Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters or story lines.

Firstly, I am so amazed with how well-received this story has been! Thank you all so, so much for your reviews, favorites, and follows! Secondly, I'm sorry for making you wait so long for this next chapter! NaNo happened. Life happened. Yeah. But it's finally here! Chapter 2! Based on "Vatos". Enjoy, drop a review, all that jazz.

"M-Merle," Daryl rasped, barely a whisper. Black dots speckled his vision and white hot pain emanated from the gash on his wrist. His left hand held tight to the other, squeezing his brother's arm as though Merle was the only thing tethering him to the world. His right arm was folded against his chest like a broken wing, blood still flowing freely, trickling across his skin and dripping onto the cement.

"Fuck," Merle swore, grip on his brother tightening as he moved to stand, carrying Daryl with him. "C'mon, little brother," Merle said as he slung Daryl's good arm across his shoulders. Rick went to Daryl's other side, seeming intent on helping the elder Dixon carry the younger. "I got 'im," Merle grunted stubbornly, trudging towards the door with Daryl in tow.

Daryl seemed somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, tiptoeing on the thin edge of consciousness. His head lolled to the side, resting against his brother's chest, eyes half-lidded. His feet dragged almost drunkenly along the floor as he struggled to keep pace with Merle. He pushed on his brother weakly, as though he were trying to support himself, but every little shudder of his exhausted body only made Merle tighten his grip. Rick was still close by, hovering, hands out should Daryl slip from his brother's grasp. This only seemed to make Merle more determined to bear his brother's weight on his own.

"Oh, my God," Glenn groaned, grimacing at the gaping wound on Daryl's wrist.

"Shut up an' git th' door," Merle demanded. Glenn shook his head, bringing himself back to reality, and grabbed the door handle. He held the door open for the Dixon brothers as Merle carefully maneuvered Daryl into the stairwell. Rick was still a few paces behind them, ready to spring into action if he was needed. Shane followed behind his partner, running a hand through his hair and sighing heavily as he did. Glenn paused for a moment before trailing after them all.

"We gonna stitch 'im up or what?" Shane said as they all spilled into the next room. Merle had already deposited Daryl onto the countertop; the younger Dixon still held tight to the elder with his good hand, his head still resting in the curve of Merle's neck.

"How y'wanna do tha'?" Merle grumbled. He didn't bother to listen for the cop's response, if there was one. Instead, his attention turned one hundred percent to Daryl. "Stay with me, bro," he said, squeezing Daryl's upper arm. Daryl fought to keep his eyes open and nodded his head. "Alrigh', easy," Merle said, pushing his brother down as gently as he could. Daryl still had his injured hand cradled against his chest. "Lemme look," Merle demanded. Daryl whimpered in response, but still rolled towards Merle, holding his injured wrist out towards his brother. "Christ," Merle breathed as he inspected the wound. Daryl hissed when he touched it.

"We have to stitch 'im up," Shane repeated.

Merle ignored him. When he'd finished his inspection of the wound he started glancing around for anything in the room that might be useful. When he found the stove beside Daryl an idea burst into his brain. Merle fished in his pocket until he was able to produce a lighter. He moved around his brother, one reassuring hand squeezing Daryl's calf as he passed. He flicked on one of the burners, heart pounding as he sparked the lighter and held it towards the burner. The flame caught quickly and Merle sent up a silent a prayer to whatever fucking god had blessed this room with a gas stove. Merle put the lighter away and pulled out his knife and slid it onto the counter for later use. He then started digging through the cabinets in the room.

"What do you need?" Rick asked.

"Alcohol," Merle answered without turning away from his task. He rifled through cabinet after cabinet, sniffing at bottles he found, frowning when each one just didn't suit the need.

"I'm not sure if now's a great time to drink," Glenn said nervously, voice wavering.

"Not to drink, idiot," Merle growled.

"Disinfectant," Shane explained. He was bent down, poking through an old cabinet. He swiped something out of it, inspecting it briefly before offering it to Merle. "Here." Shane passed the other man a small bottle of vodka. Merle inspected the label impatiently. "80 proof," Shane said. Merle nodded and turned to his brother. He roughly grabbed the piece of cloth that had been tied around Daryl's arm. Daryl bit his lip, but wasn't able to hold back his little whimper at the pain.

"Easy, Darylina," Merle said almost absently as he retied the cloth as tight as he could make it. "Easy," he repeated, unscrewing the cap on the vodka bottle. Cleaning the wound was messier than it should have been, the alcohol spilling all over Daryl's skin and pooling on the counter, mixing with his brother's blood in a strange, sticky solution. Some even dripped down on the floor, little droplets assaulting Merle's boots. Daryl hissed and tried his damndest to curl in on himself, but Merle kept an arm in place to block him. "C'mon, don't be a pussy," he chided and Daryl snarled back at him.

