Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Blood and Answers

Daryl crouched low in the shadow of a crumbling storefront, his sharp blue eyes tracking a small group of walkers shambling down the street, their groans low and guttural in the oppressive summer heat. Their rotting forms swayed, drawn by some distant sound, and he waited, crossbow steady in his calloused hands, until they drifted far enough for him to move. The town was a maze of decay—broken windows, overturned cars, and the ever-present stink of rot—but it was the last place he’d seen his redheaded prey, and he wasn’t giving up now. His boots scuffed silently on the cracked pavement as he headed toward the alley where her trail had gone cold before, his jaw tight, frustration simmering in his gut.

A sharp crack of gunfire split the air, echoing off the buildings, and Daryl’s head snapped up. The shots came from the direction he was heading, a staccato burst that sent a jolt through him. His gut twisted, a hunter’s instinct screaming—it was her. 

Had to be. 

The chaos, the timing, it fit her like a glove. Deciding it was worth the risk, he bolted down the street, keeping low, weaving between rusted hulks of cars and dodging walkers stirred by the noise, their milky eyes turning toward the sound. His breath was steady, his movements fluid, every sense honed from years of survival.

As he neared the block, he scrambled for cover behind a dumpster, his heart pounding but his hands steady on his crossbow. A man stumbled down the street—dark hair, pants sagging as he fumbled to buckle his belt, curses spilling from his mouth like venom. “Crazy stupid fuckin’ bitch!” he snarled, his voice rough and furious, drawing the attention of more walkers lumbering his way. Daryl’s eyes narrowed, taking in the man’s disheveled state, the blood smeared on his knuckles. He waited, breath held, as the man stormed past, a string of walkers trailing him, their groans rising. The guy’s curses faded into the distance, and the street fell quiet, save for the shuffle of the dead.

He darted out, his boots thudding on the pavement in his haste. As he rounded the corner toward the alley, a smear of crimson caught his eye across the street, stark against the faded storefronts. He skidded to a stop, crossbow raised, ready to fire in a heartbeat. His gaze swept the area, sharp and methodical, landing on wet red handprints smeared down the walls, trailing along the block. His eyes traced the path to a fabric store, its upper window framed by yellowed lace curtains, one pulled back with a splash of red staining the fabric. His heart raced, a sick dread pooling in his gut. 

The trail wasn’t just blood—it was hers. 

Crossing the street with caution, he tracked the blood smears, his pulse hammering. Bloody footprints grew clearer, more distinct—her boots, no question. The blood hadn’t even dried, meaning he was hot on her tail, but the realization only deepened his dread, she was bleeding out, bad. He followed it out of town, where the pavement gave way to dirt and undergrowth, her tracks turning sloppy—obvious stumbles, scuff marks where she’d faltered. Fear took root, sharp and unfamiliar, her shambling path reminding him of a walker’s aimless wander, too close to death for comfort.

He rounded a bend in the woods, crossbow ready, and there she was. Copper hair wild and tangled, slumped against a tree, her body a wreck of blood and bruises. She tried to raise the pistol in her hand, her arm trembling, but it fell back to the ground as her green eyes met his, wide and glassy before she slumped, unconscious. Daryl’s breath caught, taking in her injuries—faded black vest, her blood-soaked shirt, oversized and torn, barely covering her battered frame, unlaced boots caked with dirt, a pillowcase stuffed lying near her. Blood oozed from a makeshift bandage around her waist, the crimson stark against her pale skin, her wrists raw and bloody from what looked like cuffs.

He moved fast, kneeling beside her snatching her gun first, then his fingers checking her pulse—weak but there. The wound under the bandage was ugly, a deep stab below her ribs, still bleeding despite her attempt to patch it. His mind raced, his decision made in a heartbeat. The cabin she’d used before—the one he’d tracked her to—was a ways off, but it was her best shot. If he could get her there, stabilize her, she might have a chance. And then, damn it, he’d get his answers. The first one burned on his tongue. He needed a name for the face, for the chaos she’d brought into his life.

