Don't Get Dead | TWD | Volume 1

[10] Cleanup Crew

The panic attack didn't get the chance to end before the grieving kicked in. I tried pushing myself through hyperventilation and crying, my hand gripping the hem of my shirt, so I could feel something. In those moments, it felt like I was fighting to survive. I couldn't keep track of how long I had been standing there.

Rick had pulled Lori and Carl away so they didn't have to look at her body anymore. They were still crying, not that I blamed them. They may have only known Amy for a month, but she had impacted their lives since being here, especially Carl. I had known Amy for even less time, two weeks at most, and I was an absolute mess.

A body blocked my own, but at that point, it didn't matter. I had already seen too much. Amy getting bitten was replaying in my head, over and over and over. My hands balled into fists and moved to cover my mouth, a feeble attempt to quieten my uncontrollable sobbing. Tears rolled down my cheeks, the wetness gathering around the neck of my hoodie.

"Don' look," Daryl. He was standing in front of me, coaxing me backwards in a silent gesture. He placed a hand on my shoulder, moving me away from the RV. He didn't have to push me; the light touch was enough to get me to walk away.

He led me to chairs near the edge of the camp, overlooking the city. It was dark, I couldn't see anything, but I knew it was there. Even if any of the lights were on in Atlanta, my vision would have been too blurry to actually make any shapes out from the darkness of the night.

"Sit," he pulled the chair forward, turning it further away from the motorhome. The crossbow swung down his arm, but the shotgun he had arrived at camp had been discarded somewhere.

I did as I was told and sat down in the chair, crying into the sleeves of my hoodie. Daryl was still standing there, but he didn't say anything for a little while. It was maybe a minute or so before he spoke up.

"Ya weren't bit, were ya?" It took me way too long to realise that it was a question. A dead thing had barely been near me, but my crying over everything had taken over. I thought he would be frustrated at my lack of answer, but his face held no expression. "Ace?"

The use of my name was strange. I forgot I had even told him. But after choking down my sobs, I was able to shake my head no. I tried to quieten myself down, the crying had stopped, but I was still struggling to breathe.

"You got a drink or somethin'?" I shook my head to answer him. My own bottle was in my yellow bag in the tent with the rest of my things. "Wait there."

He came back with a clear plastic bottle of water, which I took. I sipped the liquid before putting the lid back on the bottle. I exhaled deeply, hoping that the jerking in my chest would stop. It had taken a minute for me to calm down, but eventually, I did.

Daryl took the seat next to me, putting his crossbow on the ground. He leaned forwards, so his elbows rested on his knees. He looked tired. I remembered that they went back to Atlanta to get Merle, but I didn't see Merle return with the group. I contemplated asking him what had happened for a moment, but I thought that maybe he needed to talk about it.

"What—?" My own hiccup cut me off. "What happened to Merle?"

Daryl didn't hesitate to answer. "Bastard cut his own hand off."

That had taken me by surprise. I felt my eyes widen, and I sat back a little. He was handcuffed to a pipe in Atlanta, but I never thought that he would go as far as dismembering himself. I guess that just showed me how strong Merle actually was.

"Is he . . . ?" I couldn't finish the end of the sentence.

"He ain't dead," Daryl shook his head quickly. "Woulda found his body."