passages, refresh my memory so I can ask some questions, when Carl speaks up.

"W…wait." Looking up, I see him bite his lip and shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Can…can we not…do the discussion yet?" His eyes meet mine uncertainly before they flicker away. I wonder if he's tired like me or just bored. I don't have the energy to feel bad about the latter option.

"Sure," I reply instead, trying not to feel relieved. "Can I ask why though?"

Carl shrugs and I watch as his fiddles with something in his hands, fingers twining and twirling against each other. "I…I don't want Sophia to miss anything," he mutters.

There's a flush on his pale, freckled cheeks, crawling up his to ears. He still won't meet my gaze but there's that sad quality I had seen before in every inch of him: the hunch of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the shape of his mouth. I want to hug him, say something comforting, but the words won't come. And I can't lie; tell him it's ok. Carl might not have seen what happened between Ed and I, Ed and Shane, but he saw the aftermath. He saw how the Peletier's drove up alone from the quarry, the rest of us forced to either wait for Shane to come back from driving the clothes up or walk the path. He saw the tears in Carol's eyes as she pulled Sophia towards their tent. He saw the state of Ed's face. Carl's worried about his friend. In some ways, I am too. Sophia's probably really stressed out between Carol's frantic, upset disposition and Ed's…well the fact that her "father's" beat to hell. But I'm not worried about Sophia's physical well being. Even if Ed could get on his feet, he wouldn't be as stupid as to go for his wife or daughter again. Not with his skin sliced in places from my sword. Not with Shane's knuckles imprinted on every inch of his face.

I hadn't planned on standing up to Ed but I don't regret it for a second. If it means that Sophia is safe not just from hunger but pain now too? I'd have taken Ed's fist to my jaw if it meant that. I'm happy I didn't have to but I would have. I wouldn't have stood back any longer. It makes a sickening ache awake in my gut when I think about how long I waited in the first place.

"Ok," I tell Carl, pulling myself from my broodings. "That's fine. I'm sure Sophia will appreciate that too."

Carl blushes again and drops his gaze. There's a hint of black in his fiddling fingers and I tilt my head at it.

"What's that?"

It's an arrowhead. Carl peels back his fingers and offers it to me, palms up, like I gift. I extend my hand and brush the cool stone, black and sharply lined, about the size of a quarter, maybe a little large. A small bead of blood wells on the tip of my index finger when I press on the serrated tip. I don't even flinch at the miniscule sting.

"Me and Shane found it," Carl says. He puffs his chest out and nearly preens with pride. "I saw it first but Shane picked it up before the water could become to murky. He says I have a good eye."

I think back to the grin Carl wore when Shane had been poking around his palms. They must have been admiring this small stone. "Shane's right. I probably would have missed it. I'm blind as a bat you know." It's not exactly true, I have just about perfect vision, but I lie for the sake of a smile, leaning forward again to grope blindly along the table, crawling up Carl's arm and patting softly at his face, ruffling his hair again. The boy giggles at my antics and the sound soothes the ache in my skull, makes me grin despite the fact that I'm still wracked with pain. A part of me wants to compare Carl's laughter, light but with a slightly deeper undertone that spoke of a thicker voice when puberty finally struck, to the high pitched shrieks of amusement in my head, young and innocent, brown eyes and dimples. I shake off the thought and force myself to focus on the here and now.

The two of us mess around for a few more minutes, The Giver abandoned on the table. By the time that Amy and Andrea stroll back into camp, my cheeks hurt for reasons other than bruises and I'm breathless not because of pain. Carl quickly leaves my side when Morales starts brandishing the throng of fish Andrea's just handed him and he pokes at the limp bodies, nose wrinkling at the texture like he's not sure that he likes it. It doesn't stop him from poking at the fish some more though.

Amy looks happy and accomplished as she takes a healthy swig from her water bottle, dancing in place with satisfaction. I roll my eyes at her but can't deny it's good to see her smile. She was really upset after the ordeal with Ed and I hadn't found the time to talk to her yet. After Shane stepped off of Ed's prone body, I knew it was going to be hell heading back to camp. It wasn't like I could ride in Carol's car after what happened and I didn't find sitting next to Shane very appealing, even if it was for five minutes. That being said, with everyone preoccupied, I slipped away, nabbing a small bag of clothes and starting my lone trek up the hill. It took three times as long to reach camp and I was woozy with pain and exhaustion but I still felt like I dodged a bullet with my decision. With Lori finding me not long after and asking if I could do a class with Carl, and with Amy heading back down to the lake to fish with her sister, there was just no time to talk. I'm not particularly looking forward to the conversation, I know how off the handle I kind of went, but I know Amy's going to find a way to have it either way and so I'm just resigned to the fact now.

Still, that doesn't mean I'm rushing to embrace that awkward discussion so I sit back a few yards and watch the rest of the camp interact from a distance. The atmosphere is light and lively, everyone happy about the prospect of even more food. Simon, the Army vet who backed out of the supply run, I try not to blame him but I might just a little in the back of my mind when my wrist aches particularly bad, had some experience with hunting and had managed to gut and skin the small deer Daryl brought back, the carcass left untouched in the whirlwind of events that had transpired. The fawn had produced a hefty amount of meat but I couldn't help but think that Daryl would have yielded more, done a better job at the carving and skinning. Then I felt slightly guilty for criticizing Simon's job pretty much well done and more than a little sick and sad when the thought of Daryl writhed painfully in my chest. I felt even worse when everyone else praised Simon for what he done, even though Daryl had been doing it, and doing it better, for months. I kept silent and let them be happy though, even when I felt bitter and tired.

With the fish and deer added to the supplies that we brought back from the city, the whole camp is almost buoyant with happiness, people joking and laughing, color in cheeks and a mirthful glint in everyone's eyes.

I wish I could say I am surprised when Dale walks up, brow furrowed and eyes shadowed, and says, "I don't want to alarm anyone but uh…we might have a bit of a problem."

But in all honesty? I'm really not. I know better by now.

---

It takes them a while to reach the relatively safe office space where, half an hour ago, the chink had outlined a plan that seemed crazy yet doable but now just seemed down right stupid. The geeks were swarmin the surroundin streets, hyped up by the commotion, and Daryl cursed the numerous close calls they had, just windin through side alleys. On top of the general difficulty, the stupid spic kid kept tryin to escape, twistin out of Grimes' arms and takin three steps before the cop dragged him back. After the fifth time, and nearly gettin all of them bit, Daryl swung around and punched the spic straight in the mouth, sharp teeth splittin his knuckles and blood sprayin everywhere. The asshole didn't try again.

Now, they're all sittin around, tryin to get the bastard to talk, tryin to get him to tell them where they took the chink. There's fear in the spic's eyes, Daryl can see it plain as day, but he sneers when Grimes repeats his question, scoffs and spits at the cop's feet. Daryl paces angrily a few steps away and he feels the irritation burnin under his skin, tryin to split him open.

"Those men you were with," Grimes starts in again. His tone is soft and coaxin, like he's tryin to be a friend. "We need to know where they went. We just want to talk, get our man back. That's all."

The skinny spic rolls his eyes and wipes at the blood in the corner of his mouth, trailin down his chin. "I ain't tell you nothin," he drawls with false bravdo and swagger. Daryl knows he can wipe that smirk of his face in less than five fuckin minutes.

Grimes sighs and rubs tiredly at his chin. Diplomacy's gotten him nowhere and he's at a loss of what to do. Beside him, T-Dog groans and sits back, smackin the table he's perched on. "Jesus man! What the hell happened back there?!" His eyes burrow into Daryl and the hunter would have to be blind to miss the accusation in his eyes.

He blames Daryl and while Daryl ain't surprised, it still pisses him off all the same.

"I told you," he growls out. His pacin has become faster, more aggressive, sharp pivots and long strides. The chink's been gone for almost an hour now and they only have some many more hours of daylight; only so many hours to get Chinaman and find Merle. "This son of a bitch and his douche bag friends came out of nowhere and jumped me!"

Daryl's ribs ache, bruised and sore, as does his back and hands from where one of the mother fuckin spics stepped on it as he tried to reach for his crossbow. His right eye throbs too and he knows he'll have a shiner by nightfall.

"You're the one who jumped me, puto, screaming about tryin to find his brother like it's my damn fault." Daryl bristles, not knowin any other language but English yet still knowin when someone is insultin him.

"They took Chinaman," he snarls, the chink's scream of terror still resoundin in his ears. "Could have taken Merle too." Daryl didn't know there was anyone left breathin in the city. Seems like he was wrong. So it wasn't that insane to think Merle found these assholes, or the other way around. The thought ain't comfortin, not in the least bit, cuz even though Merle's injured, lost a lot of blood, he wouldn't hesitate to spit some slurs at some Mexicans, even if they had guns. It's earned him a few split lips and broken noses in the past. It might have earned him a bullet now.

The spic sneers again, teeth bared and eyes bright. He laughs and it's a mockin huff of breath. "Merle? What kind of fuckin hick name is that? I wouldn't name my dog Merle."

He meets Daryl's eyes like a challenge and Daryl ain't one to back down. First and foremost out of anythin, Merle taught him to never take shit from anyone and Daryl ain't bout to start with this fuckin spic kid. He lunges without thinkin, without restraint, and if it weren't for goddamn Grimes, Daryl would have the son of a bitch flat on his back, bloodied and beggin for mercy. But Grimes grapples his hands round Daryl's chest, his back, before he can get close and he shoves the hunter away forcefully. It doesn't hurt, not much, even with the bruises on Daryl's ribs, but it gets him too far away to harm and maim and beat the bastard until they got some information or until Daryl felt damn better. Whichever came first.

Daryl gnashes his teeth and clenches his fists but Grimes sends him this look and steps in between their prisoner and him, barrin the distances. He starts up the diplomatic approach again, kindly askin the spic to just help them out. It's gettin them nowhere. Just as it got them nowhere before. Daryl still just wants to pummel the words out of the fucker but suddenly thinks of another, just as potent but less tiring, approach.

Skirtin around Grimes, Daryl makes his way to the chink's bag that got left behind, yankin open zippers and pockets, searchin aggressively. It takes a few tries but he eventually finds what he's lookin for. Pullin the blue cloth into his hands, he pivots around to face the group. Grimes meets his eye with a half formed question but Daryl ignores him, unwrappin the slightly wet cloth in his hands.

"Wanna see what happened to the last guy that pissed me off?"

A slight scent of decay wafts into Daryl's face but he fights his gag reflex and doesn't look down. Instead, he locks eyes with the skinny spic, scowls as hatefully as he can, and throws Merle's disembodied hand into the asshole's lap.

Because other than pain, fear is the biggest motivator for all of fuckin humanity. And Daryl goddamn knows it.

There's a split second delay, the kid not processin what he's seein, but then the sight registers in his head and he jumps out of his seat with a scream of terror, scramblin back and fallin on his ass. Daryl follows him and gets right up in his face, hands pullin at the grimy wife beater the bastard has on, digging into his jaw. He sees the fear in the kid's eyes, bright and sharp and poisonous, and knows he's gonna get an answer now.

Still, he can't help but throw out one last idle threat, snarlin about how he'll start at the feet next time, right before Grimes pulls him off.

