Merle was predictably pissed off about the meth. "Gonna hunt that dog down and slit its throat."

"Forget the damn thing," Daryl replied. "Likely died of an overdose anyhow."

On the way down the windy, mountain road to the valley below, Merle made Daryl stop at each cabin to search for drugs. Now, Merle kicked over a coffee table in a violent rage, screaming, "What the fuck? Are these vacation cabins for rich people? Hobby hunters and their spoiled families?"

Daryl knew what he meant. The cabins were so strangely tidy. The Dixon brothers might find a six-pack of beer or a bottle of wine or even some scotch (all of which they'd taken), but they weren't coming across any cheap liquor or drugs. This was nothing like the part of the mountain range where they'd grown up.

At the next cabin, Merle kicked in the locked door with a booted heel. Daryl stormed in, crossbow leveled and ready to shoot geeks. He'd just about pulled the trigger when he realized the family of four standing before him were human. He immediately removed his finger from the trigger, though he remained poised, crossbow steady and aimed, because the father was now leveling a shotgun at him.

The kids, two girls who appeared to be about nine and eleven, screamed their heads off, in high pitch squeals that burned Daryl's ears, until their mother put a hand over each of their mouths.

Merle sauntered in, rifle held loosely in one hand, and gave the mother an appreciative once over. "Well hello, darlin'," he said. "Your man takin' good care of you? Satisfyin' all your needs?"

The woman gathered her children closer against her sides like a mother hen sweeping her chicks under her wings. The father stepped sideways to stand in front of all three.

"Cut it out, Merle," Daryl muttered, still holding his crossbow on the father because the father was still holding his shotgun on him. "Yer scarin' 'em."

"Well they oughta be scared," Merle said. "If that man was not scared," he pointed a finger at the father, "he'd have blown your head off by now."

"We don't mean ya no harm," Daryl told the family. "Thought you was geeks in here."

"Geeks?" the man asked.

"Monsters, geeks, the livin' dead, whatever you want to call the fuckers," Merle said. "You got any drugs?"

"Take whatever you need. Just don't hurt my family." The shotgun trembled in the man's hand. Merle strolled forward, and the man's grip grew tighter. "Come too close to my girls and I will shoot you."

"You don't want to do that," Merle said casually. "Then my brother'll have to shoot you with his crossbow and then where will we be?" Merle looked at the kids and pouted. "With a couple of poor little fatherless girls."

The girls buried their faces in their mother's skirt.

"Nobody wants that." Merle strolled around the cabin, surveying its contents. "Tell you what. We'll take this Blanton's right here." He picked up the bourbon that was resting on an end table. The bottle was three quarters full. "Because I like the little horsey on top. And then we'll call it a deal. Fair enough?"

The man swallowed and nodded.

"Though I sure could use some smokes. Couldn't you, Daryl?"

"Wouldn't mind an extra pack," Daryl said, hoping the agreement would hurry Merle along.

"I don't have any cigarettes," the man said. "But there are some cigars in the drawer in that end table right there." He nodded to the end table. Merle retrieved four cigars and tucked them into his front pocket.

Daryl took a step backward. "C'mon, Merle. Let's go."

Merle dragged his eyes over the woman one last time before sauntering out the front door. Daryl told the family, "There's refugee camps in Atlanta, if'n ya decided to leave. Might actually be safer up here, though, where there ain't so many of 'em."

Daryl backed slowly out of the cabin with the man still in his crosshairs. Once on the porch, he shut the door and ran for the truck. Merle already had his motorcycle purring. A shotgun blast blew right through the front door.

"Dumb ass," Merle shouted just before he revved off.

Daryl followed, swerving the truck to avoid getting his tires shot out by the man who had now emerged on the porch and was firing in his direction.

The Dixon brothers flew down the mountain without stopping at anymore cabins.

They took less traveled, smaller roads once they reached the valley, avoiding the wreckage on the interstate. At night, to get away from the geeks on the road, they drove a bit into the woods, as far as they could get with the truck, hiked a little farther, and set up camp. The bourbon calmed Merle, who was still craving meth, enough that he fell asleep.

Once Merle was passed out, Daryl stuck his nose to the bottle of Blanton's and breathed in citrus and oak. He was used to cheap whiskey, and the complexity of the bourbon intrigued him. After sipping, he rolled the liquid slowly on his tongue and thought he tasted a hint of caramel. He wished he could be sharing this with his cousin Billy Ray, down at the tavern in the shadow of the mountain peak on which he'd grown up.

For some reason, Daryl couldn't stop thinking about the words Darlene had said to him when he'd left her on that construction site. It made him angry, but it also made him feel ashamed. He didn't want to admit to himself that there might be any truth to her words.

He looked at Merle, snoring softly on his back atop a sleeping bag. Maybe he did follow his brother like a puppy on the heels of the big dog, but what the hell else was he supposed to do? Merle was all he had. Merle was all he'd ever had. His mother had left him in that fire, and his father had driven him away. But Merle...Merle had come back.

