***LINNEY IS MY CREATION IN A UNIVERSE I DON'T OWN - THE WALKING DEAD IS NOT MINE AND I KNOW IT!*** Read and review, folks - I've got more where this came from ***

She had killed her father that morning. Glaring at her blurred reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink, she wondered if that made her a murderer. The sun shining through the window behind her lit up the room, casting shadows where it had to shine through the sagging parts of the screen.

Leaning closer to her own face, her gaze fixated on her own image, she tried to find some sign of her old life in it. Her soft green eyes were red and tired, dark shadows smeared beneath them. Her hair was scraped back in a braid, the greasy strands of it a far cry from the gleaming cap it used to be. Her eyes roamed slowly over the dull brownness and she wondered how anyone had ever thought she had pretty, full, hair.

Pale skin created a look of ill health. A split and puffy lip skewed her features, and a quick glance down at her neck and collar bone revealed the livid bruises her father had left there. She closed her eyes tightly and spun away from her traitorous reflection, leaning her back against the dirty, rusted sink. She gently ran a hand over the sore spots, flickers of his attack playing behind her eyelids.

One moment she had been asleep, sweating in the hot discomfort of her non air-conditioned room, the next he had staggered through the door, his arms reaching for her as he growled and gnashed his teeth. Exploding off her pillows, she had used the mattress to force her lower body through the air at him, her small, bare foot connecting with his neck. It had barely fazed him and he had grabbed her neck, squeezing and pulling. His entire weight came down on his hands, nearly crushing her chest, as his terrifyingly hungry face had leaned closer and closer to hers.

She pleaded with him to stop, screaming and squirming, knowing he was too far gone to hear her. Sobbing and shrieking, one hand managed to reach down the side of her mattress to grab the hunting knife he had insisted she keep nearby for self-protection, during more normal days. Blindly, she slashed at his neck, his hands, his chest, anywhere she could reach and, although the wounds poured blood, he never stopped. With one last ear-piercing scream she plunged the wickedly sharp knife through his eye, burying it to the hilt. A thick burble came from his throat and he finally ceased his attack, slumping heavily on top of her. His corpse stank and was heavier than she had thought it would be. Squirming out from underneath it took longer than she could stand and ended with her being unceremoniously dumped to the floor, panting, retching, and sobbing.

Linney shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. The door to the bathroom stood open and she could see straight down the dim hallway that ran through the center of their trailer. The cracked linoleum on the floor created dark chasms in the yellowed pattern there. Moving slowly, she left the washroom and walked into her room. The lurid splashes of blood were still everywhere, but she had managed to drag his body outside, laying him in the yard. She had felt like the threads holding her sanity together were being pulled out one by one and knew that attempting to bury him would cause everything to fall apart instantly.

She reached down and grabbed her knapsack, slinging it up onto her slim shoulders. The padded canvas straps settled heavily onto her sore collarbone and she winced, wishing there was another way to cart her things around. She walked to the bedroom door and paused, looking back to drink in the sight of her room. This had been her safe haven for as long as she had been alive. There was a time when her furniture had been new, the bed linens crisp and bright, a time when the floor didn't sag in the middle of the room, when the window wasn't held together with duct tape. She breathed out heavily; that was a time when they had been a family, before her mother was ripped away from them by cancer.

Linney's gaze landed on the picture standing in the silver frame on her dresser. Her mother and father were caught in their best moment in this picture, both of them young, beautiful, and happy – newlyweds with a sweet baby daughter. She walked over quickly and tore the back off the frame, yanking out the picture and folding it up, before stuffing it into the pocket on her worn, dirty jeans. The monster she had killed that morning was hardly her father anymore, at least not if you compared him to the warm, smiling man in the picture. A decade and half of drinking, drugs and dangerous living took their toll on him and he died looking exactly like society expected him to: dirty, scruffy, paunchy, and poor. The unfortunate side effect of his descent into darkness was dragging Linney along for the ride.

She knew what poverty was. Drug money and welfare were not enough, not to properly raise a little girl. Her mother was dead when she was just three years old, and Linney learned quickly how to feed, bathe, and dress herself. Her father didn't enroll her in school until "those assholes at city hall" made him (so he said to her one day, slurring his words as he slouched in his filthy armchair, waving a bottle of Jim Beam around in front of himself). She had to assume that he loved her. There were moments when he seemed to genuinely care for her. He had never been abusive, or deliberately cruel.

Walking back into the dim hallway, listening to the creaks and groans her feet made on the floor, she considered that his exposing her to his clientele was a form of abuse. Most of them scared her, the rest terrified her. Stopping at the door to his bedroom she stared down at the battered chest sitting at the end of his bed. She knew that within that large, scarred box were thousands of dollars' worth of drugs.

The lid was left unlocked (which never happened), sitting partially open, and her eyes remained fixed on it, suddenly piecing together what had happened. Her father, unable to cope with their new reality, had helped himself to copious amounts of his own wares and had OD'ed. Cursing out loud she kicked the chest, feeling a sharp pain in her foot at the violent contact. She knew now that when he had awoken again, as the monster who tried to attack her, he had no memories of the fear, worry and panic that had plagued them both as the world fell apart around them.