When Daryl's out of the way, Grimes asks one more time where the other man's group is. "We just want our friend back. Think you can help us out now?"

The kid answers like the words are batterin against the back of his teeth, trippin off his tongue. "I can show you," he stutters. "I'll…I'll show you."

Daryl sneers in triumph and moves to start packin their stuff. However, as he slings Chinaman's bag on, checks his crossbow, and starts to follow the skinny spic and Grimes back out onto the street, he tries not to notice the position of the sun and how it feels like he's runnin out of time.

#

He doesn't expect them to be so well armed. Or for their numbers to be so many. But Daryl quickly finds out he's wrong on both accounts when he's starin down the barrels of at least five guns, three other men behind them with blunt instruments: bats, pipes, axes etc. It set his teeth on edge, awakens the fight or flight instinct ingrained in his bones and every fiber of his body is screamin for the latter, Chinaman or not. Beside him, Grimes shifts in unease at the hostile welcomin they've received but he doesn't back down and Daryl finds himself prayin that T-Dog has some resemblance of aim. By the way his barrel shakes when Daryl glances up at his roof position the hunter highly doubts it.

In front of them, a lone man extracts himself from the welcome wagon and walks forward. He's small, Daryl notices, short and kinda slight. But Daryl doesn't let that fool him. He's obviously the leader. There's a hardness to the man's features, a shadow to his eyes, and even though he wears a rosary around his neck, Daryl doesn't think he's too devout what with the gun protrudin from the waistband of his jeans. The man looks calm and at ease, body language lax, but Daryl knows he's as alert as the rest of them and ready to fight if need be.

"You ok little man?" he suddenly asks, eyes only for the spic kid that Daryl has trained in his sights. His voice is low pitched and accented. Merle would of called him a border-nigger.

The skinny kid in the dirty wife beater actually whimpers and takes half a step forward before Grimes clears his throat in warnin. He jolts to a halt but leans towards his leader anyway, like a dog strainin for somethin while on a leash. "They were gonna cut off my feet, carnal. Mis pies," he stresses in Spanish, as if the other man hadn't understood him the first time. The leader's, Guillermo or whatever the kid had said, eyes suddenly click over to Grimes, head tilted in silent consideration.

"Cops do that?"

"Not him. This redneck puto here!" The spic gestures back towards Daryl, meetin the hunter's eye for a fraction of a second before turning back to his group leader. There might have been a little more courage, a little more balls, in his voice but he ain't bout to challenge Daryl again. Not when he can still remember the wet splat the hand had made when it landed in his lap. "He cut off some dude's hand man! He showed it to me!"

Daryl bares his teeth in a snarl when Guillermo's gaze flickers over to him, somethin judgin and disgusted in his eyes, but Daryl has no time to think about that cuz suddenly, two men are stridin from the open door in front of them, and they ain't happy to see Daryl.

The hunter can't help but think yeah, feelin's mutual.

"Hey! That's the vato right there homes!" A bald headed man that Daryl vaguely recognizes hefts a gun to eye level and cocks the hammer back. His eyes are wild and he's limpin. Daryl wants to smirk and wonders if he can ask for his arrow back. Instead, he just keeps his crossbow level and loaded, shiftin from the bald guy to the leader and back again, keepin an eye on the other men behind them. "He's the one that shot me in the ass! What's up homes huh? Wanna try that shit again? Do it! Come on!" Daryl opens his mouth to curse and growl out that the bastard had been kidnappin Chinaman and deserved an arrow to the head, not ass, but the leader shoves his man's gun down and throws an arm out to stop the man from advancin. The bald man subsides but still glares hatefully at Daryl. Daryl returns the look with interest.

Guillermo mutters somethin to the man beside him, callin words not in English before he turns back to the rest of them. "This true?" he asks. The question, and his eyes, is directed at Grimes, leader to leader. "He wants Miguelito's feet? That's pretty sick."

Grimes clears his throat and, unsurprisingly, goes diplomatic again. Though, he doesn't lower his gun any and Daryl has to silently commend him for that. "We were hoping more for a calm discussion."

The other man snorts and fixes Grimes with an incredulous look. "That hillbilly," he says, a sneer blatant in his voice though he keeps his eyes on Grimes. Daryl bristles at the insult but says nothin. There are still over five guns trained on him and besides, he's been called worse. "He jumps Felipe's little cousin, beats on him if that cut on his lip is any indication, threatens to cut off his feet, Felipe gets an arrow in the ass and you want a calm discussion?" He shakes his head and the sneer in his voice finally starts to show on his face, a small curl of lip. "You fascinate me officer."

"Heat of the moment," Grimes returns. "Mistakes were made. On both sides. We just want out man back. I think you can relate."

The spic kid whines again and tries to move forward another step but Daryl reaches out and grabs him by the back of his shirt, yankin him back. The kid stumbles, the other men flinch, and Daryl bares his teeth. He ain't bout to let the kid back to his group before they let Chinaman go. Daryl doesn't like the way these "negotiations" are goin and they can't lose their leverage.

Guillermo narrows his eyes at Daryl, a tick in his jaw. When he speaks again, his words are clipped if not mocking. "Who's that dude to you anyway? None of you look related."

"He's one of our group. Don't have to be family to survive together. I'm sure you have a few like him."

When the other man shrugs in agreement, Daryl can't help but think of Merle, the word family resoundin in his head. "You got my brother in there?" he asks as calmly as he can. The result is more of a sharp bark than a snarl. Unconsciously, he's been lookin round the lot they're in, searchin for blood, any sign of Merle, but the debris and weeds offer no answers. The spic in front of him doesn't either.

"Sorry," he says, soundin anythin but. "We're fresh out of white boys. But I got Asian." His sneerin gaze leaves Daryl and switches back to Grimes, expression becomin blanker. "Interested?"

Grimes shifts uneasily and Daryl realizes the other man knows that this ain't exactly goin as planned. They still hadn't seen Chinaman. For all they knew…he was already dead. "I have one of yours, you have one of mine. Sounds like an even trade."

"Don't sound even to me."

Daryl goes rigid and thinks here we go. He knew this wasn't goin to be as easy as they'd hoped. Once the other man had started talkin, stallin, bidin time instead of just takin his man back, Daryl knew there had to be somethin else he wanted. He just didn't know what.

"G! Man, come on. Please."

The kid's pleadin falls on deaf ears. 'G' doesn't even spare him a glance. "My people got attacked," he starts. "Where's the compensation for their pain and suffering?" His voice takes on an almost wheedlin quality before he drops the façade and fixes Grimes with a steely-eyed look. "But more to the point…where's my bag of guns?"

Daryl almost laughs. The guns. Of course. These men don't give two shits bout some useless kid. Guns though…that's more valuable than gold. Daryl knows the ultimatum before the other man even says it, knows that it's Chinaman or the guns, sentiments or survival. Daryl doesn't even pay attention to the conversation any more. He's too busy countin the men in the open doorway thirty feet away, the number of guns they have, the amount of ammo they could have and comparin it to the three arrows he has left, the few rounds Grimes has in his shotgun, the bullets in T-Dog's rifle that probably won't even meet their mark. They're fucked and he knows it. When he half hears Guillermo threaten to unload on them right then, Daryl shifts around, bouncin the sight of his crossbow from man to man but he's expectin an inevitable bullet to the face either way. It never comes. Amazinly, Guillermo backs off when Grimes points out the "sniper" they have on the roof. The spic ain't wantin a bullet between his teeth either. But he ain't exactly backin down. Tearin his eyes away from the barrel of T-Dog's rifle, he actually smirks at them.

"Oye!" he calls out. He tilts his head up toward the roof of the buildin behind him. Daryl follows his motion and there's a muffled soundin scuffle before there are three men standin on the edge and the chink is one of them. He looks scared shitless, pale and sweaty, duck tape over his mouth, a thin gash on his brow and blood trailin down the side of his face. One of the men holdin him jerks him forward a little bit, as if to throw him off the roof, and even though Daryl doesn't really like Chinaman that much, doesn't really know him, that's a pretty fucked up way to die.

In his peripherals, Daryl sees Grimes go pale before scowlin in what could only be defeat. He knows they're fucked too.

"I see two options," Guillermo says. Daryl forces himself to listen. "You come back with Miguel and my bag of guns, everybody walks. We'll return your Asian and you can be on your way. Or you come back locked and loaded. We'll see which side spills more blood."

Daryl spares a glance behind the man, sees the eight-armed men in the doorway and the shiftin of more shadowy figures farther back. They both know which side's gonna spill more blood and Daryl hates that he fuckin knows it.

He thinks back to ultimatum he gave himself; that he'd return with Chinaman or not at all.

It was stupid, he didn't think he had meant it, just felt guilty bout the chink getting snatched up in front of him but…seems like the latter option was becomin more and more fuckin likely.

---

The quarry in which our camp is located in is high up in the hills. There are gorges and ditches, cliffs and the entire area curves and dips in intervals. The main part of camp is set in a relatively flat area, a touristy picnic section of the quarry between the sheer drop towards the lake and steep hills on all other sides. Jim's, of course, on the side opposite of the lake, the forest section that gradually inclines up and up and up. The dirt path that winds up the hill is uneven and shifty, sand and loose soil. I loose my footing more than once and would have fallen if it weren't for Amy's hand on my elbow, around my waist. I hadn't asked her to help but she was there nonetheless and even though she still hasn't said a word to me, every time our eyes clash I send her a grateful smile. Amy and I are at the back of the group, taking our time as Shane and the others stride faster and farther, rounding a bend half a football length in front of us. She huffs beside me and I turn to see her cheeks flushed, sweat beading on her temples.

"God. Why is it so damn hot all the time?"

I laugh shortly and tilt my head back, closing my eyes and soaking in the scalding afternoon sun as we walk. "It's the tail end of a Georgia summer Amy. It's gonna be hot as hell for at least a month more."

The blonde grumbles and I crack open an eye to see her scowling at the cloudless sky above us. "Yeah well…you think we could catch a break every once in a while? I mean it's not like the world went and ended on us or anything," she says, kicking spitefully at the ground. I frown at the bitterness in her voice but have no response for her. The heat is unrelenting but I've accepted the fact that this is what our situation is; no use on crying over it.

Ok. So maybe I curse the sun every once in a while but it's mostly an empty motion. Amy sounds like she was expecting something better and is disappointed. I can't help but think she's still too 'city-spoiled-kid' and then feel guilty for thinking of her like that.

It's quiet for the next few minutes as we continue our slow ascent. My head is still throbbing, my arm, especially my ankle now too. More than once, I think about just heading back but I've already come this far and something about Dale's expression, the pinch of his brow or set of his mouth, made me uneasy. Whatever was going on with Jim wasn't good. I couldn't just sit and twiddle my thumbs back at camp as whatever was going down came to a head. I probably should…but that would basically leave me at the bottom of the hill with Ed Peletier and Mr. St James and that isn't exactly the ideal tea party for me. On top of that and in addition to the fact that sitting on the sidelines isn't me, I know that if I stop moving now, I'll most likely pass out and I can't do that. I have to wait for Glenn to get back. Ever since they left I've had this tension growing through every inch of me and I know it won't release until my friend is back safe within my sights. Not for the first time, I silently curse Rick for pulling Glenn along for yet another run into the city. Glenn's done enough death defying shit thank you very much.

