'What to do if you find yourself stuck
in a crack in the ground, underneath a giant boulder you can't move, with no hope of rescue:
Consider how lucky you are
that life has been good to you so far.
Alternatively, if life hasn't been good to you so far, which given your current circumstances seems more likely, consider how lucky you are
that life won't be troubling you much longer.'

-douglas adams

⤐

  'We're on easy street, and it feels so sweet, cause the world is but a treat when you're on easy street.'

  That fucking song.

  Daryl had heard the song countless times already, the assholes just outside his cell had played it over and over again, the cheery tune a taunting jab that he was on anything but easy street. It came full blast through his door, and every now and then they would pause it, only long enough to let him get to the brink of sleep before it screamed out through the speakers once again.

  He knew what they were doing. Not a stupid man.

  They wanted to drive him crazy, wanted him to do anything they asked him in order to turn that fucking song off, they beat him and stripped him bare ass naked, gave him nothing but dog food sandwiches and that fucking song.

  They wanted to break him.

  They can all eat shit.

He knew hunger, and pain. He was very familiar with those. They could give him shit sandwiches all day, and he can take a punch better than any of those sorry fucking rats. What he couldn't stand was missing her.

He was torn between two sides of himself. On one hand, the ache of losing her was too much to handle, setting his skin on fire and gnashing his teeth together. On the other, the only thing keeping him from ending it altogether and bashing his skull into the concrete was the thought of Zeppelin.

  He thought of her face, over and over, forcing himself to hold on to the memory. Each time the song started over again, he'd go through a checklist in his mind of each moment where he could clearly remember that beautiful face.

  When he first met her, and she was scrawny and disheveled with eyes like a wild fox, then she was darting away into the trees the moment he looked down. When he was feeling sorry for himself, learning to breathe again after losing Sophia, and then by some miracle she was there, standing in the road and drenched head to toe in another man's blood. That night they laid by the fire and let their knuckles rest against each other's. The moment she decided to leave the group. Leave him.

He knew that one well enough, he had seen that memory plenty of times; it played on repeat in the nights they were apart from each other.

He pushed on.

  Her face again in the Terminus car, stronger and tougher this time, with an added layer of hopelessness he hadn't seen before. Her bubbly laughter as he told her one of his stories about Merle while they hunted together. Gazing at him from across the fire when she thought he wasn't paying attention to her, he always was, the flames casting an orange glow over her skin and sparkling like diamonds in her eyes.

  The despair and anguish in her eyes when she realized Veronica was gone. The way she pushed away from him, but something in her gaze begged to reach out.

  The first time she kissed him, then when they grabbed at each other in the woods, then the first night he stayed in her bed.

  Her face was calm then, warm, happy.

  The memories came to a screeching halt.

  He wouldn't let himself get any farther, couldn't.

  He couldn't bring himself to think of the time when their relationship deepened into the laughs, the light touches and hungry kisses, her breathy little gasps and the way her fingers dug into his skin.

  It just hurt too damn bad.

  Instead, he restarted and went though the list again.

  Then, hours or days later, though it had all started to kind of mold together, he even started seeing her in the cell with him. Across from him, beside him, but always just out of reach. He could feel the warmth of her skin, hear her whispers and light laughter, or the sound of his name sweetly dripping off her tongue. But when he reached out for her, she was gone.

  None of it was real.

  He shivered and felt like his very bones were clacking together. He pressed his forehead into the damp concrete floor and sobbed.

⤐

Her bones were aching, and her stomach clenched around its own emptiness, but she forced herself to keep moving.

The longer I take, the more likely I am to lose the trail.

The thin, sparse trees were only a blur as she sprinted past them. Her legs were shaking, her heart slammed wildly against her ribs and her lungs screamed, but she forced herself to keep moving.

The longer I take, the less likely I am to find Daryl.

Her boot caught on a large root sticking out of the ground in a wide half circle and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out as she tripped. Her pace slowed, and she gritted her teeth to pull her focus away from the ankle throbbing in rhythm with her throbbing heartbeat, and forced herself to keep moving.

She could see the tree line in the distance now, the packed dirt in the center of the woods where she lost everything, the clearing void of life and stripped bare just as she had been.

She skirted to a stop at the edge, the early morning sun filtering through the circle of leafy branches high above, washing over her skin in a warm, golden glow. The clearing looked very different the flashing imagery her brain kept cycling through. Though it was empty, she could still see the cars surrounding them, the men circling them like vultures poised for the kill, Negan's grin as he paced back and forth.

  Her feet moved forward slowly, the pain in her ankle already forgotten as she let her gaze fall to the smudged crimson dirt.

The walker from before must have had his fill of Glenn and Abraham, leaving nothing behind but bloody stains. Her knees buckled and she wiped a hand across her forehead to refocus herself, suddenly gulping for air as tears started to well in her eyes.