After the Army, Merle had come back for Daryl, got him out of their father's house, and Merle had never left again. There was no one else in this world Daryl could trust to have his back, especially now, with everything going to shit. Merle had survived their father's house, he'd survived juvie, he'd survived war, and he would survive this, too. He'd make sure Daryl survived it. Merle was blood, and blood was thicker than thick.

Daryl finished off the rest of the bourbon. It was only enough to give him a very slight buzz. He strung up a warning system using empty cans he'd found littered in the woods and a ball of twine he'd packed, in case any geeks wandered this way, and then he settled down to sleep beside his brother.

[*]

Merle was shaking and sweating the next morning. He kept talking about how dry his mouth was. He was having wild mood swings, too. He wasn't usually this bad when he had to go without the meth, but he'd been binging and crashing for days straight in that cabin. The withdrawal was much more severe this time.

After they hiked back out to where they left the truck and bike, Merle grabbed Daryl by the neck of his shirt, balled the sweat-stained cloth into his fist, and slammed him hard against the side of the pick-up. "A dog?" he shouted. "You sure 'bout that? You goddamn sure, little brother?"

Daryl angrily shook Merle off and stepped toward the front door of the truck.

Merle grabbed him by the back of the neck this time and pushed him forward, slamming his cheek down against the hood. Daryl tried to push himself up with the palms of his hands against the hot metal of the hood, but Merle was too strong. "Get the fuck off me!" he yelled.

Merle stumbled back. When Daryl turned around, Merle had his fists up and was bouncing on his feet like a boxer. "Did you fuckin' pour out my meth? Did you, Daryl?"

"Course not!" Daryl rubbed his cheek. "That's just the paranoia, man. From the withdrawal. You know that happens."

To Daryl's surprise, Merle put down his fists. His mood changed suddenly. "Yeah. Reckon so. Sorry." Merle swept Daryl up into a great big bear hug, patted his back, and planted a sloppy kiss on the top of his head.

Confused, Daryl pushed him off. He couldn't remember the last time Merle had outright hugged him. Maybe when he was five, before he'd learned to swim well, and Merle, panicked, had pulled him half dead out of that river he'd fallen into.

Merle stepped back. "Let's hit the road."

"Yeah," Daryl said, eyeing him warily before climbing into the truck.

[*]

Merle got better after that, though he kept looking for meth here and there. They were about twenty-five miles outside of Atlanta, camping on a high hill, when they spied the billowing, black clouds of smoke rising up from the city on the far horizon.

"Guess there ain't no point in anyone goin' to Atlanta after all," Merle said.

Daryl's eyes swept the scene. "That's a hell of a lot of smoke. Think it's on fire?"

"Not anymore," Merle said. "Hell, maybe the military bombed the hell out of the place."

"Why?" Daryl asked.

"Stop the spread. Bet it broke out like crazy in those damn camps. People turnin' into geeks left and right. Told you Atlanta was a dumb ass idea."

Daryl took a step closer on the ledge and watched the smoke floating above the tall buildings. He wondered if Darlene was there, or rather her body, charred beyond recognition. He wonder, too, about that little girl who had called him on the phone, thinking he was her granddaddy. Was her burnt body there, beneath a pile of strangers? How many had perished in those flames? What was left of the world as they had once known it?

[*]

The Dixon brothers drove on. They picked up a minor highway about eight miles from the city. After a mile, Daryl tapped the horn of the truck once to alert Merle before pulling over to the side of the road. Merle leaned toward the ground on his motorcycle as he made a quick U-turn and headed back.

Daryl jumped down from the cab of the pick-up and slammed the door shut. "Gotta take a piss." He slid his handgun into his waistband at the small of his back, just in case he should need it, though this strip of road looked geek-free. There were only three abandoned cars in view.

Merle grabbed one of the empty gas cans from the bed of the pick-up. "See what I can get while we's stopped." He strolled up the roadway.

Meanwhile, Daryl wandered over to the grassy shoulder and began a long, soothing piss. His eyes were closed as the stream flowed, and he was just finishing up when he felt a round circle of metal press against his temple. "Well if it ain't Daryl Dixon. Long time no see."

Daryl's eyes flew open and he was about to reach around back for his handgun when he felt it tugged from his waistband. Darlene was holding her rifle on him, so she couldn't have been the one who grabbed it. "Hands up," came a young male voice from behind him. Daryl raised his hands above his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl watched a fair-skinned, red-headed teenage boy circle around him. Once the boy was in front, he stretched out Daryl's own handgun until the barrel was about ten inches away and pointed right between Daryl's eyes. The kid couldn't be more than sixteen, but he held the gun steadily and with a disciplined grip.

"You want to put that snake back in your pants?" Darlene asked.

"Gonna put my hands down for a sec," Daryl warned the teenager before he tucked himself in and zipped up.

"Hands back up," the boy ordered.

