Ebb

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"Unbeing dead isn't being alive."

-E.E. Cummings

Lightning cracked and sizzled across the black sky, thunder chasing closely on its heels and making the entire building shudder. Dusty vases full of wilted flowers rattled with the rolling rumble.

The rebound tugged violently at Daryl Dixon's gut, and he let the heavy drape slip from his grimy fingers, moving away from the window. His crossbow clattered carelessly to the floor as he slid down the trembling wall and stared, for a moment, into the void, listening as the rain started to fall. At first a few staccato drops, the shower soon morphed into a pounding torrent overhead, and Daryl's heartbeat matched the drumming sound as Mother Nature unleashed her pent-in fury on the cruel world outside. He leaned his forearms over his drawn knees and willed his abused heart to slow, his quick pants of breath to deepen and calm. The events of the few hours played on an endless loop behind his drifting lids.

The pharmacy over on Main had been a complete crapshoot, not enough antibiotics and too much useless shit like puzzles and fuckin' greeting cards.

Daryl's pack had still been half empty when the dead came pouring in, shredding themselves on shattered glass, stumbling and shuffling over scattered bottles of shower gel and cans of mosquito repellent. The cloying scents of grapefruit and rot had invaded his senses, and the growls and groans had kicked his adrenalin into hyper-drive. His escape had been a narrow one, a hard fought one, and he'd scrambled from the looted mess into a parking lot that seemed to be teeming with walkers.

Detritus and debris lined the streets and alleyways of the little tourist town, its fairytale façade broken and virtually unrecognizable in the new post-apocalyptic world.

It bore little resemblance to the place Merle had once dragged him to for a weekend of German beer, willing women, and biking through the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Super 8 where his brother hooked up with that handsy waitress Wanda or Wynonna was nothing more than a burned out shell, ashes and dust from another lifetime. Daryl wasted no time there, ducking into the Huddle House across the way to briefly catch his breath. His respite lasted but a minute.

The smell inside the place was overwhelming, rancid and foul. Mold covered plates, crept over syrup-sticky counters. Flies buzzed persistently, and dried, rust-colored blood speckled the tiles.

Pulling the red rag from his back pocket, Daryl covered his mouth as he inspected the dim space, keeping one eye on the window and the dangers still lurking beneath the leaden sky. He felt his blood run cold in his veins when a bony hand closed around his boot, and the weak rasp of one of the undead joined the eerie cacophony filling his head.

Scratching and pulling ineffectually at the worn leather, the walker was gaunt beneath the rags of its uniform. Metal brackets and wires coiled across what remained of its teeth, and the cartilaginous rings of its throat were partially exposed.

Pity swelled and pressed harshly against Daryl's own painful throat, and his hand was gentle as he knelt and wrapped it in the matted tangle of dark hair, using only enough force to keep the snapping jaws at a distance. The fork speared the milky eye with a sickening squelch, and Daryl had to swallow back the sting of bile in his mouth as he rocked back on his heels, forced the rudimentary weapon deeper.

More walkers had come. They always did.

Flushed into the cover of the woods, Daryl had lost most of his pursuers before he'd even reached the bridge. He'd traveled roughly a mile before he saw it: Cherokee Rose Flowers & Gifts.

Tattered and torn, the sign to the unassuming little shop had been both a beacon when his tired, cramping muscles had wanted nothing more than to give up and a burden to Daryl's oft-buried memories. The glass to the door had given way easily if not completely cleanly, and the dead had shambled by none the wiser, their telltale moans and guttural snarls drowned out by the mournful wailing of the increasing wind.

Opening his bleary eyes, Daryl forced down the unwelcome lump of emotion so effortlessly dredged up by something as simple as a stupid, fuckin' name and struck out a hand, fumbling for his pack and the bounty he'd already gathered hours before.

Flickers of white light illuminated his hastily chosen refuge, brief snatches that painted a connect the dot history of the long abandoned space: sympathy cards and new baby announcements, gift baskets and stuffed toys, candles and clay figurines.

From his opened pack, the pink plush bunny stared up at Daryl with vacant doll eyes that didn't judge as he ripped into the candy with dirty fingers. The chocolate flooded his starving taste buds with all the subtlety of a bomb blast, and he groaned, chewing slowly to savor it. When he was finished, he searched the zippered compartments of his bag until he found his lighter, and a tiny orange flame soon glowed beneath his nose.

The wind outside continued to buffet the walls of his hastily chosen shelter. The tree out front bowed and bent in supplication, its weathered fingers combing through the overgrown grass. Rain fell in steady silver sheets, and the near constant flashes of lightning caught on the glittering shards of shattered glass, the thick drape over the door whipping and swirling in the created draft.

Daryl sighed, and his hands shook as he cupped them around the candle, willing the miniscule blaze to stay strong. The wet fringe of his bangs fell into his eyes as he tended to the ugly scrapes and lacelike beads of dried blood on his balled hand, his lip curled behind his clenched teeth at the sting as he went through the motions. Two days he'd been gone when he'd promised her he'd be back in one. There'd be hell enough to pay for that without worrying the fool woman over a little scratch.

Sometimes, Asskicker was a helluva lot more mature than her mama.

So. This is something I've been pecking away at since before I posted either of my other stories, and it's a little different than the others.

There's actual walkers.

And Daryl is separated from Carol. How and why is still a mystery (to you, dear readers, lol). But, as you read, he's not alone. ;)

I hope you enjoyed what you've read so far. Chapters for this story will probably vary in length. I can't promise they'll be as long as Yours, and I can't make any promises how often updates will come because I fought against even posting this story until it was finished. Obviously, I lost, lol. My other two are still my priority. I'm just really limited on time right now. :(

Any mistakes are mine. Hopefully, I cleaned everything up enough, but I *am* posting this in a bit of a hurry.

Sorry for that.

Feedback is absolute love.

Let me know if you're interested in reading more.