Red ~ TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Halfway to Nowhere

"I loved that bike," I lamented, looking at the twisted pile of metal that used to be my motorcycle on the highway below.

My bike wasn't the only casualty. There were two trucks down there also. I'd been too preoccupied to notice, but apparently some of the Saviors chasing me hadn't been able to stop in time.  Unfortunately for them jumping wasn't an option.  Not everyone had a smokin' hot redneck waiting to catch them.

The wreckage barely resembled a vehicle, and the bodies, or what was left of them, was the stuff of nightmares. I saw one decapitated head chomping its jaws in the middle of the road and grimaced. More than a few people took one look down there and lost their lunch. Turned out fucking people up required a cast iron stomach.

Daryl's reply was a single, solitary grunt which I took to mean, I'm sorry for your loss. He peered down at the twisted steel, raging fire, and dead people parts with the interest he'd afford picking out paint swatches at Home Depot, so none. 

I'd seen the man eat a handful of wiggly worms without batting an eyelash, and he was the only person on record who could consume Maggie's cooking without turning green. It would take more than a few decapitated heads to unsettle his redneck stomach.

Rick was on the walkie talkie getting status updates from the group. From what I could hear the plan had been mostly successful. The convoy following me was unable to escape due to the collapsed bridge on one side and the herd of walkers on the other. Pinned in with nowhere to go their options boiled down to taking their chances with the walkers or us. Most chose us, and judging by the body count it wasn't working out for The Saviors.  Our lookouts scattered in the woods were doing their best to take out anyone lucky enough to get that far.

"What about Negan?"

Daryl and I shared a look, glancing over our shoulders at Rick. Based on his frustrated sigh and the way he pulled out a handful of hair I was going to say he didn't get the news he was hoping for on that one.

"Don't mean nothin'," Daryl commented, looking at the horde of walkers and wrecked vehicles on the other side of the divide. "Motherfucker's slicker than owl shit, but that ain't yur everyday fuck-fest."

I scrunched up my face, desperately trying to decode my husband's complicated linguists. I understood each individual word on its own, but it didn't seem to help. When I put them together it was like trying to read Nugget's gibberish hanging on the fridge.

"Come on Red." He laughed at my confused expression, bumping my shoulder with his as he turned and made his way to Rick.

Merle raised his eyebrow at me. "Yur one lucky S.O.B."

"I like to think of it as skill."

He snorted, "I didn't see much skill from where I was standin'."

I flipped him the bird, pointing my middle finger directly at him then pretend to poke him with it because apparently I was still in Kindergarten.  If Kindergartners flipped each other off.  The lunatic ate it up, rocking back on his heels, head tipped back as he released a booming laugh.

Rick clipped the walkie talkie to his belt, face serious and all laughter abruptly died. "We've got them on the run. Maybe half were killed in the ambush." He pointed at the carnage still taking place on the opposite side of the bridge. "But our spotters couldn't get everyone that made it to the woods."

"How many we talkin' 'bout?" Merle asked.

Rick's face was lethal. "Doesn't matter."

I may not speak a lick of redneck, but I could read between the lines just fine. I heard loud and clear what Rick didn't say. We were going to kill them all.