"Nice, Dad. Thanks," she muttered sarcastically, dropping down to sit on the box. She stared at the doorway, wondering if anyone besides herself was still alive. Her mind idly ran through the roster of residents in the dinky Georgian shithole she called home. There were only a couple names that stood out as potential survivors. Considering what she knew about at least one of them, she guessed that it was very likely they were alive. A plan began to unfold in her mind.

Leaping to her feet, she ran over to her father's closet and tore the door open. On the wall hung an array of guns, knives, brass knuckles, and other weapons. Linney slid her bag to the floor and pried it open, selecting a couple of the smaller, easier to handle guns and their accompanying boxes of ammunition, and stuffing them inside. She strapped a large knife to a sheath designed to wrap around an ankle and fumbled with it for a few moments before she was able to fit it properly to her own slender ankle. She found a couple other knives, one on a strap she fit to her upper arm, another two for her waist. She grabbed one last pistol, a weapon her father had loved. The soft leather belt that held the holster for the gun felt smooth and thick in her hands and she was struck with a powerful memory of her father teaching her how to shoot many summers ago, before she hit puberty and became an alien to him.

Without ever discussing it, she knew that her father had this arsenal as a means to protect them both if anyone tried to steal from them by force. He was generally not considered a threat to anyone in town, just a sad, stupid drunk running a two-bit drug operation from his home. She knew people felt bad for her, but there were always more of them who assumed she was some kind of trailer trash slut. Securing the gun belt, Linney surprised herself by laughing out loud. She supposed that surviving this long meant she wasn't as stupid as people thought someone like her should be.

Comfortable with her weaponry, she hoisted the backpack up onto her shoulders once more, grunting at the additional weight. She closed the closet door and then closed the lid on the trunk properly, piling dirty clothes on top of it. A trip to the kitchen revealed the same goods that had been there last night, one crushed packet of crackers, one bottle of water, one can of diet cola, and a dented can that had no label on it. It was definitely time to move on. There was nothing for her here anymore. Glancing out the kitchen window she saw the body of her father lying next to the three bodies they had dropped there yesterday, after they had shambled into their small yard, groaning mindlessly, their dead eyes glaring at everything.

Linney stepped outside onto their rotted back deck and knew that she couldn't do this alone, and as much as it pained her, she knew she needed to group up with others. When she thought about her available choices for those "others", her stomach twisted uneasily.

Linney walked around to the front of the house, listening carefully for the sounds of anyone looking to attack her. In the distance she heard a familiar grumbling roar and knew that her instincts had been right. He was definitely still alive, and almost as if he'd been summoned by her thoughts, seemed to be heading in this direction. Linney looked around the yard, trying to think where she might hide. Her sight snagged on their now defunct air conditioner and the blue tarp they had laid on top of it.

Without wasting a moment she darted over to it and slid beneath it, taking her backpack off and tucking it behind herself. Hunched over on her knees, she arranged the tarp so she could keep an eye on the small dirt driveway. From her hiding spot she would be able to see him approach. The front door was to her right, an easy two steps leading up to a tiny, porch with no railings. Linney began to plot in her head how she would stop him when he inevitably tried to enter her home.

She began to sweat inside her plastic hiding spot; the sun was beating down from a cloudless sky. Her breath was ragged as she tried to find an angle under the tarp that allowed her to breathe cool air. The grumbling roar grew in volume and suddenly he was there, driving up her driveway on his motorcycle. Linney smiled at his predictable nature; Merle Dixon could always be counted on to think of himself, and his own vices, first and foremost. Her grin withered on her face and died when a battered grey pick-up pulled up behind Merle. She gaped as the driver climbed out, slinging a crossbow over his shoulder. Damnit, she thought, I forgot about Daryl.

Daryl sauntered over to his brother and they stood next to each other, surveying the house. Linney's mind raced as she tried to re-organize her plans. Her limited knowledge on the younger Dixon told her that he wasn't as dirty and ruthless as his criminal older brother. He lived a simple life, mostly above the law, working as a mechanic. In fact, he lived in the 'nice' trailer park across town, making her lower on the social ladder than he was. They moved slowly towards the house, their heads and eyes swiveling around, drinking in everything.

"Looks like ole Kev bit it," Merle said, his voice cracking in a sardonic tone at the sight of her father's baking and bloody corpse. Daryl's face wrinkled in aversion and he moved carefully over to look at the body. He poked the corpse with the butt-end of his crossbow and turned to his brother.

"Merle! Get over here," He called softly. Casting a longing glance at the front door, Merle jogged over to his brother.

"No way he killed himself," Merle said, his voice low. Daryl looked up at his brother briefly before sinking to his knees next to her father. He reached out and grabbed the hilt of her knife, yanking sharply on it. Her father's ruined eyeball was impaled on the blade, resting by the handle. Daryl grunted in disgust and stabbed the knife into the dirt.

"You think whoever did him is still around?" Daryl spoke softly, getting to his feet and wiping his hands on his pants. Merle shrugged before turning to walk back towards the door, he spoke over his shoulder to his brother before putting a foot on the bottom step of the porch.

