Dark Meat [Walking Dead]

Chapter Two

-- If you're reading this, thanks! I appreciate people reading my stories --

Once we clear Nortown, I let out a sigh of relief.

I had originally wanted to leave town, maybe head up to Atlanta like we were told; but nobody wanted to take Tessa Finch, town outcast. I guess the whole Finch family have always been society's outcasts and scumbags. Mum, Dad, Uncle Frank and my brother have all been to jail, more than once, so it's no surprise that all were reluctant to let me travel with them.

Rows of thick oaks, aspens, pines and rowan pass as in green blurs, the forest becoming a comforting a repetitive sight. On the second day I had tried to run from town, only to be cut off not a kilometre down the highway by a group of recently turned Walkers. That was when I actually realised I couldn't get out of Nortown on my own, so in a slightly twisted way, Daryl and Merle have been a God-send.

"Wha' t'you got in there anyway?" Daryl asks, leaning across his seat to eye the thick pack sitting beside me. I nervously draw it closer and shrug.

"Jus' s'me stuff." My answer is vague and dismissive, though I know he's asking after what I promised them, rather than out of simple curiosity. I unclip the flap at the front and loosen the string around the top of my pack before rummaging through. Merle's eyes stay trained on the road ahead, occasionally glancing at me through the rear view mirror.

I have always been a little paranoid of other other people, hence the reason I generally avoided them. Yet in avoiding them, I only made myself more anxious about them. The majority of school days, I would either skip half-way through the day, or not even bother going in. Dad didn't really care, which was fine with me. Now... Well now I wish maybe he did. Dad cared about me and loved me, but he never thought school was all that important.

Shoving my hand in, I feel around the fat pack for something useful I can risk giving up. Inside there's a scratchy old blanket, the screwdriver I saved from my house (since the one I left in Nortown was a spare), a ball of string, some high-quality antibiotics from the tank, a few blank rounds as well as actually ones, binoculars and a trio of hand grenades, also from the tank. Of all those things, the only things I know they'll accept is either the antibiotics, or the hand grenades. Still hidden by the fabric, I hold one of the explosives. It is weighty and cool in the palm of my hand, with a smoothe surface that resembles lead. There's a small ring on the top.

I've seen one of the soldiers use them before. They're designed so that they can hang of your belt without going off, since you have to push on the cap, twist it all the way around and then pull the ring. I think it takes five seconds to go off, but sometimes it varies.

The two redneck brothers should definitely accept two of them as payment to let me travel with them, though I'm not exactly sure it would be safe for me, or anybody else for that matter, to come anywhere near them. Except I can't give them my antibiotics, since I'll need them in case I get bitten.

That's what everyone is afraid of. Being bitten. When you're bitten, you turn. People panic and simply put the infected down. These, however, are high-quality products, not some generic brand, but hospital grade.

I'd rather have a safe guard against being bitten than worry about two crazy bitches blowing stuff up. I pull out two of the three grenades, saving one for myself. You never know when you might have an occasion to use it, so I subtly cover it with the itchy blanket and hold them out to Daryl.

"'Ere, there's should be 'nough for y'all." I mutter, dropping them into his outstretched palm.

Daryl frowns in confusion, brow knitting together somewhat before stealing a quick glance at his older brother. "Grenades?"