"You'll need this," Rick said, taking the knife. Merle looked at him over Daryl and curtly nodded his head. Then Merle tore his wristband off and handed it to Daryl. "Bite down on it," he instructed. "Yer gonna need it."

The younger Dixon needed no more encouragement. He clenched the leather band between his teeth and waited.

"What are you doing?" Glenn asked, brow creased in confusion and concern as Rick thrust the knife into the flame.

"Cauterizing the wound," Shane explained. Glenn said nothing—he merely grimaced and groaned. When Rick had heated the metal blade of Merle's hunting knife he carefully handed it back to its owner.

"Alrigh', Dar," Merle said, taking hold of Daryl's forearm. He scanned for the bloodiest spot on Daryl's wrist and pressed the hot metal against his brother's skin. Had the leather cuff not been in Daryl's mouth he would have screamed at the sensation. As it was, he bit down so hard it hurt, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, guttural grunts vibrating in his throat. "Yer fine," Merle told him as he eased the blade along the wound. "More," he said eventually, passing the knife to Rick who immediately plunged it into the fire. Daryl was panting harshly, Merle's wristband still clenched between his teeth. Merle patted his side. "Yer okay," he promised.

The knife was returned to Merle again and he sucked in his breath as he placed it right where he'd left off. Daryl jerked and Merle curled his fingers tighter around his brother's arm, saying nothing save for one grunt. He was finished quickly and tossed the knife to the side, replacing it with the vodka bottle. He drained it of its remaining contents, coating the angry red mouth of the burn with the last of the alcohol. Daryl's body was rigid under Merle's grasp, every muscle tense, even after the bottle had been empty and allowed to roll away, now entirely useless.

"C'mon, lil' D, yer good," Merle said, squeezing Daryl's shoulder. Daryl let out a breath, the wristband falling out of his mouth. There were creases the leather, perfect imprints of Daryl's teeth. Beads of sweat were adorning every inch of visible, incredibly reddened flesh. Daryl's breathing was shallow and harsh.

"We should get 'im antibiotics," Rick suggested.

"Where?" Shane asked, hands on his hips. "Hospital's too far into the city—we'll get ourselves killed."

"What about a clinic? Doctor's office?" Rick asked. He looked from Shane to Glenn expectantly.

"I-I don't know about any clinics," Glenn admitted.

"Don' need 'em," Daryl quipped. Still lying on the countertop, the younger Dixon flipped himself onto his back and, with his good hand, fished in the pocket of his jeans until he produced a small orange pill bottle. "I got this," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "All I could find." Merle took the bottle, squinting at the tiny print on the label.

"Doxycycline," he said, a slight smile pulling at one side of his mouth. "Shit, bro. C'mere, sit up." Merle's hand slid along Daryl's back, guiding him into a sitting position with his legs dangling over the side of the counter. Daryl blinked a few times, lightheaded from the movement, still feeling the dull ache in his wrist. Merle kept a hand on his arm, steadying him as Daryl stubbornly pushed himself off the counter. He still leaned against it heavily, Merle's grip on him tightening to keep him from falling.

"M'fine," Daryl mumbled, pushing away from his brother. He reached for the pill bottle. Merle twisted off the cap and shook a few into Daryl's waiting hand. The younger nodded his thanks and tossed the pills into his mouth, grimacing as he dry-swallowed the medication.

"Should git some water in ya, too," Merle said. Daryl nodded again, but didn't seem to paying much attention as he undid the tourniquet on his arm, letting it fall onto the tiled floor.

"I've got a bottle," Glenn said. He swung his backpack around to his front, allowing it to double as a sort of barrier as he approached the Dixon brothers. After a minute of rooting around he produced a Poland Spring bottle. He uncapped it before handing it to Daryl. Daryl raised the bottle to his lips and titled his head back to drink. After a few slow, testing sips, Daryl got greedier, gulping down the water until he'd nearly drained the bottle.

"Yer gonna make yerself sick," Merle warned. Daryl scowled, but still pulled the bottle away from his mouth. Merle swiped it from him for good measure, tipping back his head and emptying the rest of the water into his own mouth. Glenn looked like he wanted to say something. "What?" Merle snapped at him, crushing the plastic in his fist.

"N-Nothing," Glenn stammered. Merle snarled, tossing the bottle onto the ground. In the following silence an echoing groan sounded from the hall. Every muscle in every body tensed, each armed hand reaching for its weapon. Daryl made to grab at his crossbow only to realize he didn't have it. With an aggravated growl, he swiped Merle's abandoned hunting knife off the counter.