"He had that little girl, but with Daddy dead, she's most likely dead, or one of them." Merle's voice twisted in anger on the last word. Linney's heart beat fast and hard and she heard Daryl mutter, "Poor kid," before starting towards the stairs too. Licking her lips, Linney decided it was now or never, and burst from her hiding place, gun in hand.

Both Dixons looked over at her in shock as she tore up the porch and barrelled into Merle, knocking him backwards off the side of it. When they hit the ground she realized she had been screaming the entire time and still was. She rolled to her feet as Merle was just getting to his and she darted over to him, jabbing the barrel of the gun into the side of his neck, having to reach up to do so.

"Don't. Fucking. Move," She growled, panting. Merle froze still and said nothing. A quick glance up to the porch and she saw that Daryl had his crossbow aimed at her.

"Put it down!" She shrieked. Daryl's eyes glanced quickly over to his brother's face. "Now! Put it down now or I'll blow his head off!" Daryl complied, moving slowly to put the crossbow on the ground. He stood up slowly, holding his hands up to show her they were empty.

Linney knew she sounded like she was on the ragged edge of sanity and realized that she probably wasn't that far off.

"He put it down, sweetheart," Merle said, his voice pleasant. "Now how about you get that thing outta ole Merle's neck? Hey?" Linney glared at him, her chest heaving. She bit her lip, not sure what to do next. She was in shock that her plan had worked thus far and her mind raced trying to catch up. Merle turned slowly towards her, his eyes popping open wide in surprise when he saw her face clearly.

"Your Kevin's little girl, ain't ya?" He spoke carefully and slowly, like he was trying to calm a wild dog. "Yeah, you are. Linney, right?" She nodded at him slowly, her eyes moving quickly between him and his brother. Daryl slid a foot slowly to the side, trying to move towards the stairs. Her eyes locked on him and she glared.

"That's enough! Stop moving!" Her voice hurt from screaming and her cry came out strangled and rasping. Daryl stopped moving. She looked back at Merle who stood still, his adams apple moving beneath the scruff on his neck.

"It's ok now, Linney, we ain't here to hurt you." Linney pressed her lips together and pulled the gun back an inch, so it was no longer digging into his skin.

"I know what you're here for, Merle Dixon," her voice was angry. He smiled slowly, raising an eyebrow at her and winking. "Oh, you got me, sweetheart."

Linney shifted on her feet and swallowed hard. She narrowed her eyes at him and continued on, her voice scathing, "I don't care how much of his shit you want, you're welcome to all of it. You're welcome to die like he did from taking too much, if you'd like." Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears come. Merle's features settled into grim understanding and he nodded at her.

"Then how about you let me get what I want and I'll get out of your hair?" Linney shook her head and glanced back over at the porch. The exact second she realized it was empty, it was already too late, and she felt a pair of strong arms close around her neck and chest and Merle struck like lightning, wrenching the gun out of her hand hard enough to make her cry out in pain. She squirmed and kicked at Daryl, trying to connect with his shins.

"Calm down!" He shouted in her ear. Merle stepped forward and slapped her across the face so hard her head felt like bells were tolling loudly inside of it. She sagged in Daryl's grip and groaned. Her lip throbbed anew and she knew he had broken open the cut on it.

"Dammit, Merle, did ya have to do that? I got her!" Merle cocked an eyebrow and glared above her head, at Daryl.

"Oh-ho, little brother! Not gonna stand up for me?" Merle stepped closer, bending a little to put his face on her level, speaking his next words angrily and deliberately into her face. "She had a gun to my head! You was gonna kill me, right?" Linney glared back at him and let her hands fall from their scrambling grip on Daryl's forearms, to hang limply at her sides.

"No, I wasn't going to kill you," she said, her voice choked with ire. Merle raised an eyebrow at her and took a step back. He walked a couple steps away and then spun back around, pointing a dirty finger in her face.

"You know where dear old dad kept his stash, right?" Linney pressed her lips together and stared him down, fighting to keep her fear off her face. When she didn't answer, Merle lunged forward, and Daryl jerked her backwards, out of the path of Merle's fist, tossing her roughly to the ground behind himself.

As she hit the ground, she rolled again, and tried to get to her feet. The wallop to the face she'd received from Merle was a little too much for her balance and she was only able to drop into a defensive crouch. Daryl dove into Merle's chest and shoved him back, screaming at his brother to calm down. Linney grabbed the knife from her hip strap and held it in her hand tightly. When Merle saw her hunched with the knife, ready to attack, he surprised both her and his brother by bursting out in gut-shaking laughter, stopping his angry rush towards her.

"By god, you're a little spitfire, ain't ya?" He chuckled some more and Daryl stood cautiously in front of his brother, putting himself between Merle and Linney. Merle finally straightened up, a grin on his face. He glanced at his brother before putting his hands in the air in a make-peace gesture.

"Alright, I give up, kid. What do you want for your dad's stuff?" Linney got to her feet slowly. She took a step forward, lowering her arm with the knife. She looked over at Daryl before meeting Merle's blue-eyed gaze.

"Take me with you."