"So…" Amy starts suddenly and I blink in surprise as the word shatters the silence. I glance over her again but she isn't looking at me, instead keeping her eyes locked straight ahead. "Down by the lake? Care to explain?"

The question is blunt, straightforward, and unsurprising; I knew she was going to ask it eventually. Still, I can't help but flush in slight embarrassment, in thick anger, and a very small undercurrent of irritation that Amy just couldn't let something be for once. Sighing, it's my turn to avert my eyes. I glance off into the trees bordering the dirt path we're on, shrugging and going for nonchalant.

"What's there to explain? You saw what he did to Carol. I wasn't about to just let him beat her face in." I cut a glance at Amy to find her looking at me through the corner of her eye. "Why?" I ask. My tone has taken on a fine, razor's edge. "Do you think I should have kept quiet? Just stood back?"

Amy whirls on me with wide, horrified eyes. "N…no! No. I…I just…I don't know," she shrugs, biting her lip. "You…you seemed…" She struggles, at a loss for words.

"Crazy?" I supply. She shakes her.

"Not like yourself."

I purse my lips at her words, something clenching uncomfortably beneath my ribs, before I turn away again. My jaw works slowly and the grinding of my teeth makes my already bruised jaw feel raw and tender. There are these images in my head, me as a young, young, child, as an old woman in a too small body, as a struggling pre-teen; old Audrey, new Audrey, and everything in between, jagged pieces that don't fit that well together, shattered too many times to mesh as they are supposed to. It all leaves a foul taste in the back of my mouth. "Yeah well…" I start off slowly. "You don't know everything about me Amy."

I don't mean to sound so cold but I don't have the energy for this.

"But I'd like to." Amy suddenly reaches out and takes a hold of my arm, forcing me to stop. Her blue eyes are trained on me, bright and determined. The last time we had something resembling this conversation was in the RV, her begging me to explain to her why I could keep trying to defend the Dixons, to cover for them. Before that, it had been the Emma Incident as I like to call it. Amy's made it no secret that she wishes I was more open about myself. And I've tried to, really. But…my past is dark and deep and tangled. I can't reveal one part without others being dragged into the light along with it. If I tell her that I stood up to Ed because I hated seeing weaker parties being abused, I would have to tell her why. And if I told her why, I would have to speak of Mitch and Eleanor, of Adam Keene and a little girl named Emily. I…I can't do that. Not now. Maybe one day, if the world ever calms back down. But not today, bruised and exhausted, standing in the middle of this dirt road with sweat on my brow and blood on the back of my tongue. It's all too close, too unsettling and I don't have the strength.

Sighing again, I slip out of Amy's grasp, her fingers tightening for a split second before falling from my arm. I flinch at the hurt in her eyes.

"I know you do Amy," I say quickly, trying to rectify my seemingly dismissive gesture. "But…I'm not ready for you to. I'm sorry but…it's hard for me all right? And…my life's kind of a long story."

That at least is the truth. My life is a long, fucked up story. But Amy doesn't know that. She thinks my parents were awesome and gave me what ever I wanted: karate lessons, swords lessons, probably a car for my sixteenth birthday. It's not her fault though; I led her to believe that. And that's another thing. If and when I do end up telling her about my life…I'm going to have to reveal the lies I had fed her. Well, that's going to be a fun time all the way around.

Amy considers me for a moment, brow and mouth pinched. As the silence stretches, I think I've upset her again, that she's going to blow up at me like before and stalk off, leaving me feeling like an asshole. But she doesn't do either of those things. Instead, her eyes drop to my waist and the determined light in her eyes takes on a troubled quality.

"Is…" she trails off, throat working as she tries to expel her question. "Is that scar on your side…is it part of that long story?"

I blink and for a moment, fear seizes me, my brain frantically scrambling to figure out how she knew. It's a reflexive fear, ingrained, something I always felt when changing for gym in the girls locker room or whenever I went for a swim. But then I remember that day I yanked the hem of my shirt up in an idiotic flare of emotion, displaying the ropy, jagged, six inch piece of skin for all to see. No one has brought that instance up since then. Sometimes, I'll catch Lori gazing at me in concern, or Glenn with his eyes glued to my side but they've never verbally asked. Until now. My first instinct is to lie, another ingrained reflex, but I can't think of anything believable off the top of my head and, in the end, I just settle for another general truth.

"Yeah. It is."

Amy nods, almost to herself, and seems to accept my nearly monosyllabic response. She lifts her head and smiles at me, soft and sad, before she takes my arm again, this time winding it through her own. "Ok," she says. It sounds like she's acquiesced. "I can wait till you're ready. Just…know you can talk to me any time all right?"

I smile gently back at her, doing my best to ignore the discomfort twitching beneath my skin. "The next time I feel like I'm a talkative mood, you'll be the first to know Ames," I tease and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"You? Talkative? Might as well wait for Glenn to grow out of his awkward phase."

I shove at her playfully and she laughs as we begin to walk again, arm in arm. For the next few minutes, Amy chatters on about nothing and I find myself nodding and responding occasionally, perpetually smiling. The longer she talks I find myself grinning harder and longer, a warmth spreading in my chest because…for all the ups and downs we've experienced in the last few weeks, Amy is really my friend, wholly and truly. She's been there to just get me through the day; she's been there when I took up Carl and Sophia's education; she was there when I just wanted to stab Daryl and she was there to patch me up when his brother tried to kill me. I wish my life wasn't so complicated, that I could just be normal and tell her about inconsequential things like school or my home before. I want to connect with her on that level because even if she doesn't know it, Amy's the one that really welcomed me into this group, that really began to make me feel a part of them.

She's the one that made me feel human again when I had felt stripped down to nothing but the instinct to survive.

I think about her present, the small box tucked under my sleeping bag and the gift nestled inside. I think about it's meaning, about Amy herself, and I think that, maybe, just maybe, I'll have the strength soon enough to tell her about my past.

But that moment's not now. Now, the two of us are cresting the hill and coming upon Jim and his audience. Now, the warmth in my chest starts to fade and I remember why we came up here in the first place. Irrationally, a part of me just wants to pull Amy down the hill and walk away from all of this. But already Shane's voice is reaching me, quiet yet firm, and I can't help but stay rooted to my spot, listening intently.

"We think that you need to take a break ok?" Shane says. He's about ten yards from where Amy and I are standing, at the front of the group and walking slowly towards Jim. The other man is drenched in sweat, his white undershirt streaked with dirt and the button down he has thrown over it clings damply to his skin. Even with the cap jammed on his head, there's a red streak of sunburn across the bridge of his nose, snaking in angry tendrils down his neck. Amy and I might be a small distance away, but there's no mistaking the exhausted glaze to Jim's eyes or the way he sways on his feet.

"Why don't you go and get yourself some shade Jim? Some food maybe. You know, I'll tell you what. Maybe in a little bit I'll come out here and help you myself," Shane prods again, his tone coaxing but worried. His shoulders are tense and the rest of the group shifts anxiously as Jim continues digging, ignoring Shane's words. My eyes stray from Jim's moving form to the ground surrounding him. The grass and dirt is disheveled and there looks to be the beginnings of several holes scattered about. None of them are deeper than about two feet but the dirt is hard and packed tight, rocks every few inches. Jim must have been up here for the better part of the morning, digging away. The question is why?

"Jim."

The other man finally pauses, stabbing the shovel into a pile of loose dirt and leaning against it. Shane relaxes when he sees he has Jim's attention. His shoulders unhitch a little and he drags a hand through the damp curls on top of his head.

"Can you just…tell me what this is about?" When no answer is forthcoming, and Jim drops his eyes and goes to start digging again, Shane sighs.

"Why don't you just go ahead and give me that shovel Jim so we can talk about this?"

"Or what?"

I start at the older man's tone. It's hard and sharp, a caustic bark as he glares at Shane. I'm confused at his attitude and by the way Amy shifts uneasily next to me, I can tell she is too.

Shane huffs in disbelief. "There is no or what. Jim, I'm asking you. I'm coming to you and I'm asking you, please."

The former cop's actually entreating with Jim here and I have to give him credit. He's being quiet and calm, not anything like he was when he and I were arguing. Maybe he's learned some tact.

"I don't want to have to take it from you."

Then again, maybe he hasn't.

Wincing at Shane's thinly veiled ultimatum, I turn my attention back to Jim. He still looks on the verge of keeling over, eyes blinking slowly then too rapidly, but now he also looks pissed. His lip curls and sneers at Shane. "And if I don't then what? Then you're gonna beat my face in like Ed Peletier, aren't you?"

The air goes electric and tense, everyone suddenly rigid. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carol, who I hadn't noticed before, pull her daughter closer as she flinches. Her eyes are still red rimmed, her cheeks blotchy, and there's a steadily darkening bruise on her jaw. Shane drops his head and rubs at the back of his neck, seemingly guilty and at a loss for words. Jim's sneer deepens and he lifts his head to address the rest of us.

"Y'all seen his face huh? What's left of it," he shouts before he turns back to Shane. I don't know what's gotten into the older man; he's usually so quiet and reserved, kind. Now, he's all sharp edges and biting words. "See that's what happens when somebody crosses you."

I open my mouth to say something, because even if Shane and I don't see eye to eye on everything, he isn't like Ed. However, Shane beats me to the punch, no pun intended.

"That was different Jim," he says and that cajoling tone is gone now, replaced by a tinge of anger. The other man snorts.

Suddenly, Amy moves away from me and I snap my head to the side just in time to catch her ardent profile before she's standing several steps ahead. "You weren't there," she says loudly. Her body's shaking and her voice is thin and reedy. "Ed was out of control! He was hurting his wife!"

A few people hum and murmur with agreement but Jim is having none of it. He stabs his shovel in the ground angrily and straightens up with a snap. His face is contorted in a scowl and the expression looks completely alien on the normally genial man's face. What the hell is wrong with him?

"That's their marriage! That is not his!" he shouts, stabbing a finger at Shane. "He is not judge and jury! Who voted you king boss, huh?!"

Shane flinches under Jim's intensity and the crazed man looks ready to tear into the former cop some more. Shane doesn't let him start.

"Jim," he sighs. He doesn't seem angry anymore, just tired. "I'm not here to argue with you, all right? Just give me the shovel." He reaches out for the tool, slowly and easily but Jim twists away from him sharply.

"No!" he shouts. "No, no, no, no, no!" He keeps stepping back, away from Shane, but Shane matches him step for step, still trying to grab the shovel. Jim's voice is high pitched and bordering on hysteric and his movements are frantic. I realize he's suffering from heat stroke, or hell maybe just a stroke, and suddenly I feel worried for instead of annoyed at the older man.

"Jim! Just give me the—"

Shane gets shoved back harshly for his attempts and, all of the sudden, Jim's swinging the shovel at his head. I gasp, nearly stuttering forward as the rusted metal nearly slams into the side of Shane's face, but the former cop ducks at the last second, honed reflexes and instinct. He lunges for Jim once the shovel has passed him and the two men go tumbling into the dirt. All around me, people are gasping and talking frantically, worried and on edge. Above the murmured din, Jim is crying out in distress.

