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. Black smoke billowed into the sky, polluting every surface in its wake in thick soot.
I walked away from the edge of the towering rooftop — the sea of asphalt below turning my  stomach to rot. My feet felt airy - light, and I composed myself, returning my eyes to the scene of Daryl Dixon.

He was visibly broken. His eyes glossed over and his chest heaved – though the emotion didn't course through his veins long. He quickly wiped away the salty tears that pricked his narrow eyes and kept his head low.

Merle Dixon's hand laid stagnant against the grainy rooftop. Blood glazed over from where his limb had been detached; sawed off by Merle himself. I thought of the willpower a man had to have to tear through his own flesh and bone with his own blade and I cringed. I pray I am never faced with having to use my own blade against myself.

Meticulously, Daryl wrapped the detached hand in a purple bandana and made his way over to Glenn wordlessly. Glenn sent me a look that cried for help, and I only sent him a forced smile in return. He squirmed uncomfortably as Daryl unzipped the bag and placed the hand inside – again wordlessly. Oh Glenn, I do not envy you in the slightest.

"He might have used a tourniquet – maybe his belt," Daryl theorized. "Be much more blood if he didn't." His narrowed eyes followed a steady trail of blood that lead to the rooftop door that was left slightly ajar. I noticed the blood looked somewhat fresh, not as aged as everything else seemed to be. It wasn't dried – it still flowed through the microscopic crevices deep within the concrete.

The building was cooler than the air beyond the confines of the plaster walls that surrounded us. The roof and walls allowed me to let out a sigh of relief, for my skin no longer inhabited the feeling of broil.

"Merle? You in here?" Daryl called out to no one. Eerie silence was the only response he was granted.

"You really think we're gonna find him?" Glenn asked over his shoulder quietly. His hands played with the straps of the backpack absentmindedly and his eyebrows were knitted together in skepticism.

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

"Uh, yeah," Glenn parted his lips quickly. "Maybe, I don't know, you can start by taking Merle's hand off of my back?"

A playful sniffle left my nose as the conversation lapsed into more eerie silence. Only the soles of our feet spoke as they lead us along small pools of crimson and cracked glass.

Deep down, I knew Daryl would never consider leaving Atlanta without his older brother, even if it meant him staying in the tomb city alone. Who would willingly leave their only ties to who they once were? The life they once led?

I often thought about who Daryl was before the fall of Atlanta. Did he have a job? A home? A family? A dog? Was he the same man who walked only feet in front of me today? It felt like Daryl, Merle, and I had lived in separate 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 thick brown leather and were both dawned with crimson. On one of the couches, a lone walker lay stagnant, it's bottom jaw completely missing. Their blood coated the floral wallpaper that made up the four walls and flies buzzed hurriedly around. On the ground, a shotgun collected dust on the floor.

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 of the mahogany wood. On top of the wood, another slumped body lay, a single bullet pierced through their forehead. A small handgun laid limp in their almost skeletal hand. A way out.