-

Slinging his crossbow over his shoulder, Daryl scooped her up, careful not to jostle the wound below her ribs. Her weight was light, too light, her body limp against his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder. He grabbed the pillowcase, tying it to his belt, and moved through the woods, his steps quick but steady, eyes scanning for walkers or those bastard bikers. The cabin was their only hope, and he wasn’t letting her slip away—not this time. His footsteps, usually silent as a ghost’s, were heavier with her weight, but he adjusted, treading lightly, each step calculated to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves. The woods were alive with danger—walkers could be anywhere, and those other assholes were still out there, hunting. His mind was a tumble of worry and caution, her shallow breaths against his chest a constant reminder of how close she was to slipping away. He kept her close, her body cradled against him, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, mindful of the blood seeping through her makeshift bandage.

The summer heat clung to him like a second skin, sweat trickling down his back under the faded wings of his leather vest, but he pushed on, the pines whispering overhead as the sun dipped lower. He’d figured the trek would take a couple hours at most, but damn if the world didn’t conspire against him. Not half a mile in, a low groan carried on the breeze, then another, multiplying like a bad omen. He froze, peering through the underbrush, and there it was—a large herd of walkers, lingering in a clearing just ahead, shambling aimlessly between the trees. 

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on her as frustration boiled up. They blocked the direct path, their rotting stench already hitting him, drawing flies in the humid air. No way through without a fight, and with her bleeding out in his arms, that wasn’t an option.

Cursing low, he backtracked, skirting wide around the herd, his boots sinking into the soft earth as he veered off the faint trail. The detour added miles, the woods growing thicker the further he went, the underbrush tangling like it had a mind of its own. Thorns snagged at his pants, branches whipping his arms as he pushed through, her weight making every step a grind. His arms burned, muscles straining, but he didn’t dare set her down—not with walkers potentially trailing the scent of her blood. 

“You better be worth this shit, Red,” he grumbled, frowning down at her pale face, her copper hair matted with sweat and dirt. His thoughts turned darker, cursing her silently.

Damn fool woman, gettin’ yourself into this mess. What the hell were you thinkin’? Merle’s voice echoed in his head, that rough laugh mocking him. Look at you, little brother, playin’ hero for some ghost bitch. Heart’s gonna get you killed, you soft son of a bitch. Daryl shook it off, but the words stung, fueling his upset as he trudged on, sweat stinging his eyes.

The underbrush thickened into a wall of brambles, forcing him to slow, each push forward a battle. “Fuckin’ hell,” he spat, his breath coming harder, upset twisting in his gut like a knife. He shifted her weight, her head resting against his neck, her faint breaths tickling his skin—a reminder she was still fighting, even if unconscious. But the delay gnawed at him, every minute lost was blood she couldn’t afford to lose. He cursed the herd, cursed the woods, cursed himself for not being faster.

Merle’s phantom taunts rang louder—Shoulda left her, Daryl. Ain’t your problem. But no, you gotta be the damn knight in shinin’ armor. He growled low, pushing harder through the tangle, but he didn’t stop. She’d saved his life once, he owed her this much, even if it pissed him off to admit it.

Hours dragged, the sun sinking lower, casting the woods in a golden haze that did nothing to ease the tension. He had to stop once, deep in the detour, when her breathing grew so shallow it scared the hell out of him. “Don’t you die on me, damn it,” he muttered, laying her gently on a bed of pine needles, his hands shaking slightly as he checked her pulse.

Faint, thready, but there. “Shit” he murmured, as he redressed her wound from the supplies in the pillowcase he had removed her police vest to get better access. The vest was worn, straps frayed and held together with duct tape, but sturdy. He used those straps and more tape to bind the fresh bandage tight, staunching the flow as best he could. Her skin was clammy, pale under the bruises, and he cursed again, “Fuckin’ bastards did this to you.”

Merle’s laugh echoed—Worth the trouble?—but Daryl shoved it down, slinging her back into his arms and pressing on.

As dusk settled, the sky bruising with twilight, he finally broke through to the familiar path leading to the cabin. Relief hit him like a punch, but he didn’t relax—eyes still scanning. He shouldered the door open, the hinges creaking in protest, and carried her inside, the air stale with dust and pine. He laid her on the small bed, frowning in frustration when he realized the blankets were still tucked beneath her. “Damn it,” he grumbled, upset flaring as he lifted her again—her limp form awkward, the movement pulling at his sore muscles—and yanked the blankets free, settling her back down with more care than he’d admit.

He secured the cabin first, checking the single window’s boards. A nearby creek offered water, and he filled a dented kettle, returning to start a small fire in the cabin’s fireplace, keeping the flames low to avoid drawing attention. While the water boiled, he knelt beside her, removing the vest and the makeshift dressing he’d applied earlier.