Daryl complied. "What happened to Marcus?"

"Marcus is just fine," Darlene told him. "Marcus has his rifle to the back of Merle's head right now."

"Where the hell y'all come from?"

"We were headin' back from Atlanta," Darlene said. "Stopped to take a piss ourselves. Heard Merle's chopper roarin' this way. So we all lay low in the gully on the other shoulder. Now turn around. Real slow."

Daryl obeyed. He saw Merle kneeling by the gas tank of a car, grimacing with anger, his hands up, and Marcus's rifle pressed against the back of his shaved head. There was a strawberry blonde girl beside Marcus, maybe eighteen or nineteen, holding Merle's handgun.

"What ya find in Atlanta?" Daryl asked.

"These two new friends," Darlene said. "A nice luxury sedan to drive." She nodded to one of the cars they had assumed was abandoned. "A hell of a lot of geeks. Some dead, some walkin'. Piles and piles of charred bodies. Ash and tanks."

"Where ya headed now?" Daryl asked. He was hoping if they talked long enough, he could get the drop on her, but that didn't seem likely, with two guns trained on him and two on Merle.

"We're backtrackin' to get to the interstate now, and then we're headin' north to Chicago. We're gonna look for his mama and sister and see what's what up north."

"Really think you stand a chance of gettin' that far?" Daryl asked.

"Reckon we'll find out," she answered. "Keys to the truck. Now."

"Let me get some things out it first."

"Why should I?" she asked.

"Hell, left you with a lot of shit." Daryl said it partly to talk her into leaving them with something and partly to quiet the voice of his own conscience, which kept reminding him what he'd done.

"I'll toss out your crossbow once we start drivin'. And Merle's handgun."

"What about my handgun?" Daryl asked.

"I'm keeping it," the teenage boy said. He sounded like maybe his voice was still changing. He tightening his grip on Daryl's handgun. "I like it. I like the Sig. My dad had one. Went down firing it, and I couldn't get it back."

"Y'all can also keep the huntin' knives on your belts," Darlene told him. "But we're takin' everythin' else."

"All three rifles?" Daryl asked. "Y'all already got two."

Darlene sighed. "Guess I can toss ya one. But the kids need rifles. We're keepin' the other two."

"And all that ammo?" Daryl asked.

"Leave ya one box of each," Darlene said.

"I left ya eight."

"Payback's a bitch, ain't it?" she asked. "But, hell, Daryl, I'm at least leavin' you a vehicle. We ain't takin' Merle's bike. Marcus sure as hell don't want to ride that racist crotch rocket."

"What about the gas cans?" Daryl asked. "We still got two full ones in the pick-up."

"Y'all just gonna have to siphon it when you need it."

"And the food and water?"

"You know how to hunt, Daryl."

Daryl caught her eyes with his. "Glad yer alive, Darlene. I's afraid ya might of been burned up in Atlanta."

Darlene backed up a little. "I'm glad you're alive, too," she said. "Now toss me the goddamn keys."

[*]

The teenagers took off first, in the luxury sedan. Darlene kept her rifle trained on the Dixon brothers from the bed of the pick-up as Marcus drove off. When they were a few yards down the road, she tossed out Daryl's crossbow, Merle's handgun, one rifle, and Daryl's backpack.

They ran to gather the things. Merle tried shooting at the tires of the truck once he had his rifle back, but it was much too far away by then.

"Cut it out!" Daryl yelled. "Wastin' ammo."

As they walked back to the motorcycle, Merle examined his rifle and handgun. "Shit. They's all scratched up now!"

Daryl rifled through the backpack, which was much lighter than he'd left it. "Bitch took all my cigarettes."

"What's left in there?"

"Box of .223," Daryl said, "and one of 9 millimeter. Four water bottles. Five protein bars. The nasty ones. Blueberry."

"She take all the chocolate ones?"

"Yep. And the trail mix." Daryl slung the pack on his left shoulder. The crossbow was on his right.

"Binoculars still in there?" Merle asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Cause I saw smoke risin' up over that quarry to the west. Like a campfire." He pointed in the distance.

"Let's get up a bit higher," Daryl suggested. "Hide the bike. Hike in. Check it out."

Merle saddled his chopper. "Hop on, honey bear."

Daryl shook his head. "Ain't ridin' behind ya like a girl."

The bike revved to life. "This is the only transport we got, brother, so cozy up."

Daryl frowned and slid on the back of the bike, but he left his hands on his knees.

"Don't get fresh with me," Merle warned, and then he shot forward. In half a mile, he turned his bike off the highway, roared over the frontage road, and headed up a narrow dirt path on a hill that overlooked the quarry.

As the wind whipped through Daryl's short hair, he watched the smoke curl and dance above the quarry and wondered what sort of people they would encounter there. An inexplicable sense of expectation tingled from his head to his toes. He thought of what Darlene had said back at that construction site: "Maybe this ain't the end of the world. Hell, maybe it's a new beginning."

THE END