  A crash rang out from the boarded up building, and Maggie and Zepp raised their rifles to the door just as Glenn came bumbling through, his cheeks flushed and his hair wild. He shot them a wide, toothy grin and shrugged his shoulders, his gaze darting between the two women.

  'Walker?' Zepp cocked an eyebrow, peering behind him to get a glimpse into the house.

  'Uh.. yeah,' he lied, then cleared his throat, fidgeting with his rifle. 'Walker.' A sheepish smile crept over his face and he slung the rifle over his shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  'Really?' Maggie laughed and tilted her head, awaiting the truth.

  He hesitated and scuffed his boot in the gravel. 'Stack of buckets and a mop...' he said, finally cracked under the pressure of his wife's loving observation. 'I tripped.'

  Zepp snickered, twisting on her heels to scout out the next house as Glenn wrapped an arm around Maggie's shoulders and followed close behind.

  The thunderous buzz of insects humming in her ear set her nerves on edge, clamping her jaw tight as she adjusted the pack on her shoulder and stepped around the blood. She made her way across the clearing, and forced herself to draw her gaze away from the second stain... from Abraham.

  'Drink this, freckles,' Abraham tossed her the flask as he plopped down next to her, the crackling fire turning his red hair into glowing flames.

  She sniffed loudly, ran her hands over her forehead and back through her hair. Her fingers trembled as they unscrewed the cap and brought it to her lips, tilting back to pour the burning liquid down her throat.

  'Hey, whoa, I said drink it, not chug it,' he smiled as he took the flask back from her, tossing a gulp down.

  'How do you do it?' She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, the tears slowly traveling down her cheeks growing warm next to the fire. 'How do you just keep going? We..' her breath hitched and she gulped, turning her head to face him. 'Everything is working against us to get to D.C.'

Abraham nodded, resting his elbows on his knees.

'Cause we gotta do what we gotta do, kid.

  The way he looked straight into the black hole Negan had created.. it sent shivers down her spine. He died believing he was the one, that he would take one last hit for his crew; the captain goes down with the ship and all that. It should've been her, she deserved it more than he did. Abraham followed a cause, had a clear sense of where he needed to go to do some good in this world. Zeppelin just.. floated.

It should've been her. She tried. She had straightened her shoulders, looked to Negan and tried to show him that she wasn't afraid of him. Why didn't he pick her? What did he see in Abraham that he didn't see in her own sacrificial plea? It should've been her.

She inhaled a shaky breath and let herself cry for a moment longer, wiping away all the tears she'd allow herself to release for now. She couldn't let herself slip into that void now, because once she started, she was afraid it would swallow her whole. Instead, she forced the anguish she felt deep, deep down into her chest, shutting the door and locking it firmly.

The tire tracks still marred the road, though they had already started to fade to the elements.

Seeing as how she had nothing else to latch her hopes onto, she followed them north, letting them lead her back into the forest. She brushed her hand against one of the large trunks and stopped to carve a small x into the thick wood. Somewhere in the distance, a twig snapped and she jumped, crouching low behind the overgrown brush, the whispy green tendrils tickling her cheeks and neck.

The groan of a walker registered in her ears and she sighed, relaxing the tension in her shoulders and rising to her feet. The rotting corpse was ambling towards her, a chunk of flesh ripped clean off his cheek, and where his nose once was now just revealed a bloody, gaping hole in the center of his face. Thin, mousy brown hair hung in patches across his skull and an orange polo hung from the skeletal frame. Zeppelin kept her feet still, unwilling to leave her trail of tire marks, and waited for the mindless thing to get closer to her before she plunged her knife deep in the center of his forehead.

The walker crumbled to her feet and she stepped around it, wiping the blade against her faded black jeans. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her and her ears open. The biting wind picked up it's pace, whistling around tree trunks and whipping the loose curls hanging out of her hood. She glanced up at the sky and grimaced at the dark clouds gathering there. She willed her feet to move faster, even though she wanted to scream at the realization that she had no idea how far away their compound was, and that it was highly likely she'd lose the trail in the rain before she found them.

She pushed all that away, forced her thoughts and feelings to close themselves off and shut the hell up already as she broke out into a full sprint.

Daryl. I have to find him. I have to find Daryl.

⤐

  Daryl's cell was dark, though his eyes had adjusted enough to see the blood and dirt smeared on the concrete walls. It was freezing, though that might be more due to the fact that he was naked. He could hear the faint drip of water coming from somewhere in the few short moments his warden's favorite song stopped playing.

  He groaned, wincing as he rolled his shoulders. They at least had the decency to patch up the wound Dwight had so lovingly given him, but nobody gave a shit if he could feel the pain or not.