He wasn’t a medic, but he’d survived long enough to know an ugly wound when he saw one. This one was deep, the edges jagged, blood still seeping despite his efforts. His jaw tightened—she might not make it. Digging through the pillowcase, he found the small first-aid kit, its contents meager but held what he needed, a suture needle, thread, some alcohol wipes. He ripped the pillowcase into strips and rags, cleaning his hands as best he could with the boiled water, now warm.

She was out cold, her face pale, lips parted slightly, not even twitching as he worked. He stitched the wound with messy, uneven sutures, his hands steady but unpracticed, the needle slipping once or twice. “Hold on, damn you,” he muttered, his voice rough with upset, cursing under his breath as blood welled up again. It’d leave an ugly scar, but scars were better than death. He cleaned the area again, wrapping it with the last of the gauze and securing it with more tape from the vest.

Sitting back, he took her in, his eyes tracing her battered form. Bruises painted her body—dark blooms across her back, hips, and thighs, some in the shape of handprints that made his blood boil. “Son of a bitch,” he growled, his eyes darkening at the sight, rage simmering low and dangerous. She’d been captured, like he’d feared after her fall from that roof. He’d been minutes behind her that afternoon, too damn slow, and someone, likely that cursing bastard from the street, had taken her, he thought darkly.

“Shoulda been faster, damn it,” he cursed himself, frustration twisting his features. The oversized shirt, torn and blood-soaked, wasn’t hers, it was a man’s, reeking of sweat and smoke. The thought of what those bruises meant, what had been done to her, twisted his gut, his hands clenching into fists. “Fuckin’ animals,” he spat, Merle’s voice sneaking in again—Told ya, brother. Women like that? Trouble. But Daryl’s anger drowned it out, a dark promise forming, if he ever crossed that bastard’s path, he’d make him pay.

He caught himself staring at her barely clad body, the shirt barely covering her, and shame pricked at him. “Ain’t right,” he muttered, grabbing the stiff old sheet from the bed and pulling it over her to cover her. Then, carefully, he cut away the rest of the dirty bloodsoaked shirt, keeping his eyes averted from her exposed skin, focusing on the task, his cheeks heating despite himself.

He retrieved the cup of water he’d left to cool, sliding a hand under her head to lift it slightly. “Come on, Red,” he urged softly, though she couldn’t hear. At first, the water dribbled over her closed lips, but then they parted in her restless sleep, and he got her to take a few sips, her throat working weakly. He set the cup aside, settling in the corner of the cabin against the wall, his crossbow within reach. The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the room, her shallow breaths the only other sound. His mind churned—unanswered questions piling up.

Who did this? Why save him? What the hell was her deal? A fleeting hope she’d pull through flickered, but above all, a burning desire to see her live. He didn’t know her name, not yet, but he wanted it. 

Needed it. 

A name for the face, for the chaos she’d brought into his life, for the ghost who’d saved him and haunted him all the same. “Damn you for makin’ me care,” he whispered, upset lacing his words as he leaned his head back against the wall, eyes never leaving her, and waited, the weight of the night pressing down like the world itself. Merle’s laugh faded into the crackle of the fire, but the upset lingered, a storm brewing in his chest.

-

The darkness wrapped around Indi like a shroud, pulling her into a whirlwind of fragmented nightmares that clawed at her mind. Her father’s face flickered first, gaunt and hollowed by the cancer that had stolen him piece by piece. She saw him in their old living room, the air thick with the metallic tang of illness, his once-strong hands trembling as he reached for her. “It’s okay, kiddo,” he rasped, but his eyes were dim, life ebbing away like sand through fingers. The scene shattered, replaced by the dead rising—groans echoing in the streets, rotting hands grasping at the living. She ran through endless alleys, her legs heavy, the world crumbling around her as walkers poured from the shadows, their milky eyes hungry.

Then she was alone, utterly alone, in a silent house where her father lay still on the bed, his chest no longer rising. Tears burned her cheeks as she gripped the knife, its blade cold against her palm. “I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered, driving it into his skull with a sickening crunch, black blood spilling onto the sheets. The act haunted her, a weight that never lifted, the final betrayal in a world that demanded it. Zane’s face intruded next, his all-teeth smile gleaming in the dim light, predatory and mocking. “You’re mine, Red,” he drawled, his hands rough on her skin, pinning her down as revulsion twisted in her gut. The dream shifted to falling—endless falling from the rooftop, the air rushing past, Zane’s dark eyes watching from below, glinting with triumph as she plummeted toward him.