"You got no right!" he keeps repeating, words muffled by the dirt that Shane has him pressed into. "You go no right!"

Shane is shushing him as best he can, trying to be gentle as he wrests Jim's arms behind his back. He's murmuring for Jim to calm down, to be quiet, to take deep breaths. The other man isn't listening though. He's bucking in the dirt and trying to throw Shane off. He's whimpering and cursing and Shane has to press down on him harder so he doesn't hurt himself.

"Jim! Nobody is going to hurt you! All right? You hear me? Shh. Just relax. Nobody is going to hurt you." Shane keeps saying that last line over and over, a promise, and Jim eventually stops struggling. The rest of us watch in silence as the pinned man digs his face into the dirt and cries, half chocked sobs and tears mixing with sweat on his cheeks. A few feet to my right, Sophia and Carl press tightly to their mother's sides and as I take in their frightened faces, I distantly think I should have offered to stay at camp with the kids, just so they didn't have to see this.

"That's a lie," Jim moans and as I turn my attention back to him, my heart twists a little at the way he sounds so lost and broken. "That's the biggest lie there is." Shane doesn't respond, just starts to shift back on Jim's legs and when I hear the rattle of metal, I realize he's cuffing Jim's hands. Jim doesn't fight it. "A lie, a lie, such a lie. I told that to my wife and two boys. I said it a hundred times. It didn't matter."

The tightness in my chest winds tighter as Jim's voice grows thicker, revealing things, personal things that he never would have if he were in the right frame of mind. Whatever had forced Jim up here and forced him to dig these holes was obviously something so profound, its drove him to an emotional breakdown and hysteria. I feel bad for him and I realize Dale had every right to be as concerned as he was.

"They came out of nowhere. There were dozens of 'em," he continues with a whimper. "Just pulled 'em right out of my hands. My lies didn't matter; they were gone before I could try and save them." His words are quiet and broken and suddenly the ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, the air sucked out of my lungs before I know what is happening. I blink and my ears ring, my vision swims, a shudder worms down my spine. Something at the back of my mind is suddenly screaming getawaygetawaydontlisten because I know, like a bolt of lightning, even before he can take his next breath, what Jim is going to say. He continues before I can even think to escape.

"You know," he says and his gaze abruptly finds mine, between Lori and Shane's shoulders, around Dale, through Morales; his eyes lock onto my own like he can see straight through me. I remember the unease I felt coming up here and I know now I should have listened to it. "The only reason I got away was cause the dead were too busy eating my family. I…I can still hear their screams."

Amy makes a chocked noise beside me, her hands flying over her mouth in horror. In front of me, I can see Lori do the same. Everyone is horrified at Jim's confession; I can dimly hear Andrea say something to her sister, having fallen back beside us. But the words don't make sense; I can't process them. My head is pounding and I feel unexpectedly weak, my injuries finally catching up to me, a taste like cotton in the back of my mouth. I stumble without meaning to, careening into Amy's side. Hands are on me, voices at my ear, but I can't tear my eyes away from Jim, pressed into the dirt with tears on his cheeks and the ghosts of his family in his eyes.

"They came out of nowhere. There were dozens of 'em. Just pulled 'em right out of my hands."

My throat feels tight and I have trouble breathing.

"You know, the only reason I got away was cause the dead were too busy eating my family."

Fire flares before my eyes and I feel its heat against my skin, the moan of the dead rattling in my ears.

"Mom?! Irina! Manny, where are you?!"

"Audrey you have to go. Go! It's too late. I'll do my best to find them but you have to go!"

"I…I can still hear their screams."

"Please Audie. Please don't let me die. Don't let them take me. Please Audie. PLEASE!"

Blackness encroaches upon my vision and I feel myself falling. As I sink into oblivion, I hear Amy calling my name, frantic and worried. I try to tell her something, I try to stay awake, but I'm dragged down and away, Jim's voice cycling in my head, over and over: his family, his life, his story…

All exactly like mine.

---

Daryl entertains the idea of beatin the little spic kid. He's the one that brought his damn 'homies' on them; he's the reason they're fucked six ways from Sunday. Daryl knows it won't help them any but he thinks it'll make him feel better. At least a little bit. However, as he paces the small room they're in, a back office of a body shop not far from where the bastards have Chinaman locked up, he can't do it. Mostly cuz T-dog's situated himself slightly in front of the kid but also cuz Daryl unfortunately has other things to preoccupy his mind.

Like the fact that Grimes has hauled the bag of guns that got them into this mess onto the table, sortin through them one by one, as if to catalogue them. Daryl scowls at the sight and at the man's stupidity.

"Them guns worth more than gold," he finds himself pointin out. He can't believe that he has to say this shit out loud cuz really, how idiotic can people be? "Gold won't protect your family or put food on the table."

Gold can't keep you safe is what he doesn't say. But guns can; guns will if ya know how to use 'em. The survivalist part of Daryl balks at the idea of giving up so many weapons—six shotguns, two high-powered rifles, over a dozen handguns—for anyone less than family. He gets that the chink was a part of their group and that he's useful and the former cop feels responsible for him. But Daryl remembers how that geek was so close to camp and thinks that twenty more loaded guns are a lot more valuable than some Asian kid. The thought is callous and cruel, would make Merle proud, but Daryl's tryin to think practical here, tryin to figure what's gonna keep them all alive. He tells himself that he's gotta do what he has to and tries to ignore the guilt that jack knifes in his chest when hurt green eyes flash across his mind.

Pushin away all other thoughts, Daryl jerks his chin at the cache of weapons splayed out before them as he catches Grimes' eye. "You willing to give all that up for some kid?"

He still feels like a bastard for sayin those words.

Grimes ignores him, settles for loadin a handgun. Off to the side, T-Dog sighs and says, "If I knew we'd get Glenn back, I might agree with you. But you think that vato across the way is just gonna hand him over, nice and easy?"

"You callin G a liar?" the spic on the floor suddenly speaks up, indignant and pissed. Daryl growls and can't help himself from stalkin forward and slappin the kid across the head, knuckles connectin sharply with his skull.

"Ya best shut the hell up if ya wanna hold on to yer teeth!" Daryl crowds in close but the spic turns his head, nostrils flared and neck pulled taunt. Fear oozes out of him like sweat and Daryl thinks it's bout damn time. Seems like he's not feelin so invincible now that his little homies don't got his back. Daryl feels smug as he pulls back and he pointedly ignores the guarded, wary look T-Dog throws him.

"Question is," the darker man asks, adressin Grimes but eyes still on Daryl. "Do you trust that man's word?"

Daryl can't help but scoff. "Trust him? No. The question is what are ya willin to bet on it? Could be more than them guns. Could be your life. Ya willin to risk that?" he asks bluntly. Grimes purses his lips and averts his eyes, fiddlin with the gun in his hand. He's avoidin the question and wastin time. Daryl exhales sharply and raps on the table they've got between them, forcin Grimes to meet his gaze. "Chinaman worth that to you?"

That's the real question they've all been afraid to ask. That's what it all boils down to. They've got the guns. With them, they can travel through Atlanta and find Merle, wherever the dumb ass is hidin, and head back to camp, armed up to the teeth and ready for whatever may come. They could do that…but Grimes won't go through with it. Daryl can see it in the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. He ain't bout to abandon the chink, even if it means their life. Daryl finds the man equal parts noble and idiotic; he's got the morals of a saint but the survival instinct of a moron. He's known Chinaman for less than a day and yet here he is, willin to be a martyr. It's amazin.

Grimes considers Daryl for a moment, chewy on his words. When they finally come out, they're iron clad and resolved. "What life I have I owe to him. I was nobody to Glenn, just some idiot stuck in a tank. He could have walked away, but he didn't." He purposefully slams one last bullet in the chamber of his revolver and stuffs it into the holster on his hip. The light in his eyes is burnin bright as hell and there's no doubt or hesitation as he says, "And neither will I."

"So yer gonna just hand the guns over." It's not a question. Daryl knows the answer.

Grimes almost smirks but there's a sharp edge to it, serrated and wild. "I never said that," he drawls. He meets Daryl's eyes over the table and the impact of those words finally hits the hunter. The former cop is serious and sincere. He ain't bout to leave the city without Chinaman…and it looks that he's willin to die fightin. Grimes looks between Daryl and T-Dog, face creased in contemplation.

"There's nothing keeping you two here," he says at length. "You should get out, head back to camp."

Disbelief rolls through Daryl and he scoffs again but it's T-Dog that finds his voice first. "And tell your family what?" he asks sarcastically, rubbin a tired hand across the sweaty skin of his bald head. Grimes blinks like he's shocked by the other man's words, but he nods after a silent moment when he sees that T-Dog is serious. Then, he turns to Daryl.

He doesn't ask the question, he doesn't say a word. But Daryl can see it plain as day in his eyes. What about you?

And what about Daryl? This ain't his fight. Chinaman ain't kin. But Merle is and he's out there, somewhere in the city. Daryl has to find him. Merle's his brother, family. Even without the guns, Daryl has to try. He doesn't need a chink, a nigger, or a former cop to help him. He's a Dixon; he knew how to take care of himself and his own. Leavin should be his only option.

Except it ain't.

Daryl could stay; he could help these idiots. The survivalist part of him down right refuses the notion. It's just gonna get him killed. However, if Daryl thinks about it, without Chinaman, their city guide, how far can he get in Atlanta before he runs into a dead end, full of graspin hands and snappin teeth? He couldn't just go round the city shoutin Merle's name. That was just gonna get him killed. But maybe…maybe if they can get the chink back, intimidate the other group into thinkin they ain't goin down without a fight…it's a half assed plan and Daryl can point out a million and one things wrong with it…but the more he thinks on it, the more he realizes it's their best shot.

And ain't that a kick in the fuckin teeth?

When Daryl nods at Grimes and reaches for a gun, sightin along the scope of a rifle, he tells himself he's doin this to find Merle, to save his own hide. He tells himself he has no other choice. But, in the back of his mind, he knows he does and he knows that he can't pick that option. Somethin in him won't allow it. And if that somethin is the same one that writhes at the thought of green eyes and bruised skin and a wide, friendly, trustin smile well…he don't gotta admit it.

They load the guns silently. Daryl chooses a high-powered rifle as his primary weapon and stows an extra handgun in the small of his back, tucked into his waistband. The rifle don't feel as natural as his bow but Daryl's been 'round guns all his life. He's a country boy. He could shoot a gun before he even started school. The metal and wood finish is heavy in his hands and powerful. It's a deadly instrument and Daryl knows how to be lethal with it.

T-Dog handles the other rifle and Grimes snags one of the shotguns. They also stow secondary weapons—T-Dog in the front of his jeans, Grimes in the holster at his hip—and then, they're ready. Grimes slings the rest of the guns over his back, zippered shut and clenched tight around his person, and his eyes are hard, lips a thin line. Daryl feels like every nerve in his body is a live wire and he wonders if this is the adrenaline high before the crash and burn. He hopes it ain't.

