Daryl's Angel: Saviour (Book Two)

Chapter 59: The Sanctuary

The truck pulls to a stop, and the horrible, noisy engine finally shuts up. I feel a hand on my arm as they haul me from the back of the truck, then a flashbang of light as they rip my hood off. I wince at the change, stars swimming as my vision readjusts to daylight.

When I pictured the military stronghold of a group like the Saviours, the Sanctuary is almost exactly what I imagined. Carl told me that it was a factory, but the amount of brutalistic additions really seals the deal. The entrance is a maze of walkers reinforced with molten metal, heads on sticks dotting the maze, a monument to the violence that the Saviours wield as their greatest weapon.

I have a similar feeling to the one I got during the brief time Daryl and I spent with the Claimers, like I'm a sheep surrounded by wolves. Fundamentally unsafe.

Carl said there were families here: women, children, workers. The question now is, who am I here? A guest? A prisoner? Some horrible mixture of both?

Simon hands me off to a few men without an order, but they seem to know what to do. They lead me into the factory, down into narrow concrete hallways lit by dingy overhead lights, and eventually push me into a closet-like room, dark and bare, just long and wide enough for me to lie down in and not do much else. One of the men cuts the bindings holding my wrists together, then tosses a half-full plastic water bottle at my feet, before they shut the door behind them, plunging me into darkness again. The only light comes from the tiny sliver along the bottom of the door.

I almost expected worse. Daryl said they stripped him when he arrived, left him like that for days, until finally giving him that hideous tracksuit I saw him wearing at Alexandria. I thought they would take my clothes, humiliate me further, but no.

Why? Is it because it's me, or because I'm a woman, or something else? I'm confused, I'm tired, and my heart still hurts from having to leave Daryl behind.

I sit down on the cold, hard floor, hand falling to my bump. I close my eyes and wait for what comes next.

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My body aches. There's a pain in my lower back that won't go away, and my head throbs. I'm so hungry. I haven't been this hungry since my time eating stale vending machine snacks in the department store or the long walk to Washington. The first time, my body was getting used to not having food readily available. The second time, we were all nearing starvation.

Baby boy doesn't care that I don't have anything to give him. He's hungry, and he's making me feel every second of it.

I stay curled up on the cold floor, trying to sleep. Hunger doesn't hurt as much when you're asleep. It's so dark in here that I can trick my mind into thinking that it's nighttime, but I don't know how long I can manage it.

Daryl managed for a week. I have to match him, then force myself to go beyond even that.

When I'm awake, I try to plan. What's my angle? I can't play totally demure. Negan has seen my rage before, my stubbornness, and I doubt he'd buy it if I became suddenly timid and pitiful. I'm soft, but I'm not that. I need to play the long game—start defiant, assured, but let him think that my time here is chipping away at my resolve. I have to wait for my chance to escape, whenever that comes.

I can't stay here. I won't survive as a Saviour, and I will never be Negan.

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Three deliberate knocks startle me from my fitful sleep. For a moment, I blink, staring at the bottom of the door and the shadows breaking up the light. Shoes. I lay my head back down and wait for them to say something.

"Hopey-girl..." Negan calls in a singsong way. "Wakey wakey, sleepyhead."

I keep my mouth shut. If he wants to talk to me, he can open the door and look me in the eye. I almost want to roll over and put my back to the door, but that feels like a monumental effort.