She gasped awake, her body jolting like it had hit the ground all over again. But she was lying down, not falling, her limbs heavy as dead weight, unresponsive to her commands. Her vision swam, the room a blur of shadows and flickering light, a hot fire burning below her ribs, a searing agony that made her whimper. Panic clawed at her chest—what happened? Where was she? The pain anchored her, sharp and unrelenting, her breaths coming in shallow pants.

A figure loomed above her, solid and shadowed, and her heart stuttered. Her hunter—his sharp blue eyes piercing through the haze, his face rough with stubble, lines of worry etched deep. 

“Easy,” he grunted, his voice gruff and low, like gravel under boots, but it sent unexpected goosebumps dancing across her skin, a strange comfort in the roughness. He held a cup to her lips, the cool water a lifeline. She drank greedily, swallowing as best she could, the liquid soothing her parched throat, but each gulp sapped what little strength she had left. Her eyelids grew heavy, the darkness pulling at her edges once more, insistent and unrelenting. Unconsciousness dragged her back under, the hunter’s presence fading into the void, her body surrendering to the exhaustion and pain.

-

Daryl sat in the dim cabin, his back against the rough-hewn wall, crossbow within arm’s reach, his sharp blue eyes fixed on her still form on the bed. The fire’s low crackle cast flickering shadows across her pale face, her shallow breaths barely stirring the stale air. He watched her late into the night, his head jerking up every time sleep tugged at him, the weight of exhaustion battling his resolve. It was one of those moments, when his chin had dipped to his chest, that she gasped—a sharp, pained sound that snapped him awake. Her body twitched, then stilled, her face twisting in agony.

In a flash, he was at her side, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He grabbed the cup of cooled water, kneeling beside her, one hand gently lifting her head. “Come on, Red,” he grunted, his voice gruff but low, careful not to startle her. Her eyes, foggy with pain, met his for a fleeting moment, green and glassy, before fluttering half-closed. He pressed the cup to her lips, and she drank, weak sips that spilled a little down her chin, her throat working hard to swallow. It was all she could manage, her strength fading fast. Her breaths evened out, slow and shallow, and she slipped back under, her body going limp. He pulled the cup away, setting it on the floor, his jaw tight as he watched her chest rise and fall, barely noticeable in the dim light.

He leaned back, glancing at the kettle by the fire. It was nearly empty, the last of the boiled water used up. “Shit,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. He needed to stretch his legs, clear his head, and get more water. The night outside was dark, but the moon hung high, casting a silver glow over the woods, enough for him to navigate the short trek to the creek. He grabbed the kettle, checked his knife and crossbow, and stepped out, the hot summer air hitting him like a wall, thick with the scent of pine and earth. His boots crunched softly on the underbrush as he moved, eyes scanning for walkers, ears straining for any sound beyond the cicadas’ hum.

At the creek, he filled the kettle, the water cold against his fingers, the moonlight rippling on its surface. On his way back, the cabin came into view, its silhouette dark against the trees. He paused, the kettle heavy in his hand, Merle’s voice creeping into his head like a damn ghost. 

Still playin’ nurse, huh, little brother? Riskin’ your neck for a half-dead girl who don’t even know your name. You’re softer than a damn marshmallow. 

Daryl’s lip curled, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “Shut the hell up, Merle,” he muttered, his resolve steeling like a blade. She’d saved his life, taken a shot for him, and he wasn’t about to let her die out here. Not on his watch. Cursing his brother’s smug commentary, he headed back inside, the door creaking as he shouldered it open.

Inside, he pittered around the cabin, restless. He restoked the fire, coaxing it back to life, and set the kettle to boil. Kneeling beside her, he checked her bandage, peeling it back carefully. The stitches had staunched the worst of the bleeding, the wound no longer oozing, but it was still ugly—deep, jagged, a mess of red and purple. He wasn’t a doctor, and the thought gnawed at him, what if there was damage inside, under the skin, from whatever bastard had stabbed her? His fingers brushed the edge of the bandage, and his eyes fell on the scar tissue marring her side—an older, uglier mark, like something had torn chunks of flesh away. Teeth, maybe, or claws. His mind spun, wondering what the hell could’ve caused it, what she’d survived to carry a scar like that. His hand hovered, tempted to trace the jagged lines, but he caught himself, embarrassment flooding his chest.