  He wasn't sure how much time had passed since they threw him in, but any amount of time was too long away from Zepp. He wondered what she was doing right now, if Rick brought her back to Alexandria. Knowing her, she'd fight tooth and nail the whole way home, but he prayed Rick kept her from following the Saviors. He was sure he must have.. Rick knew he would never forgive him if he let something happen to her, right?

  Dwight would open the door now and then to throw him a sandwich stuffed with dog food, staring coldly down at him with beady little eyes and a tight smile before he would slam the door shut again. Daryl wouldn't look up at him, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing the dead glaze over his eyes. He kept his gaze to the ground and his muscles tense, crouched against the cold stone. One plus side was that the shivers coating his dirt covered bare skin distracted him of the thought of how the canned dog food and moldy bread tastes.

  Finally, has it been one day or two? fuck, I can't remember, the assholes gave him some actual clothes. Ratty pants and a matching sweatshirt with an orange A spray painted across the chest. He quickly threw them on and crouched back down in his corner. What seemed like a few more hours passed by and he rest his head on his knees, staring off into the dark space of his cell. The song restarted for the hundredth time, the jolly claps scattered throughout the tune slapping against his skull.

  The door flung open and the light from the hallway nearly blinded him, his eyes already too familiar with the deep pitch black surrounding him.

  Dwight sauntered in, holding his bow like some damn trophy he was showing' off. He snatched Daryl by the back of his shirt collar and pulled him to his feet, shoving him out the door. He kept that hand on his collar the whole time they walked down the endless corridors, Daryl's bare feet padding against the cold concrete floors. He focused on memorizing the path from his cell to wherever they were going.

  Straight from the cell, right, left, left, right, red door. Sunlight coming from the crack in that door over there.

Dwight pushed him hard between the shoulder blades, through the threshold of a door into a room that smelled like rubbing alcohol and plastic. A makeshift doctors office, equipped with an examination table and cabinets stocked with various pills and tools. Two windows were high in the opposite corner, too high up for him to get a view of where he was in the building.

Plopped down on the examination table was the woman Dwight was with in the burnt forest. Sherry, the name roiled in his brain. She looked completely different now, back at home in this hell hole. Her dress was clean and crisp, and her hair and skin were clean and shiny. She looked over at Dwight and let a small smile twist her full lips before quickly looking away.

  "Dr. Carson," Dwight muttered in greeting.

"We were just finishing up," the doctor said. Dr. Carson was a middle aged man with a kind smile. He wore a long white lab coat and a faintly uncomfortable expression. Daryl stood there awkwardly, his gaze darting around the too clean room.

"Chop chop," Dwight commented sarcastically. Sherry slid off the edge of the table, fiddling with the hem of her short, flowery dress.

"Hi, D," she whispered, her expression sad and hopeful as she waited for him to respond.

"Hey," Dwight shot back, shifting in the awkward tension. For the first time, Sherry let her gaze fall to Daryl, the realization growing in her face.

"Daryl, right?" Her voice was soft and melodic, a welcome change to the rough grumble of Dwight and the sharp tune of the never ending song. He kept his eyes down, fixating on a spot of dirt smudged on the pale floor.

"Don't talk to him," Dwight snapped, shoving Daryl towards the table. Sherry stepped to the side, crossing her arms in front of her. Daryl watched them both from the shield of the sweaty hair dangling in front of his face, caught their body language and silent words. A pregnancy test was laying out on the table next to them and he could see Dwight's muscles tense and contract.

"It's negative," Sherry murmured.

"Oh well, maybe next time." Dwight's reply was short and crisp, as if he couldn't care less what was growing in her womb. She shook her head and paced closer to Daryl hunched over on the table.

"Whatever they say.." she whispered, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Oranges. "Just do it."

"I said don't talk to him," Dwight said. The two stared at each other for another moment and the doctor took his opportunity to interrupt whatever the hell was going on with them.

"Alright, let's take a look." The doctor pulled down the back of Daryl's sweatshirt, poking around at the sore wound there, the hole in his flesh where the bullet went straight through. "Oh, yeah.. it'll get better, if you let it. Negan will take care of you. Trust me."

Daryl said nothing. To be honest, he was hardly even there anymore. The moment the doctor had touched him, he let his mind wander off again. Back to home, back to Zepp, back to the swing on their back porch where he first let himself think the word 'love'.

  And then before he knew it, his time out of the cell was already over, and Dwight was dragging him by his collar again and yanking him out into the hallway. They passed a few workers mopping the floor with shaking arms and their eyes averted. They turned a corner just as Negan did, and instantly, Dwight dropped to his knee, pulling Daryl down with him.

