Skeletons - 𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 𝐷𝑖𝑥𝑜𝑛

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 30 - 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑩𝒚

"You're a little shell-shocked, hey, trooper?" Iris asked, tucking Rick's gun back into his holster, clipping the snap shut as she gently patted him on the shoulder. She motioned for the group to stay put. "Come on, we'll get you some air, alright?" She guided Rick up the stairs toward the caged catwalk across the prison yard. He followed a little mindlessly, the bright sun beating down. "Rick, are you okay?"

"I need..." He paused, swallowing thickly. "I need to be alone." He braced himself on the chain link cage, fingers gripping the wire tightly.

"Alright. Take it slow, okay? Stay close by." She left him there, staring out across the field as the door slammed shut behind her.

"Is... is he okay?" Carl asked, his lip quivering slightly.

"He's alright. Just needs some time. We'll try to keep an eye on him, yeah?" She replied, looking around to receive nods from the others. Glenn came back inside, looking around anxiously.

"He's still wandering around out there." He murmured. Iris nodded.

"Hey, Glenn, keep the new people around, okay? We can set them up somewhere else in the prison, somewhere safe until Rick get's his bearings." He nodded, jogging back out to the courtyard. She never thought she'd fall so easily into Rick's position in his absence.

Iris thought for a moment as Carl unlocked their cell block that perhaps she should have taken Rick's keys. Hopefully, if he got himself into trouble, he could handle it. Michonne was somewhere out there. Maybe she would help him out, for morality's sake.

The group dispersed into their usual daily tasks, despite the overarching cloud of unease. Iris sat down at one of the cafeteria tables, bouncing her leg. What could anyone do in the meantime? Idle away the hours until the Governor knocked down their door? They weren't prepared for any sort of turf war. At least, Iris thought, if Daryl were there, she'd have one more level head to soothe her nerves.

-

"There ain't nothing out here but mosquitos and ants." Daryl grunted, gripping his crossbow as the sound of Merle's urine decorating the trees nearby filled his senses.

"Patience, little brother." Merle mused. "Sooner or later, a squirrel or something is bound to scurry across your path." His ever-growing calmness or perhaps blithering obliviousness was beginning to get on Daryl's nerves. Ever since he was dishonourably discharged, he had a sour, drug-fuelled way of perceiving everything through delusion-coloured glasses. Even now, as clean as he could be in the circumstance they were in, Merle was an insufferable pain in the ass.

"Even so, that ain't much food." Daryl replied.

"Eh, more than nothing." Merle pointed out. Daryl grimaced. As much as he and Merle were used to the drifter-lifestyle, and he could live in the woods until he became walker food, he had grown comfortable with the group's cushy prison lifestyle. At least he had a damn mattress.

"I'd have better luck going through one of them houses we passed back on the turnoff." Daryl stated, letting his irritation seep through his voice. Merle looked up from admiring his own dick, turning over his shoulder.

"Is that what your new friends taught you? Hmm?" He asked musically. "How to loot for booty?"

"We've been at it for hours." Daryl stated, purposefully ignoring the question. "Why don't we find a stream, try to look for some fish?"

"I think you're just trying to lead me back to the road, man." Merle scoffed. "Get me over to that prison."

"They got shelter." Daryl grumbled under his breath, his voice getting louder as he looked through the crossbow's scope. "Food. Pot to piss in. Might not be a bad idea."