What the hell you doin’, Dixon? Merle’s voice taunted again, sharp and mocking. Gettin’ all touchy-feely now? Pathetic. His cheeks heated, and he quickly redressed the wound, securing the bandage with more tape, his movements sharp and deliberate.

Daryl moved to the far side of the cabin, settling against the wall, his crossbow at his side, knees drawn up, arms draped over them. Exhaustion pulled at him like a heavy chain, his eyelids drooping despite the fire’s flickering light casting restless shadows across the room. He caught a few hours of fitful sleep, his head jerking up every so often to check her breathing, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only reassurance in the stifling night. Each time, he’d mutter a curse under his breath, rubbing his eyes, forcing himself to stay vigilant.

Dawn’s light crept through the cracks in the boarded window, the sun’s heat already seeping into the cabin, turning the air thick and oppressive, promising another brutal day. He stretched his stiff muscles, wincing at the ache in his arms from carrying her, and checked her one more time—her skin still pale as ash, her breathing shallow but steady, a faint rhythm that eased the knot in his gut. She’d pulled through the night, stubborn as hell, fighting even in her sleep. Resolved she’d be okay for a few hours, he decided to relocate his camp to the cabin and hunt. The cabin’s meager supplies—expired canned beans, a handful of dried berries shriveled like old leather—weren’t gonna cut it, not with her in this state. She needed real food, something to build her strength, and he wasn’t about to let her waste away under his watch.

He slipped out quietly, crossbow slung over his shoulder, knife at his belt, the morning woods alive with the buzz of insects and the distant call of birds. The air was cooler now, a brief respite before the sun climbed higher, but sweat still beaded on his brow as he hiked the easy trail to his camp—a small clearing a couple miles off, hidden among the pines. His boots crunched over fallen needles, the scent of earth and resin filling his lungs, grounding him. 

Merle’s voice piped up again, uninvited, What next, fetchin’ her flowers? Daryl’s jaw clenched, a low growl escaping him. “Ain’t like that,” he muttered, pushing through the underbrush, but the taunt stuck, making him question every step.

At his camp, he broke it down methodically, his movements efficient from years of practice. He rolled up his blanket, tight and compact, stuffing it into his pack alongside the few supplies—jerky strips, a half-empty canteen, a spare knife. His tarp came down next, folding the canvas with sharp creases, tying it secure to his pack. He scattered the fire pit’s ashes, kicking dirt over the embers to erase any trace, his eyes scanning the woods for threats. The pack grew heavier, straps digging into his shoulders, but he shouldered it without complaint, the weight a familiar burden.

The morning stayed quiet, the woods holding their breath, but his luck held. On the way back, he spotted movement—a rabbit darting through the underbrush, its brown fur blending with the earth. He froze, crossbow coming up smooth and silent, his breath steady as he tracked it. The bolt flew true, a quick thunk through its skull, the animal dropping without a twitch.

“Gotcha,” he muttered, a small victory easing the tension in his chest, the fresh meat a promise of real sustenance. He retrieved it, tying the rabbit to his belt, and continued on, the cabin coming into view as the sun climbed higher, heat building like a furnace.

Back inside, the air was warmer, the fire’s embers glowing faintly. He set to work, stoking the fire back to life with dry twigs, flames crackling as they caught. He washed the bloody strips of cloth he’d used as bandages in a basin of water from the kettle, scrubbing out the crimson stains, the water turning pink as he wrung them out, hanging them to dry near the warmth. The rabbit came next—he prepped it with practiced ease, skinning it in quick, efficient strokes, the pelt peeling away like old paper. Breaking it down for cooking, he skewered chunks over the fire, the meat sizzling as it roasted, juices dripping into the flames with a hiss. From his pack, he pulled a small pot, adding the rabbit’s bones and fat to water for a broth, the savory smell filling the cabin, a small comfort in the grim space, chasing away the lingering scent of blood and sweat.

He’d been working with his back to her, focused on the fire, turning the skewers to cook the meat evenly, when a faint shift in the air made him pause—the sense of being watched prickling his neck. Turning, he found her head tilted toward him, her green eyes open, watching him quietly. The sight hit him like a punch, relief flooding through him, tangling with something heavier in his gut—worry, maybe, or that stubborn pull he couldn’t name. She was awake, alive, those sharp eyes locked on him, hazy with pain but aware, cutting through the room like a blade.