  The moment he saw Negan's face, that same leather jacket, the barbed bat that was coated in his friend's blood, his very blood began to boil inside his skin, his face growing hot and his muscles tensing.

  "Dwighty, boy," Negan grinned, resting his precious bat against his shoulder. His twinkling, devilish eyes dropped to Daryl and he chuckled softly. "I need to talk to my associate for a minute. Go about your business," he ordered the workers behind them. "Except for you, you stay right there," he pointed to the man directly behind Daryl, a heavy set guy with a thick beard and a squashed nose. Dwight pulled Daryl to his feet and threw him down into the tiny wooden chair in the hallway.

  "Sit," he grumbled, turning back to face Negan. The other man clicked the hammer of his pistol, aiming it towards Daryl's head as he leaned back against the wall. The chair was directly in front of the room with the red door, standing wide open now. A faded leather arm chair rest in the corner, a full bookshelf with a leafy plant on top just behind it. There was a studio kitchen with green cabinets, an actual microwave, and empty water bottles littering the counter. A lumpy twin size bed in the middle and an old tv off to the side.

  It seemed weird, out of place in an otherwise cold and empty warehouse. It reminded him of the studio he shared with Merle for a few months before his brother fought the landlord and got them both kicked out.

  Dwight returned after a few moments, standing over him with a hard glare. "Let's go." He pulled him out of the chair and pushed him back down the hallway.

  Is this my life again? Daryl wondered. Grabbed and dragged and pushed around? It reminded him of his years with his dad and Merle.. until he was old enough and strong enough to fight back.

  They passed what felt like an endless amount of doors, turned around so many corners that he lost track of what direction they were going. Finally, they came to an emergency exit at the end of a dark hallway. Sunlight crept through the cracks, fully blinding him when Dwight pushed it open with a thud.

  Finally, he could get a view of his surroundings.

They were in a large factory, rusted metal piled up in various spots in the dirt and gravel. The building was surrounded by a chain link fence, and on the other side was a wall of walkers. They were chained to stone barricades or staked to the ground, their arms reaching and jaws snapping. Some of them wore the same sweats he did with different letters spray painted on. That's when he noticed it wasn't just walkers beyond the fence.

There were living, breathing men out there with them. They were struggling with the walkers, fighting them off and pushing them away. One of the men had both arms out, shoving against a walker's shoulders as it pawed at him. Then the corpse dropped, a bolt shot clean through it's skull. The man moved on to the next walker, helping a man with a F across his chest.

"You know, I'm getting the hang of this thing," Dwight chuckled as he examined the bow in his hands. Daryl ignored him still, watching as the men behind the fence ripped a plastic bucket off the head of another corpse. Suddenly, he could feel Dwight's hot breath on his neck as he shoved him forward against the chain link fence.

"That's you, asshole," Dwight growled, his voice low and calculating. "Unless you're smart. Your choice. You could be like them... or me. Or them."

  And with that, they were walking away from the fence, leaving the sunshine behind as the metal door slammed shut. The walk back to his cell was quiet and tense, and he was almost grateful to be back in his dark room. He crawled back to his corner, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Make it easy on yourself." Dwight lingered in the doorway of the cell, fiddling with the ends of the bolts strapped to the bow.

"I ain't ever gonna kneel." Daryl's throat stung from the disuse, his voice cracking and straining.

Dwight shook his head. "Yeah, I said that, too."

Daryl looked up at him with a narrowed, cold gaze. "Yeah, I know."

"See..." Dwight spoke softly. "That's the thing, man. You don't. But you're gonna." He turned around and closed the door, leaving Daryl in the dark.

  Alone, cold, and that stupid fucking song blasting his ears again.

He covered his ears with his hands, slapping the sides of his skull in an attempt to muffle the sound, but it didn't work. Then he was scrambling to his feet, dragging his fingers down every crease of the door, searching for some crack in the seal he could take advantage of. There was nothing. He got on his stomach and checked what he could see of the hallway from the small space underneath. There weren't any shadows he could see, no feet waiting for him just outside his cell.

Fuck this.

He got up and slammed his foot into the door, just next to the handle, then again, and again. Over and over he kicked the door, slipping into another version of himself as easily as slipping on satin gloves. He felt the pain of each kick against the metal, each slam sending a crack of lightning through his ankle.

  With each kick he pictured Negan's face, the sickly smile spread across it as he leaned down close to Zepp, the ravenous, feral glint in his eye when she screamed for him to take her arm instead of Carl's. He pictured himself doing to Negan what he did to them, slamming a bat into his head the way his foot slammed against the door now. When the pain was too much to handle, he switched to his hands, then his shoulder, then his skull.

  It was useless. The door was just as sturdy as it had always been from the beginning. He could fight and thrash and scream and cry, but the door will stay closed. He collapsed in the corner, then everything went black.