Nine Lives

Dawn Cooper has always been the one to protect her family. But when Daryl Dixon steps into her life, will she let him protect her? Read this Walking Dead/ Daryl Dixon Fanfiction to follow the zombie apocalypse as seen by Dawn Cooper.

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12. Chapter 11- Kumbaya my ass

Chapter 11- Kumbaya My Ass

I felt like -- I don't know what. Like this wasn't real. My world had come crumbling down around me, and now I had the complicated challenge of trying to rebuild it again. Now that I think about it, my life was kinda like some Gothic Version of Zombie Land. To be blunt it was damn depressing. The only things I saw, smelt, felt, were death. And I hadn't even looked in a mirror since this all started. Great... something to look foreword to. Even Daryl who stood next to me, crossbow at the ready, seemed... Distant.

"You okay?"

His head stayed foreword, but his eyes glanced sideways towards me, and then straight again.

"What kinda dumbass question is that?"

"It's just a question,"

I say following behind him, leaving Bob to search what remained of aisle three.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you gonna answer it?"

He studied me a moment, and I almost felt as if he was going to answer my question, but instead he swung his pack once more across his shoulder.

"That's puke."

Excuses me?

Taking a step backwards, I followed Daryl's flashlight with my eyes as it circled around a patch of bloody, rotten, vomit that lay like a forgotten mess on the floor.

"Those douche bags in the vines... took themselves out." My mind immediately went to the sunken faces of the dead that tried, just mere minutes ago, to tear into each of us.

"Holding hands. Kumbaya style."

Bob's head poked out from one of the aisles,

"They wanted to go out together same as they lived, that make 'Em douche bags?"

"Does if they could have gotten out."

My new found friend was now following behind us, sounding more like a politician than the clown I'd joked with hours before.

"Everybody makes it. Till they don't. People now a'days dominos, what they did, maybe it's about not having to watch 'em fall."

I started in awe of Bob's ability to make a metaphor that so closely mimicked our current lives. Daryl on the other hand, was only able to muster up a weak,

"Right."

"Wow didn't know you were so deep." I said with a smirk.

"Shut up." He said punching my arm playfully as we shuffled along like lost puppies behind Mr. Kumbaya.

About two gallons of collected water later, I found myself standing silently in an empty gas station with Daryl Dixon. Bob had slipped out to "help" Michonne and Tyreese with the remaining branches.

Inhaling slowly, I tried desperately to keep my mind off the compacted scent of death in the room.

It had been quiet since Bob left, and had stayed that way except for the occasional thrashing of trees outside.

Daryl seemed to be oblivious of my existence, suddenly becoming very interested in the bag of supplies we'd collected.

"Can I ask you something?"

Without looking away from his work he bluntly stated, "No."

Too bad. I wasn't taking no for an answer, not today.

"Do you really think we'll make it? Bob even said it. Maybe it's better to go out with the people you...love."

Although he'd denied my earlier presence, he wasn't stopping me from speaking, so I continued.

"Wouldn't you want that? Death staring you in the face, and knowing that the one person you couldn't live without...the one person you'd die trying to protect is-"

"Dead?"

His sudden choice of verbal action took me by surprise.

"No with y-"

"Ya' tellin me you want that? Ya' wanna be dead? Alice? Ya' want her dead too? Cuz she woulda' died anyway, with or without your help!"

I felt the hot angry tears that I struggled to keep back well to my eyes.

"Stop it. I don't believe that."

Daryl was all rage now, something I'd never seen him show.

"Well ya' better start believing it princess cuz that's the way it is!" His hand moved up just a tad, and I flinched. I was so used to what usually came after the screaming that I was surprised when he just stood there, looking down at me with a look that almost suggested he was sorry. But instead of saying something, he just grunted, picked up his crossbow, and left. This my cue. Head aching, I knocked over the closest object with unnecessary force. I sobbed uncontrollably, the salt of my life soaking my cheeks, hot torrents of grief coursing out my eyes like the breaking of a dam, mingling with the uncomfortable softness of my shirt sleeve, my racking sobs shaking me thoroughly with the knowledge that my life was seemingly pointless - that nothing would ever be the same again. Gasping for air, I turned my head and sobbed some more.

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