When they're all packed up, Daryl grabs the spic and ties a grease stained rag that's lyin across the desk round his mouth. The smaller man tries to fight him, gaggin slightly as the smell of gasoline engulfs his nose, but Daryl cinches the makeshift gag tightly and doesn't spare him a second glance. Grimes doesn't even glare at him in reprimand so the hunter guesses he's done with carin. Good. Maybe they might get through this after all.

As they approach the door of the auto shop, Grimes gives them one last chance to bail, one last chance to step away with their lives. Daryl just rolls his eyes and shoves the gagged kid out the door, not botherin to check if the others are followin him cuz he knows they are.

When they arrive, no one walks out to meet them; the doors just open. Daryl shoves the kid into the darkened space first, gun trained on his back, and the two vatos that hold open the big, metal doors snarl and scowl at him. He sneers right back, even with blood roarin in his ears and his heart beatin a tattoo against the inside of his chest.

The tattoo quickly becomes a brand when Daryl sees how many armed men had been lurkin in the shadows the last time.

There's at least twenty of 'em, all with a weapon in hand. They look pissed and hard-edged, ready to squeeze a bullet straight through Daryl's brow without battin an eye. The hunter swallows harshly and tightens his grip on the rifle, sweat makin his palms slick. He doesn't shake though. He won't give these sumbitches the satisfaction.

Guillermo steps up as the doors slam shut behind them, his men partin to let him through. He stops in front of Grimes who's takin the front position, scowl affixed on his lips. "I see my guns but they're not all in the bag," he says and he doesn't seem happy bout it.

Daryl wants to tell him they've all been disappointed today.

Grimes keeps his gun trained on the other man, shoulders a strong, tensed line. His hand doesn't shake either and Daryl commends him for it. "That's because they're not yours," he returns. "I thought I mentioned that."

The bald man that Daryl shot in the ass suddenly makes himself known, slidin up beside his boss with his eyes pinned on Daryl. "Let's just shoot these fools right now, ese. All right? Unload on their asses!" Daryl shifts the aim of his gun from the spic kid to the bald asshole, bullet poised to go right through his crooked teeth.

The other man seems to consider his comrade's words cuz he looks at Grimes with a wicked glint in his eye. He almost mocks them when he says, "I don't think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation."

The gagged spic whines in distress but no one pays him any mind. Far more important things are occurin and Daryl's always known the kid never really mattered to the other men, even if he was bald guy's kin. He knew it from the fact that they even let the kid go again, no matter if guns or more weapons were at stake. These men were survivalists and they're prepared to fight to the last.

Grimes and Guillermo exchange some heated words but Daryl ain't listenin. He's got his eyes bouncin from man to man, gun to gun, not even flinchin when Grimes cuts the spic kids binds and pushes him towards his homies. This was all part of the "plan" after all: a man for a man. Daryl thinks the plans a piece of shit now that he's starin down at least ten barrels.

But when Grimes finally snarls out, "No, my hearing's fine. You said come locked and loaded and well…we're here," right before he cocks his shotgun, Daryl follows suit without hesitation, listenin to T-Dog do the same, finger on the trigger, ready to go at the drop of a pin. These men were survivalists, prepared to fight to the last but what these vatos didn't realize was…

So were they.

Grimes has his gun inches from the lead spic's face and the darker man has a stiff upper lip even though he's starin death in the eye. His men are scramblin behind his back, raisin guns and grabbin bats, startin forward to protect their boss. Daryl levels his rifle at the bald son of a bitch when he tries to push his way between Grime's gun and his leader and gets a snarl in return.

The two opposin sides square off for a breathless moment and Daryl's waitin for war to break out. There's only three of them but Daryl ain't no novice in fightin and Grimes is a cop. They might be able to hold out for a few minutes but suddenly Daryl knows this was an idiot idea to even entertain. They ain't walkin away from this. Not with Chinaman, not with the guns. They're gonna die here, any second now, just as soon as someone pulls the first—

"Felipe!"

Everyone starts at the feeble shout.

"Felipe!"

Daryl frantically searches for the source but he doesn't miss how the bald man's face goes white and then green, honest to god fear finally makin an appearance in his eyes. He leaves Guillermo's side but doesn't turn his back on Daryl's gun, just shuffles backwards as he waves his hand frantically. "Abuela, go back with the others! Now!" he calls out urgently and Daryl has just enough time to wonder what the fuck he's talkin bout before a little fuckin old lady suddenly comes into view.

She's small as fuck, not reachin the bald man's shoulder. Dressed in a white house robe, she shuffles slowly forward on slippered feet, her aged face distressed and confused. Her misty eyes take in all the guns and she unknowingly steps in front of the bald man, right into Daryl's sights.

"Get that old lady out of the line of fire!" he grinds out, cuz even if he's gonna kill these motherfucker's, he ain't bout to axe an old lady. What the hell is she doin here anyway? These sons of bitches kidnappin geriatrics now too?!

Guillermo steps back off the end of Grimes' gun and half turns to the small woman. "Abuela," he says, maybe her name. "Listen to your m'hijo, okay? This is not the place for you right now." His tone is just as firm as it had been before but it's lost its edge, no longer furious but merely worried. Daryl thinks he hears the beginnins of a plea somewhere in there.

The old lady ignores him though, instead turnin to the bald fuck behind her. "Mr. Gilbert," she gasps, her accent thick and liltin. "He's having trouble breathing. He needs his asthma stuff. Carlito didn't find it. He needs his medicine. Por favor mi hijo. Por favor." (1)

Daryl doesn't understand what the fuck is goin on anyone. What the hell is this broad talkin bout? Medicine and asthma and some dude named Mr. Gilbert? This…this was a fuckin stand off!

Guillermo though seems to take this shit in stride, snappin for the bald guy, Felipe, to go and handle whatever was happenin and to take his grandmother with him. However, as he tries to lead his grandmother away, she suddenly seems to take notice of Daryl and the rest of them. Her brow creases in confusion though, not fear, as she points at Grimes.

"Who…who are these men?" she asks, takin a step forward. The bald man, her grandson apparently, mutters to her urgently in Spanish but she ain't listenin, stridin forward till she's nearly up in Grimes' face. Daryl has to admit, even if he's thrown for a loop now, this old bitch has some balls.

"Don't you take him," she actually scolds, waggin a finger at Grimes like he's a kid getting chastised. The cop is just as confused as Daryl.

"M…ma'am?"

Though he does have better manners about it.

"Felipe's a good boy!" she continues like she hadn't heard him. And hell, maybe she hadn't. "He have his trouble but he pull himself together. We need him here officer. Por favor."

Grimes get what she's sayin just as Daryl does and, despite the situation, he manages a tired laugh. "Ma'am, I'm not here to arrest your grandson."

"Then what do you want him for?"

"He's…helping us find a missing person," he tells her, bendin the truth just a little. Daryl stares at his profile with incredibility, T-Dog meetin his eyes with the same expression. Where the hell was this goin? "A fella named Glenn."

A spark of recognition actually flares in the old woman's eyes and she smiles. "The Asian boy? He's with Mr. Gilbert. Come." She reaches out and takes Grimes' hand, the former cop havin lowered his shot gun. "Come, I show you." She pulls him forward and everyone tenses for a moment but no one's gonna start shit with this little old lady around. Daryl can see that when Guillermo exhales harshly and growls out to let them pass. The hunter doesn't understand what the fuck had just happened but all he knew was that he's bullet free and has all his blood remains in his veins. For now at least. Still, as the old woman guides Grimes out of the garage they seem to be in, Daryl and T-Dog hot on their heels with a score of armed vatos behind them, the hunter will be damned if he doesn't keep his rifle locked and loaded.

#

A goddamn old folk's home.

Daryl can't fuckin believe it. Here he was expectin some group of hardened gangsters, out for blood and nothin else, and they're caretakers of the elderly. If it weren't for all the silver haired, wrinkled people in wheel chairs scattered throughout the buildin, thin and somewhat frail but as healthy as could be expected, he wouldn't have believed it for a second.

Chinaman's apparently fine. There's that small gash on his brow, dried blood in his hair and on his temple, but he says that's from when he was first pushed in the car, when all the geeks were scramblin after him. Other than that, he's fit as a fiddle, the way he puts it. The vatos scared him a bit, mostly to keep up appearances, but once they stuck him with the old people, he was treated fine. Daryl waits for someone to jump out and say April Fools right before shootin them in the head cuz there ain't no way they're this lucky.

Except, apparently, they are.

Guillermo and Grimes talk. About how the vatos just try to keep this place safe, keep it fortified and stocked, just to survive a little longer. How they've had to defend themselves against those that would do harm in the past. How, through quick assumptions and first impressions, they thought Grimes and the rest of them were just the same.

Yeah well, Daryl's got a few bruised ribs and a black eye to prove that he wasn't expectin no Good fuckin Samaritans. (2)

Grimes says as much but in a much kinder way and the two men seem to come to a mutal understandin and forgiveness. Which Daryl doesn't really give a shit 'bout now cuz they've got Chinaman, and the guns, and Merle still needed to be found. He wanted to just cut the shit and get the hell outta Dodge 'fore the sun went and set on them.

But then, Grimes goes and gives half their guns and ammo away. Just like that. No preamble, no negotiations. He just hands them over. Daryl balks at the other man but he leaves no room for discussion and the hunter just sits back and stews in aggravated disbelief. They all risk their lives to get those fuckin weapons, Chinaman gets kidnapped, they waste almost a whole day in the city…and he's just gonna hand them out like candy.

Daryl really just hates stupid city folk.

They leave not long after that. Guillermo wishes them luck and Grimes does the same. Daryl just walks out and waits in the courtyard for everyone to just grow a pair and get a move on. The chink's the first to join him a few minutes later. He doesn't say anythin at first, just sidles up a few feet away from Daryl and gives him a small nod. Daryl rolls his eyes at the motion and cracks his neck, squintin up at the sky and tryin to gauge how much time they've got left before dark. However, only a few moments pass in silence before Chinaman's clearin his throat and Daryl can't help but think goddamn it.

"Thank you."

The two quiet words actually catch Daryl off guard and he finds himself turnin to the chink before he can help himself.

"What?"

The younger man won't meet his eyes. He fidgets in place, kickin at dirt and playin with the brim of his hat. His fingers absentmindedly go to the dried blood on his temple and he flinches. Daryl stares at him through it all.

"I…I just wanted to say thank you," Chinaman tries again, voice not that much stronger. "For coming back for me. You didn't have to do that."

Daryl blinks for a moment, thrown for a loop by the chink's gratitude, but then he snorts and looks away, pickin at the skin round his cuticles. "Don't thank me. It was Grimes' idea."

"Yeah," the other man drawls out and in his peripherals, Daryl sees the chink look at him straight on. "But you didn't have to come with him. So…thank you."

Daryl doesn't respond, doesn't have the chance to even if he could find the words. T-Dog and Grimes are makin their way across the courtyard, Guillermo standin in the doorway of his garage, watchin them depart. The two men stride with purpose, finally, and they're quickly drawin closer. However, right before they get within hearin range, the chink says one last thing. It's quiet and Daryl nearly misses it but…Chinaman says it just loud enough for him to hear.

"I guess Audrey was right about you after all. You aren't as bad as you seem."

