𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 ➛ 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬

two

GHOST TOWN. Those were the only words I could bring myself to use as I eyed the broken skyscrapers and deserted streets. Cars were overturned, some still held a smoldered state. Rats scampered through the alleyways.
Black smoke rose into the sky, polluting everything in its path. The smoke intoxicated my lungs and I walked away from the edge of the roof, returning my eyes to the scene of Daryl Dixon.

He was visibly broken but the emotion didn't course through him for long. He quickly wiped away the salty tears that pricked his eyes, making sure to keep his eyes down and low.
Merle Dixon's hand laid stagnant against the concrete roof, blood glazed over from where his limb had been detached — sawed off by Merle himself. Meticulously, Daryl wrapped the appendage in a purple bandana before making his way over to Glenn. Before he could protest, Daryl was unzipping the bag and putting Merle's hand in. Glenn sent me a look that cried for help and I sent him a forced smile in return. Oh Glenn, I do not envy you in the slightest.

"He might have used a tourniquet — maybe his belt. Be much more blood if he didn't." Daryl observed as he pointed to the dribbles of blood left behind.

The archer approached the open door, the padlock broken and holding on to the chain loosely, and he continued to follow the crimson trail. I noticed the blood looked somewhat fresh, not as aged as everything else on this forsaken planet seemed to be. It wasn't clumped together or dried — it still flowed through the microscopic crevices of the rooftop.

The building was cooler than the weather beyond the confines of the plaster walls that surrounded us. The shade provided by the roof and the walls allowed me to let out an internal sigh, for my skin no longer inhabited the feeling of broil.

"Merle? You in here?" Daryl called out, but he was met with an eerie silence.

"You really think we're gonna find him?" Glenn asked me quietly.

I raised my eyebrows. "Do you see any other choice?"

"Yeah, maybe, I don't know, start with taking the hand out of my bag?"

I chuckled silently as the conversation then lapsed into a silence. The soles of my feet lead me along a path of small pools of crimson and cracked glass. I knew deep down that Daryl would never leave Atlanta without his older brother. Who would willingly leave their only ties to the world they once knew?
I often thought about who Daryl was before the fall. Did he have a job? A home? Was he the same guy who walked only feet in front of me today? Most days, it felt like Daryl, Merle, and I had lived in different worlds before. If he was Chicago, he'd be the south side — rough on the edges.

We entered a medium sized room. Two couches were tucked away in a corner. They both sported brown leather. On one of the couches, a walker lay stagnant, its bottom jaw missing completely. A large desk planted itself in the middle of the room. The desk was littered with rotting, crumbled papers and blood spilled down the front. On top of the wood, a slumped body laid, a single bullet hole pierced their forehead and a small handgun laid limp in their hand. A way out of this hellish nightmare.

Bile rose in my throat but I pushed it down, turning my head away from the body that let out its dank aroma. The wallpaper was skinning itself from the wall and the rug was long overdue for a cleaning. I eyed a gold and mahogany plague that lay on a bookshelf a few feet away. The print was covered in too much grime for me to read the fine print engraved. The office and its inhabitants had seen better days.

"Had enough time to take out these sumbitches; one-handed." Daryl voiced as he pointed to the bodies. "Toughest asshole I ever met, my brother. Feed him a hammer, he'll crap out nails."

"Any man can pass out from blood loss, no matter how tough he is. Besides, I think that guy was already dead." Rick countered, sending Daryl a look before leaving the office.