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DARYL DIXON
his clothes swipe against the floor as i drag him by the collar of his shirt, his mask in my hand. he breathes hard, pleading, grunting from the arrow stuck in his side, and then he yells out in pain as i throw him against the metal radiator.
"where'd you find this?" i wave the thin, deteriorated whisperer mask in his face. "you apart of her group, huh? where've you been hidin' out?"
the blood from where my arrow struck him is seeping out at a steady pace, but he can still talk, still breathe, still live for a little longer—as long as i let him.
"in the woods. they—they were in the woods, the masks. we took them."
"you don't know alpha?"
"who?" he breathes, sweat glistening on every inch of his pale face.
"where'd the masks come from?"
"i don't know!" he grits his teeth, hunching forward, but cringes in pain and leans back against the radiator. "we've been all over. it's our first time here in virginia. we found the masks in the woods. we didn't know they were masks at first, thought they were rotter heads. you don't remember me, do you?"
"what?"
a wheeze rattles in his throat, his body shutting down slowly with each second that goes by, "steven rustle, my brother knew your brother."
i haven't heard someone talk about merle in years it seems, or maybe it really has been years since his name has come up in conversation. this kid, he's from georgia too, his family, his brother—i remember now the longer i look at his paling face.
eric rustle, his name comes to me, little brother to one of merle's closest friends. annoying little shit he was, always sneaking around, trying to run in the same crowd as us. he was too young. his brother, steven, made sure he remembered that each time he got caught.
merle and his friends used to be ruthless. i had my fair share of years where they tossed me around too, sent me off with a bloody nose and bruised ribs. i have no doubt eric experienced the same thing from time to time.
"he alive? your brother?"
"you do remember." he grins. "i recognized you out there in the hall. took me a bit, but i know a brute when i see one. same as me, all the kids fromfireweedwere brutes."
fireweed gardens, the run-down, shit neighborhood we all grew up in.
"your brother." i nudge him again to answer.
"hell no, he's not alive." he laughs, blood spraying onto his lips and coating his teeth. he turns his head to spit on the floor. "haven't seen that son of a bitch since before the rotters came. if the heroine didn't kill him before that, i know i would've." he admits. "no cops, no place to send me away to if i did."