The words are outta left field and Daryl has no way to brace for them. They bowl him over and send him reelin, make that traitorous guilt in him rear up again. The kid…the kid said that…about him? He doesn't understand it; thinks maybe the chink was mockin him. But there's a sincerity to the words and Chinaman can't lie for shit anyway so…so Daryl doesn't know. He knows, fictitious or not, he doesn't deserve the words. After all that shit with the kid and Merle, on top of all that crap, he had actually considered, for however brief a time, leavin the chink behind. He ain't no hero. He ain't noble or any of that shit. Daryl's fucked up and a callous bastard, has known that for a long time. He ain't so disillusioned to think otherwise.

Still…though he'd deny it unto his dyin breath, Chinaman's statement makes somethin preen in Daryl's chest, small and unseen but still there. It puts the hunter in a better mood, though he would never admit that either. Even as they search for another hour and a half for his brother, all dead ends and nothin but walkers, they don't find Merle's body and they don't find a walker in his shape so Daryl's still holdin out for hope.

When they find the truck gone, though, Daryl realizes hope is for suckers and that his brother, one handed and left for dead, is gonna bring one hell of a vengeance back to camp.

And Daryl wants to spit Chinaman's words back in his face. He ain't nothin good, he ain't no savin grace, and when they get back to camp…he knows that, without a doubt, he's gonna side with his brother, no matter what Merle's done.

Because he has to. Because Merle's kin. Because…Daryl doesn't know anythin else and even if Audrey asks him to, not that he wants to but even if he did…

He wouldn't know how to say yes.

---

I wake up with my head pounding and my tongue like some dead thing in my mouth. My limbs ache and there's a horrible crick in my neck and I just about shit myself because there is someone leaning over me, inches from my face.

"Mother fu—" I gasp out, trying to scramble away. I don't get very far before the spinning of my head stops me, nausea roiling in my gut. Oh shit. I think I'm gonna be sick.

Suddenly, there are hands on my shoulders, crawling up my neck to tangle in my hair. They tug at me and pull me back down to the thin material of my sleeping bag. I struggle for a moment, half heartedly, before Amy's voice registers in my head.

"Dree take it easy! It's just me!"

Groaning, I crack open my eyes just a little bit, staring hazily at the grey ceiling of what I realize is my tent. Amy's disembodied head floats in my line of vision and I feel the barely there tickles as the ends of her hair trail along my jaw and cheeks.

"A…Amy," I manage to slur out. God my mouth tastes disgusting, like blood and decay or something. "Wh…what—?" I can't get the rest of the question out, the words won't come, but Amy apparently understands.

"You fainted," comes the response. "Up…up on the hill. Remember?"

I shake my head slowly, my eyes falling shut again. My head is splitting in two. I'm pretty sure all my memories and the higher functioning parts of my brain are spilled out across my sleeping bag. Amy sighs somewhere above me and then I feel her fingers fumbling against my jaw, dropping down to cup the back of my neck and try to draw me up. I protest the movement with a whine, trying to shove her away feebly with my left hand but I lack any coordination and my arm just flops uselessly back to my side.

"Come one Dree. You need some fluids. Just take a few sips of water and you can lay down again," Amy coaxes. Warm plastic is suddenly pressed to my lips and I can do nothing but swallow when tepid water is poured down my throat. The slightly gritty water washes away the foul taste in my mouth and it isn't until I'm sucking at air, having emptied the canteen or water bottle, that I realize I was parched. I draw my tongue across the dry skin of my lower lip to catch any stray droplets of water. When I find none, I collapse back onto my sleeping bag with another whine.

A quiet chuckle reaches my ears and I half-heartedly squint open my eyes. Amy's face is still fuzzy but I think she's smiling down at me. "Jeeze," she says at length. "First you don't want water. Now you want more. Make up your mind Dree."

If I had the energy, I'd roll my eyes and flip her off. As it is, I settle for a weak, "Shut up."

Amy laughs again but the noise is shorter and ends with her fingers combing through the tangled knots of my hair. I wrinkle my noise at the pulling sensation but don't shake her off. After a while, the motion actually becomes soothing and I find myself almost lulled back to sleep, the throbbing in my head easing down to a dull pulse.

Of course, that's when my brain finally decides to start firing again and makes me remember.

It's all discordant sounds and images. Dale's worried face. The walk up the hill. The sensation of heat and the ever-present sun. Amy's voice with no words. Jim, digging, digging, digging. A snatch of an argument. A desperate plea.

And then…the words. Jim's story. My story. All meshing and colliding in my head. The fires of Dalton. Jim's family: a wife and two sons. Mom, Irina, Manny, Sensei. Everyone's dead.

I must make some kind of wounded noise because Amy stops petting my hair, moving to lie her fingers against my cheek instead. Her voice is insistent as she calls to me and I ground myself in her words, forcing air into my lungs. It takes some effort but I pry open my eyes again and meet Amy's worried blue gaze.

For a moment, just an instant, I think her eyes flash amber and I have to swallow the bile in my throat.

"Please Audie. Please don't let me die."

"Are you ok?" she asks me frantically, eyes bouncing around my face. Her own visage is ashy, save for a small amount of sunburn on the curves of her cheeks. My gut response is no. No I'm not ok. I'm never going to be ok ever again. None of us are. But I stave off the hysterical response. Instead, I huff out a hoarse sounding laugh. I have to laugh. If not, I know I'll start crying.

"You know," I rasp out, clearing my throat and tasting blood. "I feel like that's all people say to me nowadays. I'm…I'm kind of missing conversations that don't start off with words that make it sound like I'm dying."

Amy's lip quivers and her eyes go lipid. "Well maybe you should stop scaring the shit out of all of us! You fainted Dree! I thought you had a stroke of something."

"Can we say I 'passed out'? Fainting makes me sound kind of wimpy."

I actually get a smack across the shoulder for that one.

"This isn't funny Dree," Amy says. She's scowling down at me now but there's some color back in her face. "You are really gonna give me a heart attack one of these days!"

I do my best to look sheepish; I do my best to smile. It's a little hard, though, with the pain in my body and the flashes of faces I don't want to remember playing like a perverse slideshow behind my eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I tell her though I can't even recall what I'm supposed to be sorry for now. "I'm a little out of it. I guess all my injuries and shit caught up with me."

Which isn't a lie. It's just not the whole truth. I'm starting to realize this is a bad habit of mine and I think about the severity of lying by omission.

Amy huffs and pouts and now that I'm more awake, I can see that she's sitting cross legged on the edge of my sleeping bag, arms folded in front of her chest. "Yeah well if you didn't force yourself to be all Wonder Woman this wouldn't happen so much," she grouses. She tries to sound reprimanding but comes across more as petulant, a sulky child instead of a stern mother. I roll my eyes slightly at her and try to think of a response but a sudden rustling behind her has me keeping silent.

The flap of my tent flutters for a moment and then parts to reveal my tent mate Abby's auburn hair. She doesn't notice the two of us for a moment, just ducts into the tent. However, when she straightens up into a standing position her eyes clash with mine and her jaw drops open a little. "Oh," she says quietly. "I…I didn't know you were awake."

Yeah well if it makes you feel any better, I don't want to be awake I think. I don't stay that though. What I do instead is push my self up into a half sitting position and manage a shaky smile. "I uh…just woke up," I tell her. My mind tacks on an unfortunately on the end of my statement. The other woman nods in acknowledgement and then goes about her business, sliding over to her side of the tent and rooting around the mess splayed across her bedroll.

Abby is an older woman, probably mid to late 30s. She's a little loud and hangs out with some other women in camp, Rebecca and others whose names I can't recall right now, but she's nice enough; in the month that I've known her and shared her tent, she's never given me any problems. That being said…she isn't exactly the cleanest roommate. Amy catches my eye after Abby's thrown yet another dirty sock over her shoulder and I shrug as if to say what are you going to do? Abby takes a few minutes to find whatever she is looking for, I'm not exactly sure what, and Amy and I just sit in uncomfortable silence until she's done. After fishing her treasure out of the trash in her corner of the tent, Abby flashes me a small smile as he goes to slip out of the flap. "Dinner's almost ready. Just thought you guys would want to know."

I nod in thanks, feeling more than a little awkward, and then she's gone.

Another seconds tick by in silence. Then Amy giggles and goes to say something but suddenly I'm processing Abby's words and I cut off my friend with a frown.

"Wait. It's dinner already?"

Amy blinks at my abrupt question but takes it in stride. "Yeah," she says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Sun's almost down. We usually have dinner around this time."

I stick my tongue out at her, feeling a twinge from an old cut in my mouth. "Smart ass. It's not like I've been asleep or anything. I didn't know the time." But in hindsight, I guess I should have. The tent is a solid gray but at this moment it's tinted almost red, the dying light of the sun filtering weakly through the nylon. By the length of the shadows along the walls, across the floor, and the way I have to squint to see, I'm guessing it's almost nightfall. I've been unconscious for hours.

Hours...oh my god.

"Holy crap!" I whirl on Amy who stares at me with wide eyes. "It's sunset!"

"Uh…yeah I just said—"

"Are…are they back? Glenn and…and the rest of them I mean?"

That's kind of a stupid question though. Of course they're back. Darkness is almost here. The only reason they wouldn't be back is if…is if something went wrong. The thought makes me cold and I have to fight the wave of emotions and images that threaten to barrage me. Amber eyes and blood smeared mouths. The notion of Glenn dead or a walker. No…no. He's fine. They all are. I should have asked when they got back. I'm sure Glenn is worr—

"No. They aren't."

Amy's words stop my frantic thoughts. I turn to her with eyes frozen open and no air in my lungs. "What?"

The young blonde worries her lip and looks pained, afraid. I've seen that look too much on her recently. It makes my chest hurt. Or maybe that's due to the fact that I can't get my lungs to work again.

Picking up a stray t-shirt of mine, Amy starts to wring it in her hands. Her breathing is even and measured but I can see the anxiety in her eyes, in the way she's twitchy and fidgety. Holy crap. Holy crap, holy, crap, holy crap. "Glenn," Amy starts off slowly, breaking the news gently. "He isn't…none of them…they haven't come back yet." I inhale sharply and Amy must realize how I feel because she's quick to stutter out reassurances. "Bu…but I'm sure they're fine! They're probably on their way back now."

The hitch in Amy's voice says she doesn't believe her own words. That bubble of hysteria floats into the back of my throat again and I force my eyes closed, heave in a deep breath. It doesn't help. All I can think about is those thousands, millions, of walkers shambling around Atlanta and how Glenn and Rick and T-Dog and…Daryl could have just walked into a horde of them unknowingly. I think about how we narrowly escaped death last time; Glenn and Rick even more so since they went out onto the street alone, covered in geek guts. What if they ran into a similar situation again? Or what if someone got hurt; twisted an ankle like me?

What if Merle was so pissed off with being abandoned that he picked up where he left off? Imagining Glenn with my injuries makes me shudder. Glenn's awesome but…he isn't a fighter. Merle would kill him without breaking a sweat.