The sound of shuffling feet grew nearer. Rick and Shane moved as a unit towards the door, each with their side arm in hand, raised and ready to fire. Merle, too, moved forward, Daryl right behind him, fist clenched around the hilt of his brother's knife. Glenn quietly placed himself at the back of the group, eyes darting around for something that might bash in some geek's head if he needed to.

The first walker stumbled into the room, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, split down the middle. She growled around it. Her eyes, so eerily blue they were nearly translucent, flicked over each hardened face before a horrid, guttural, sputtering sound leaked from her throat.

"You are one ugly skank," Daryl drawled, pushing himself past his brother and grabbing the corpse by the shoulder. The walker growled, twisting her neck and snapping her teeth, trying to get a hold of him until the blade cut through the top of her head and she toppled to the ground. Daryl yanked the knife free, wiping the gore off on his jeans. The thump of the limp body hitting the floor garnered attention from others. Daryl scowled, peering into the hall. "Bitch brought friends," he said.

Merle grunted and was at his brother's side in an instant, slamming the butt of his pistol into the soft skull of the next walker before it could even get out one hungry growl. The third barreled forward, reaching forward with rotten, half-decayed hands that had thin bones in place of three fingers. The fleshy ones still curled in the air, desperate to grab hold of a meal.

Merle shoved the walker back and Daryl followed it, shoving his knife right into the thing's rotten eye. Thick, dark blood oozed from the wound as the younger Dixon grabbed hold of the walker's head to hold it steady. It twitched in his grasp and with a primal snarl Daryl twisted the blade. The sound of metal on bone laid beneath the squelch of blood and flesh and there was a quick metallic shing! as Daryl removed the weapon. Behind him, one gunshot sounded. Both Dixon's turned to see Shane standing over the walker Merle had left writhing on the floor. The corpse was still now, dead twice over.

Like that, everything changed. There was movement deep in the shadows, moans and grunts resounding off the walls. Glenn jolted, heart hammering in his chest. Rick tensed, Shane growled, and the Dixon brothers shared a glance before the whole group jerked into action. The walkers spilled from every nook and cranny of the place, staggering towards the men with their grimy hands reaching out.

Glenn grabbed a knife from the block beside the stove and, though trembling, he slashed an oncoming corpse across the face. The thing let out a pained wail, one of its hands covering the gash as though it could catch the pouring blood. The other blindly searched for Glenn. One shot from Rick's Python had it on the ground, lifeless.

"C'mon!" Shane shouted elbowing one walker in the chest and kicking another backwards into Daryl's borrowed knife.

"Watch yer back!" Merle called to Daryl as he fired at a geek inching dangerously close to his brother. Daryl swung around in time to clear the way for the thing fall flat on its face. He dug the heel of his boot into its temple before hastily stepping over it. Merle fired again, ahead of himself this time, clipping another dead freak in the jaw. He knelt down by it, slammed the butt of his gun hard into its head.

"Let's go!" Shane bellowed over the chaos. He fired three shots, killing two walkers and injuring another. The injured one tripped over its fallen allies, its horrid shriek following it down to the ground. "This way!" Shane instructed, running towards Merle. The elder Dixon reached to his side, his fingers grazing Daryl's arm to grab the younger's attention. They both charged down the dark corridor, Shane hot on their heels. They could hair frantic footsteps father behind them, surely Rick and Glenn.

"Shit!" Merle cursed when greedy hands brushed his ankle. He growled in annoyance—the offender was legless, lying on the ground in a sad, bloody heap, its insides sprawled across the floor. Merle struck its temple with the heel of his boot before carrying on.

"Fuck," Daryl swore behind him. Two had converged on him, teeth snapping. His brain was still muddled from the sun; he was lightheaded, dehydrated, and through it all he grit his teeth and jammed his knife into the nearer corpse's forehead. A shot from behind him took out the second. He glanced back to see Rick and Glenn catching up, the former with his gun raised, still smoking from its last shot. Daryl didn't spare the extra time to thank the cop; his confusion shifted to determination all over his features, ambition deep in his eyes as he whirled around, knocking another walker off balance and driving his knife into its head.

He aggressively tore the blade free and sprinted as fast as his tired legs would carry him to catch up to Shane and, more importantly, Merle.

"Christ," he heard Shane groan. The hum of hunger was clear ahead of them, a great mob traveling towards them. Slow moving as they were, there were too many for the small group to deal with—with three guns and two knives it was a miracle they'd made it this far. Merle growled, primitively from the very back of his throat, before he spun around and ducked into a stairwell. Shane looked at the door, still swinging open on its hinges, and took another glance at the oncoming storm before swearing and throwing himself after Merle. Daryl was quick to follow, arriving just in time to see Merle kick the glass away from the large window on the first landing of the staircase.

