Red ~ TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Spilled This Blood For You

"Yur so fuckin' dumb ya could throw yurself on the goddman ground and miss!"

I rounded on him, pointing a finger in his face. "Speak English you backwoods hillbilly!"

"Ya don't know he's there!" I pursed my lips, walking to the sign prominently displayed next to the railroad tracks, detouring slightly so I could use the toe of my boot to knock over his boombox. "Hey!"

He righted the boombox, taking extra care to wipe the dust off the front and I rolled my eyes. The two of us had an unspoken rule after finding the motherload in the trunk of a car at the beginning of this road trip from hell: If there was a car, we checked the trunk.

Unfortunately for me there were no claymores in yesterday's trunk. Whoever owned the vehicle believed the key to surviving the apocalypse was a boombox, a handful of CD's, a few extra batteries, and Flamin' Hot Chili Lime Cheetos. The only thing I didn't take exception to were the Cheetos. Even slightly stale they were the best damn thing I'd eaten in a long time. I tried to ignore the guilt I felt for cheating on my ABCs and 123s. Surely, they would understand.

While I dove headfirst into the Cheetos, discarding everything else as worthless, Merle held the boombox like it was a precious piece of art, or a naked woman. My mouth hit the ground when he gathered up the CD's and extra batteries, cramming them in the pack with our landmines. It had zero strategic or survival value, but that hadn't stopped him from taking it.

Well, I suppose if you counted driving me insane as strategic (which my asshole brother-in-law just might) then it had value. If I had to listen to Brooks & Dunn one more time I was going to lose my marbles. What the hell did Boot Scootin' Boogie even mean?

The only thing more shocking than the batteries that never seemed to die was the fact Merle was a decent singer. Last night after we finished dinner, which consisted of Cheetos dust, he fired up the boombox while I tried to remember all the reasons killing him was a bad idea. I was two seconds away from smashing the thing to dust when I heard his deep, gravelly voice quietly crooning the lyric to Believe by Brooks & Dunn. It was shockingly soulful and undeniably beautiful, but I refused to change my assessment on the noise maker destined to kill us both. He may sing like an angel, but he sure as hell wasn't one.

But I was digressing. The heart of our current issue wasn't his angelic voice or his stupid boombox. It was whether or not to continue on our current path. Stopping next to a gigantic sign I slammed my hand against it, listening to the wood rattling back-and-forth, raising my eyebrows in challenge.

"Do you think there's a cold chance in hell he missed not one," I held up one finger, "Not two," I raised a second finger, "But three of these?"

Raising the third finger was unnecessary, but I was done with this argument. I pointed at the sign, daring him to disagree with me.

Sanctuary
For All
Community
For All
Those Who Arrive
Survive

"That don't mean he's there."

"No, it doesn't, but the two we saw yesterday with 'Glenn go to Terminus, Maggie, Sasha, Bob' probably sealed the deal."

"It's a trap!"

I scoffed, "Of course it's a trap you moron." Did he really think I didn't know that? "We've been walking East for four fucking days, and all we've seen are signs just like this one. There is no way he wouldn't have seen them too, and there's no way he wouldn't go!"

It'd been a long, exhausting, dangerous four days following the railroad tracks to the supposed sanctuary called Terminus. According to Merle we were headed towards Macon. Also according to Merle, who miraculously turned into Rain Man when it came to navigation, it was home to an old railroad termination yard used for maintenance. Hence the name, Terminus, which was so stupid it pained me to say it outloud.