All of these 'what ifs' are making me dizzy again. I want to go back to sleep but despite the exhaustion vibrating in my bones, the only way I'm resting is if Amy clubs me over the head and rends we unconscious. Or I pass out from lack of oxygen. Jesus H Fuck. This day has been too much of a goddamn rollercoaster. First Daryl and then Ed, Jim and now Glenn. The men of this camp are trying to kill me. Sadly, that's not just a figure of speech. How am I even awake right now?

Right. Because sleep is too merciful.

"Fuck," I hiss, squeezing my eyes tightly shut before flinging them open. Amy meets my gaze with a grimace. "Ok…all right. Let's…let's just…" I scrub at my face harshly, reveling in the burn and stings to draw my thoughts into focus. "Let's just head out to the camp fire. We'll…we'll wait for them as we eat." I'll take this a step at a time. Eat first. Then worry. The possibly snag Shane's jeep and head into the city myself if too many hours pass with no contact. But yeah; dinner.

"Are you sure you just don't want to—?"

"No," I shake my head, not even letting her finish her sentence. I don't want to do anything other than to get up and get moving. I need to be in motion. I can't let these thoughts consume me. "I'm…it's fine. I'm actually pretty hungry. I think that's one of the reasons I passed out. I need some food in me." I pat my stomach for emphasis, trying to ignore the way it roils at the thought of ingesting anything. Keep moving. I just need to keep moving. Not waiting for Amy to argue, I try to heave myself off the ground, pressing my hand down onto my sleeping bag for leverage, but a sharp pain in the center of my palm has me yelping and falling back on my ass.

"Goddamn it." I massage my throbbing hand, glaring down at my sleeping bag.

"What's wrong?" Amy asks. I exhale sharply and inspect my hand. Save for a small red bloom, something that won't even bruise, I'm fine. Or, at least that part of me is.

"Nothing. I just pressed down on something. A rock I guess. I'm fine."

Amy doesn't seem very convinced and leans across me to stick her hand under my sleeping bag, rooting for the offending object that I've been apparently sleeping on. Which is actually kind of weird. I don't remember a rock being under there when I stuck Amy's—

Oh fuck.

"Shit! Amy hold on wa—!"

It's too late. Just as I reach out to snag her arm, she withdraws her hand with a small, black box clenched between her fingers. I close my eyes for a moment with my hand hanging in midair. I am an idiot. When I lift my head again, Amy looks bemused as she stares at the slightly crushed cube in her hand. She glances up at me and her eyes are bright with inquiry, a puzzled smile starting to form on her face.

"Dree? What's this?"

My cheeks flush and I rub tiredly at my non-swollen eye. "Trash?" I try but there's no real conviction in it. I know I've been caught and there's no way out of it. Amy fixes me with a droll look and starts to pry the lid off the box. I don't stop her.

The moment she sees what's nestled inside the cardboard container, Amy goes still. The smile actually freezes on her face and she looks startled. I wince at her reaction and try to explain. "It's your present," I say quietly, as if that wasn't obvious from the start. "When…in the city I messed up my ankle a little early on; before Merle. I was kind of forced to stay in the department store so I did a little shopping around. I know your birthday is tomorrow and while I can't throw some huge party for you…I wanted to get you a little something." Amy doesn't say anything in return. She just continues to stare and stare at the box, expression now disconcertingly blank. I fidget uncomfortably and start biting at the chapped skin on my lips. "It's not much," I blurt out eventually, feeling nervous now. In the city this had seemed like a good idea but now…now not so much. It seems stupid. Amy was expecting some huge party for her 18th birthday and a car. My gift looks idiotic in comparison. "I know that. And I'm sorry but…look if you don't like it you don't have to—"

"Audrey."

My jaw clicks shut at the sound of my name and I lapse into silence. Amy still doesn't look at me as she slowly draws the small object out of its box. Unable to look at her face, I turn my eyes to the gift in her hand. When I said it wasn't much, I wasn't lying. It's small and thin, able to fit in the palm of her hand. The bracelet itself is intricate: knots tied upon knots, all woven together, but there are no diamonds or gold. The only pieces of value to the trinket are the three charms woven into the band itself, bright silver gleaming in the muted light of the tent. (3) Amy touches the small pieces of metal, the tip of her finger tracing their shapes.

"Do you know what they mean?" she whispers and I do. They're the reason I chose this specific piece of jewelry. The pink color of the band was just icing on the cake my pain-addled brain had thought before. Now, I'm reluctant to say my reasoning out loud.

Still not looking at Amy's face, I reach out and point to the charm closest to me, the exotic lines of the symbol handsome even in my embarrassment. "The display said this one means friendship," I tell her. I point to the next charm, situated directly in the middle of the bracelet. The symbol is more intricate than the first one and the silver is warm beneath my fingertip. "And this one is trust." The last one makes me pause but I force myself to move my finger over it, clearing my throat before I reveal the last translation. "And this one…this one means family."

Amy inhales sharply beside me and I immediately start rambling again. "I…I thought it was kind of funny you know? I mean you're always calling me a ninja and whatever. So…the characters made me smile. And…and pink is your favorite color so I thought that was ok. The…the meanings…I know you and I have had our arguments but I do find…you are my friend Amy and…I trust you. I do. I thought maybe this could show you but again if you don't like it—"

All of the sudden, Amy bursts out laughing and I cut myself off again, feeling my cheeks flare in mortification. But Amy doesn't mock me, doesn't throw the gift back in my face with scorn. Instead, she turns to me with a grin stretched from ear to ear as she sticks her wrist out at me. "Could you shut up for a second and help me get this on?" she asks and I blink at her in shock.

"I…wait what?"

Rolling her eyes, Amy grabs my left hand and between the two of us, we get the pink band tied securely around her left wrist, the vibrant string and silver shinning against her pale skin. "There," she says smugly, trailing her fingers over the hundreds of little knots woven into the band. Her grin has dimmed to a soft smile but it is no less genuine. "Perfect."

Unfortunately, I'm still left bewildered. I think I've earned the right though. I mean it's not like I've hit my head recently or anything. Or had my head hit…never mind.

"So…you like it?" I ask cautiously, still unsure.

Pale blue eyes find mine and there's a soft exasperation in them. "You thought I was going to hate it?"

Pursing my lips, I try to shrug and go for nonchalant. I know I fail miserably. "No. Well, it was a possibility. I…you weren't even supposed to get it till tomorrow! I had a whole day to think of what to tell you," I grumble petulantly.

I get a quiet giggle in return and then Amy is throwing her arms around me, careful of my more serious wounds. "I love it Dree, really. I…thank you," she whispers in my ear and I return the embrace as best I can, feeling something unwind in my chest. When she pulls away, I rub at the back of my neck, finding it hot and knowing it's glowing scarlet.

"Yeah well…I'm glad. I had to hope over a glass case for that you know. On one leg," I point out. "I worked hard for it."

Amy ignores my sarcasm and instead turns back to the bracelet. Her fingers are continually drawn to the stark silver points and she traces them as if they are gold. At length she says, "You picked this especially for the charms. Didn't you?" I don't really have to answer, it was a rhetorical question, but I find myself nodding anyway. Amy looks up at me and her eyes look a little watery. I flush again and hope that the loss of light in the tent masks the color.

"I wanted to give you something nice and…meaningful. You're my friend Amy and believe me when I say this, I haven't had many of them."

"The book thing made people think you were a nerd?" Amy says in mock seriousness and I shove her playfully.

"No! I was well-liked thank you very much. I just…didn't get too close with a lot of people is all," I shrug again. "That doesn't mean I don't want to try though" I chance a glance at her and coax myself into a tentative smile. I know I've lied to Amy, too much for far to long, the guilt weighs on me even now, but in this, right here, I am truthful. "I like you Amy and I think we can be great friends. Even better than we are now. That is, if you can get over my nerdy book thing."

Amy hums in contemplation, playing a finger against the fine tip of her chin. She looks up to the sky as if for guidance but I catch her eyes when it flickers down again and she breaks out into another grin. "I think I can suffer through," she giggles and pulls me into another hug. I clasp her tight again and feel my own lips twitch into a smile.

"Now the question is: can I suffer through you?"

I get another smack to the shoulder for my cheek and I burst out laughing, warding off soft blows from a faux indignant Amy.

My head still pounds steadily and there are ghosts circling a back drain of my mind; Glenn is still out there somewhere, possibly in danger, Merle might try to kill me if and when he returns and Daryl might let him.

But, as Amy rolls into the sleeping bag beside me, cheeks flushed with glee and blue eyes gleaming, I can't help but think today is not all that bad.

#

Although I'm not a real big fan of seafood, or I guess lake food, I have to say that the fish Amy and Andrea caught was damn good. Dale had some spices stuck in the back of the RV's cabinets—salt, pepper, garlic powder—not much but it was something and whatever Carol had done with those few condiments was akin to magic. The meal turned out absolutely delicious.

Even if I didn't touch the venison.

Amy had tried to coax me into taking a bite and I did pinch off the smallest piece, just to humor her, but I couldn't handle anymore. It tasted like ash on my tongue, acrid and gritty, nearly making me gag. Everyone else liked it fine, said the fawn was juicy and tender, millions of times better than the gamey squirrel we've been relying on for the past few days, praised Simon once again for such an amazing job, but…I couldn't do it. I didn't want to think of the implications as to why that was, but they were there all the same, whispering in the back of my mind, taunting me with blue eyes and harsh words and accusations I didn't even try to refute. It was irritating and more than a little taxing but the bottle of beer I snagged from Morales seemed to take the edges off. It was an impulsive decision and he didn't even notice. What's more, in the darkness, it looked like the root beer that was being passed around so no one glanced twice at me. I've had beer before, once or twice, and never cared for the taste or the notion of being drunk. But today had been a particularly trying day; fucking sue me for wanting to relax.

The beer's gone now, sadly, as is the food, but the after glow remains. I'm not anywhere in the realm of drunk, still a good distance away from tipsy, but I'm relaxed, lethargic. Amy's body is pressed into my right side and every time she laughs or giggles, it vibrates through me. Sometimes, I catch myself smiling for nothing more than the reason of listening to her regal some tale or seeing the flash of white as she smiles. Her good mood is contagious and everyone seems to be in a jovial mood. And why wouldn't we be? We have a warm fire at out feet, food in our bellies, beer, and the company of friends. All in all, it's a damn good night.

And it would be perfect if Glenn were here, warming my other side, sprawled at my feet. It would be perfect if Lori had her husband at her arm and not the worried frown that Shane only seems to exacerbate every time he looks at her in concern. Hell, it would even been perfect, or close enough to count, if Merle was sitting in front of his tent with Daryl, loud and talking shit again. Because that would mean they were back; that they were safe. But they're not; at least not yet. And underneath the shallow contentment that's been concocted in me, beer and the lulling warmth of fire, the soothing feeling of a full stomach, is this slowly churning terror. It's like a river of magma beneath the surface, hot as hellfire and all consuming. For now, it's held at bay, even though I can feel it shift under my skin. However, if they aren't back soon—and I mean very fucking soon—I'm going to explode. This isn't right; they should be back by now. The reasons why they aren't are infinite and each one is worse than it's predecessor. I'm going to drive myself insane.