"Man—" Shane started, but Merle growled again.

"Y'see another way out?" he demanded.

"He's right," Daryl agreed.

"C'mon, brother," Merle said. He kicked away some of the remaining glass before jumping through the gap. Some jagged edges caught his skin, bringing little trails of blood trickling down his arms as he crashed onto the slim section of roofing below. Daryl was next, narrowly avoiding slamming into his brother. They both looked up, seeing if the rest of the group would follow. There was a frightened cry from inside, two shots. "Let's go," Merle said, already moving to the edge, finding the fire escape. He lowered himself onto it carefully. Daryl watched the window for a moment longer, listening to the scuffle above him. Another terrified yelp, another shot. Muffled voices. "Daryl!" Merle said, slamming his hand against the brick wall. Daryl shook his head, refocusing himself, and dropped into the metal stairs beside Merle.

There was a crash from overhead. Daryl looked back to see Rick on the landed, panting and sweat with blood smeared across the front of his shirt, his arms, his neck. Shane was next, and after a moment's hesitation Glenn was free, bumping into Shane in his landing. Merle was already making his way down the ladder. Daryl growled, brain working hard to make a decision. The walkers could still be heard. Their bloody faces were pressed against the remaining foggy glass of the window.

"C'mon!" Daryl shouted before disappearing down the ladder, too. Merle was already waiting in the alley, tense and alert, when Daryl arrived. The others were close behind him. Rick seemed rattled and once they were on the ground Shane kept patting his shoulder, his back, assuring him that everything was fine. Glenn was shaken. It seemed he'd dropped his knife somewhere along the way because his hands were now empty. He kept nervously adjusting the straps of his backpack.

The alley seemed clear. The all stood there, looking at each other and at their surroundings, trying to calm themselves. Shane started pacing, rubbing his head as he did. He paused and rounded on the group, eyes specifically zeroing in on Rick.

"We need to get back. Now," he declared. Rick, though, shook his head.

"No. We still have to get the guns."

"Guns?" Daryl asked, intrigued, questioning eyes landing on his brother. Merle nodded. Daryl did, too, and looked back to the two cops.

"What he have to do is get back to the camp," Shane argued.

"The camp needs guns," Rick insisted. "What did that just prove?" he asked, pointing upwards at the building. "What if they attack the camp like that? How are those people gonna defend themselves?"

"The bag isn't far from here," Glenn added. He seemed calmer, now, his breathing more level. He swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. "Just down that way," he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "We run in, we grab it, we run out."

"I ain't riskin' my life for—"

"Shane," Rick said.

"Listen," Glenn added. He pulled a map from his pocket, crouched down and opened it in front of himself. Shane looked annoyed, nostril's flaring like an angry bull's, but one look at Rick made him comply. The cops bent down on either side of Glenn, eyes on his map. The Dixons shared another quick glance. They didn't crouch with the others, but hung back, just close enough to still be considered part of the group. "The van is here, and the guns are here," Glenn started, pointing to a spot on the map. "This is the alley I dragged you—" he glanced up at Rick briefly, "into when we met."

"We station two of us there," Rick said, putting his finger next to Glenn's on the map.

"And two with me here," Glenn said, agreeing, as he pointed to the next alley over. "I run out, grab the bag, meet you here," he dragged his finger along the paper to show the path. "When I get there, we give a signal to the other two, waiting back here."

"Regroup, get back to the van," Shane concluded.

"And git the hell outta here," Merle finished. "Alrigh'. Daryl 'n I'll meet ya here," he said, pointing to the second alley Glenn had indicated. He looked to his brother, who nodded his agreement. Glenn, Shane, and Rick all looked to each other before nodding as well. A signal of three sharp whistles was agreed on before the brothers made their way swiftly to their post.

"What's the real plan?" Daryl asked when they were out of earshot of the others.

"Help 'em git th'guns back to camp," Merle said. "Go back with 'em. Tonight, wait 'til they're all out, take th' guns, ammo, whatever we can an' hit the road."

Daryl was thoughtfully quiet for a moment. "Okay," he agreed after a while. They settled into the alley to wait. It wasn't long before the first three whistles sounded. Merle had his gun ready. Daryl tightened his grip on his knife. They watched as Glenn snuck into the street, swiftly and carefully. His eyes darted up and down the road as he crept towards the bag. He snatched it up quickly and darted towards the Dixons.