When the conversation lulls, or any time my mind just wanders, I find myself praying. It's not something I do often, God's never before been interested in me, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And if it brings Glenn back that much sooner, I'm not going to let something as small as pride or stubbornness get in my way. My prayers are nothing fancy, nothing intricate. Just a small mantra; an ardent plea.

Please. Bring Glenn and the rest of them back soon. Please, let them be safe and sound. Please, let nothing have gone horribly wrong. Please, bring them back soon.

Over and over and over again until it's not even a conscious thought. I wonder, for a spare moment, if there's like a limit requirement for prayers in order for God to hear you. In personal experience, if there is, it's an unfathomable number because I prayed for five years once before and in the end, I had to save myself. But I can't do anything now; maybe God can see that. I hope He'll take that into consideration.

Please, let them be safe and sound. Please, bring them back soon.

And, if he fucking doesn't, than I'll handle it myself, just like I always do. Even if I have one leg and one arm out of commission, I am not above hijacking a car and going to find them, alone if need be, come morning.

Somebody coughs to my left, pulling me from my half-cocked musings, and I turn instinctively at the noise, finding Jim suddenly in my line of sight. I go rigid with just a small glance but the man isn't looking at me. He's quiet once more, head bowed as he tucks slowly into his dinner. He meets no one's eyes and only a few glance in his direction, manly Lori and Shane, concern mixed with pity and wariness. His episode this afternoon seems to have mulled over and been nearly forgotten. Amy said that after I passed out, Shane actually tied him to a tree to make sure he calmed down completely and didn't hurt himself or anyone else. That seems a little much but Shane has a flair for the dramatic; I'm not exactly surprised. It apparently did some good though because Jim is himself again, reserved and well mannered.

That doesn't mean I can stand to look at him though. One small glimpse and I'm already dizzy again. It's not his fault; not really. But that doesn't change the fact that he hit way to fucking close to what used to be home; a home that's long gone and that I've done my very best not to think about because it's behind me, ashes and cinders, and I have to keep moving. Always moving, always forward. The taste of fire is in my mouth again but I don't think it has anything to do with the flames at my feet.

Thankfully, mercifully, Morales chooses this moment to clear his throat and speak up, successfully drawing my attention.

"Hey Dale," he says. The older man looks up at his name and everyone seems to tune into the conversation, curious. "I've got to ask you, man. It's been driving me crazy. That watch of yours…"

"What's wrong with my watch?" Dale laughs. There's a bemused smile above his beard, just as white as his hair, as he twists the leather band of the object in question. It's an antique piece from what I've seen up close, gold hands beneath a clear crystal. It's nice, really nice, probably a gift. I noticed because Dale's really the only one to wear a watch anymore, the only one to casually call out the times during the day, random and without prompting. Sadly, no one pays him much attention because the thing that no one ever tells you about the apocalypse is…time really begins to lose it's meaning after a while.

Before, time dictated everything. Certain hours and certain days meant certain things were being done in a very certain order. There were to-do lists and calendars and reminders for up coming events and deadlines. Days of the week meant school. Weekends meant homework and the odd end job here and there. Mornings were for getting ready; evenings were for winding down. Every second was spent thinking about the next one, what we were going to do, what we wanted to do, and what needed to get done.

Now, though, everything is different. It is not hours that measure time any more, even though many of us in camp still have watches and will use them at odd moments, never for long, not like Dale, clinging to a world where everything had a schedule, an allotted beginning and end. The truth of the matter is…it is the things that we do that calculate the passage of time now. It's the hunger in our bellies that tell us when breakfast, lunch, and dinner need to occur. It's the pile of soiled clothes that need to be cleaned that signal that it has been a while since we've trooped down to the quarry for a wash. It's Carl and Sophia's listless wandering that tells me that it's time for another English lesson or tells their mothers that it's time for some other subjects. It's the dwindling stock of supplies that tells us another run into Atlanta is needed. Time already is starting to seem an archaic notion when we are only looking to the next sunrise or set, the next chore, the next breath. But here Dale is, wrist baring an awkward tan line around the ban of his watch.

Morales shakes his head with a laugh and even in the flickering shadows, I can see the amusement in his dark orbs. "I see you," he says. "Every day, the same time winding that thing like a village priest saying mass. What's the deal?"

Dale still looks puzzled, absentmindedly stroking the glass face of the object, when Jacqui suddenly speaks up across the circle. "I've wondered this myself," she quips. "I just never said anything."

"I…I'm missing the point," Dale says. I can't help the small smile that flits across my lips when I realize he sounds a little put out, a smidge defensive.

"Unless I've misread the signs, the world seems to have come to an end. At least hit a speed bump for a good long while." Jacqui chuckles gently and, despite the seriousness of the words, her tone is light.

Morales picks up the conversation again by saying, "But there's you every day winding that stupid watch." There is no malice or mocking in his voice, merely a light teasing. Around the fire, everyone titters or giggles, and I vibrate with Amy's barely suppressed laughter.

Finally, Dale seems to stand up for himself. "Time—it's important to keep track of, isn't it? The days at least." My thoughts from before come to mind and I refrain from asking why? It's not like we have a deadline coming up; it's not like we need to be somewhere. People seem to share my mentality because several heads start to shake and Dale is left with silence and more laughter, no one to back him up. The older man huffs for a moment, stumped, but then there's this gleam to his eyes, like an epiphany, and I cock my head at it when he clears his throat to talk once more.

"I like what a father said to his son when he gave him a watch," he begins slowly, a rhythm to his voice like the beginnings of a song. "A watch that had been handed down through generations. He said, 'I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire, which will fit your individual needs no better than it did mine or my father's before me; I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you may forget it for a moment now and then and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it."

He finishes the quote with a flourish and a grin and I fell myself matching it, large enough that my cheeks hurt from nothing more than happiness, not bruises or cuts. I know that piece; in fact I have it written down in my journal. I never took Dale for a literary buff but it makes me like the genial old man a little bit more.

For a moment, there's silence as everyone soaks in Dale's profound words. Then, Amy inhales next to me.

"You are so weird," she says on the exhale and I turn to her with an indignant squawk on my tongue, shoving her lightly so she wobbles on the long we're sitting on. Laughter rises up again and this time, Dale accompanies it.

"It's not me. I was merely paraphrasing," he says. "It's—"

"Faulkner," I interject. Eyes turn to me in surprise but this time, I don't blush under the scrutiny. I merely continue to smile at Dale who seems impressed that I caught his reference. "William Faulkner. Brilliant author; one of my favorites."

Amy groans exaggeratedly and suddenly throws herself across my lap. "Oh god Dale," she whines, face pressed into my knees. "Don't get her started! It's too late for an English class!" I roll my eyes at her dramatics and shove her off with my good hand. She struggles a moment, almost falls to the ground, but gets herself righted next to me, pressed heavily into my side. Her hair is disheveled and off kilter and when her blue eyes peer out between fire highlighted, golden strands, the pale blue gaze is nothing short of mischievous and teasing. I poke my tongue out at her and she actually feigns to slap it, the pink ends of her bracelet twirling in the air and the fire making the silver charms seems molten. My eyes land on the symbol for friend and I smile gently, completely forgetting to pretend to be annoyed.

After the two of us play fight for a few minutes, Amy suddenly detangles herself and stands. I frown up in confusion at her, immediately feeling the loss of warmth against my side, but Andrea beats me to the question.

"Where are you going?" she asks and Amy scowls, her cheeks tinted pink as she shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

"I have to pee. Jeeze, you try to be discreet around here."

Giggling at my friend's affronted tone and her sister's chagrined expression, I toss a spare twig at Amy's back, smiling when she casts a mock glare over her shoulder. "Don't fall in!" I call. I get a discreet flash of the bird before she trudges her way up to the RV.

I shake my head at her and turn back around to face the fire. Carl catches my eyes over the flames and by the glint in his eye and the arch of his brow I know he saw Amy. I bring a finger up to my lips and wink at him. Catching my motion, the boy puts a hand over his mouth and giggles, ignoring the questioning look Lori sends his way.

Well…what Lori doesn't know can't hurt me right?

I'm just reaching over to grab another drink, a real root beer this time, when I hear the RV door slam open behind us and Amy's voice drifts across the night air. "We're out of toilet paper?" she whines and my brow furrows at the question. That's not right. I specifically remember Andrea and T-Dog bringing some back from the convenience store, strutting in like conquering heroes who found gold. Because toilet paper is worth a lot more than that now. No fucking lie. Glenn must have stored it in a different cupboard again. Amy's going to kick his ass when he gets back.

I'm just turning around to tell her to check underneath the sink cabinet when a blood curdling, high pitch scream tears the night in two. It makes my heart stop, it burns the air out of my lungs, it stops the world's very fucking turn. For a moment, just a moment, I have this half crazed, desperate, pleading notion forming in my brain that I am hearing things. When the scream repeats itself, I know I'm know.

By the time I'm on my feet and whirling in place, hands scrabbling for tanto, katana, my fucking heart, Amy's already pinned against the RV, a walker snarling in her face. Time grinds into a glacier's pace in the span of a millisecond, trapping me in burning ice along with it. There's no time to react; no time to breathe. The moon shines brightly from up above, full and heavy, God's very own spot light on the stage of my nightmare. I try to force my muscles to move, my brain to work, for time to start again and let me go!

I get none of my wishes. All I get is the world dropping out from under me the instant the geek's teeth sink into Amy's arm and all I can see is redredscarlecrimsonred.

---

(1) Spanish for: Please my son. Please.

(2) In the Judo-Christian Bible, there is a parable about the "Good Samaritan"; a man who helped his supposed enemy out of the kindness of his heart.

(3) There are these things called Chinese knot bracelets. I thought they look pretty cool and even though jade charms are more the norm, I replaced them with silver :)

And cliffy. XD Sorry haha.

But what did you guys think? I had SO MUCH damn trouble with this chapter and I DON'T KNOW WHY! Ugh. I must have scrapped it like 50 billion times. -_-" And I'm still not very please with the result. But meh. Let me know what YOU think. You guys rocked with the reviews last chapter and I love you all for your continued support and general awesomeness! ^^

****IMPORTANT NOTE***** Also, I have a question for you guys. Well more of a poll. I guess? Anyway. Would you prefer long chapters like I've been doing recently or short ones and a smaller lapse between updates? :/ I need some feedback on this so PLEASE LEAVE YOUR ANSWER IN A REVIEW!

*******ANOTHER IMPORTANT NOTE******* Actually this is just more shameless promoting. But still please ****READ THIS.**** I've recently published another (yeah I know I'm sorry I'm obsessed) TWD oneshot. This one was done for a prompt over at the livejournal meme and is based on Rick/Shane's relationship centered on the last scene they have together. I.e. when Rick has to kill Shane. :/ It is slash but no explicit scenes. It's more based on the feelings between the men and their friendship through the years. If that's your cup of tea, please head on over and drop me a few words. I've gotten one review for it and I don't know if it just suuuuuucks or what. Please help me out here guys! I'll give you cookies :) And possibly insights and or leeway for suggestions in Audrey/Daryl's story here at The Bite of a Blade. ;)

Ok! I'm done blabbing! Next chapter starts off with some action and brings Daryl and Audrey back together ;D At least in the same physical vicinity. BUT you never know ;)

Until next time!

~Shadows