"Shit," Glenn cursed as he skidded into the alleyway.

"Give 'em to me," was the first thing Merle said, reaching for the bag. Glenn did have much of a choice as the elder Dixon grabbed the strap of the duffel bag and slug it over his shoulder. "Give the signal," he ordered. Daryl obliged, sending out three quick, high whistles before turning around to follow Glenn and Merle towards the van.

"Y'got some balls fer a Chinaman," Daryl quipped, clapping Glenn on the shoulder as he caught up with him. Glenn let out an annoyed huff.

"I'm Korean," he corrected.

"Whatever," Merle said.

"That's our guns!" a foreign voice ran out. The three stilled, deep scowls creasing the Dixons' brows. Glenn just seemed confused as he turned towards the sound.

"What the shit?" Daryl asked, whirling around as well. A skinny kid was running up the alley, anger written all over his features.

"That's our guns!" the kid repeated.

"Like hell they are!" Merle practically laughed as his brother's elbow colliding with the kid's collarbone, sending him crashing to the pavement. Daryl loomed over the teen, pinning him down with one arm, holding his knife dangerously close to the kid's face. The kid whimpered and squirmed under Daryl's grasp.

Rick and Shane stayed low, watching carefully as Glenn sprinted into the street.

"Kid's got guts," Shane observed. Rick merely hummed his response, focused on watching the youth reach his destination. A hungry snarl from behind drew his attention away from Glenn. The walker was ambling from the other side of the alley, grunting and groaning to itself on its way. Shane had his side arm aimed and ready but Rick held out his hand.

"Wait," he said. Shane's brow creased, clearly annoyed.

"Man, come on," he complained.

"Noise," Rick said simply. Shane looked like he wanted to argue, but held his tongue. He kept his eye on the walker through, and his gun ready; just in case. Rick kept his gaze trained front, allowing his friend to keep tabs on the stumbling corpse. It wasn't long before those three whistles pierced the air. "Signal," Rick said, tapping Shane on the side as he straightened up Shane glared at the walker once more before following his partner carefully into the street. Rick paused by his hat, which Glenn had left behind in favor of the guns.

"You serious?" Shane asked when he saw what Rick was so intent on. A small smile tugged at Rick's lips as he shrugged and bent down, grabbing the hat to perch it on top of his head.

"Completes the look," he said, shrugging again. Shane actually let out a laugh at that and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"Whatever you say, man," he said. A sudden yelp caught both their attention, had them both on guard in seconds. It was coming from the alley the others were meant to be waiting in. They took off towards the source, all lightheartedness abandoned as they practically raced each other towards the alleyway. Shane was cut off when he was struck from the side, a blow strong enough to send him tumbling to the ground. Rick reached out to help but was hit from behind. He crashed onto his hands and knees and whirled around just in time to grab the offender by the shirt.

"What the fuck?!" Shane growled, throwing himself at the first attacker, pinning him to the ground. Rick wrestled with the second, his Python skittering along the pavement as he struggled to gain the upper hand.

"Filipe!" they heard over the struggle. "They got our guns, Filipe! Help!"

"H-help!" the kid called out. "They got our guns! Help!"

"Ain't no one gonna help you, son," Merle scoffed. The kid still strained against Daryl's hold, calling out for help, screaming about how "they got our guns, man, help!" and Merle growled deep his throat and aimed his own pistol at the kid's head. The teen whimpered again, trying to pull away as the cool barrel poked at his temple.

"Filipe!" he called. "They got our guns, Filipe, help!" He tried to kick and managed to hit and knee Daryl's legs a few times, which only angered the younger Dixon more and made his grip tighter.

"Cut th'shit," Merle growled. He pressed the gun against the kid's temple. The teen whined and tried to turn away.

"Guys," Glenn said, voice shaky. "We've got a problem."

"Huh?" Merle glanced over his shoulder to see that the 'problem' Glenn was talking about was two walkers, drawn by the scuffle. The Dixons growled together and shoved the kid away from them. Daryl raced forward, shoving his knife through the top of one walker's head. As he struggled to yank his weapon free, he kicked at the second walker down, holding it with his foot.

The kid took advantage of his newfound freedom, lunging forward, grabbing at the bag slung across Merle's back.

"Woah, woah!" Glenn shouted, reaching for the stranger to pull him away.

"That's our guns!" the kid insisted, twisting away from Glenn while fighting to maintain his grip on the bag.

"Like hell!" Merle hissed, whirling around, tearing the bag free from the boy's grasp. A few handguns fell loose, skidding across the asphalt. The kid lunged for the bag again and Merle aimed his own pistol down, firing once before shouting, "Let's go!"