Chapter Text
Chapter 17: Truth and Trouble
Indi’s thoughts churned with a flicker of amusement, despite the pain searing through her body. When she’d given Daryl her name, the way he’d quickly offered his own—Daryl—had made her lips twitch. He’d squirmed under her directness, those sharp blue eyes narrowing like she’d caught him off guard. It was almost funny, how a man so rough and steady could look so unsettled by her bluntness. But the humor faded fast—she wasn’t happy about much right now. She couldn’t even feed herself, her hands too weak to hold the cup or the meat he’d offered. The broth and roasted rabbit sat warm in her belly, a small comfort against the fire burning below her ribs, but it didn’t dull the ache of her wounds or the weight of her helplessness. His little outburst at her amusement—snapping about what she found so damn funny—had sparked another flicker of a smile, but it also left her frantic, her heart thudding with the fear of blowing this fragile moment. Besides Zane, this was the most she’d spoken to anyone but herself in years, and despite everything—his gruffness, her pain, the memories of Zane’s hands—it felt… nice. A strange, unexpected comfort, like a crack of light in the dark.
She’d pushed him, her voice rough but firm. “Get on with it, Daryl. Ask the questions I can see burnin’ in ya.” She could see it all simmering in those blue eyes—curiosity, frustration, something heavier she couldn’t name. When he finally asked why she’d saved his life that day in the bloodbath with the Saviors and walkers, it caught her off guard. Not what she’d expected him to zero in on.
Guilt twisted in her chest, sharp and heavy—the guilt of standing by while that family was torn apart, the father and son bleeding out on the porch, the mother and daughter’s screams echoing in her nightmares. And the guilt of pulling the trigger to save Daryl, taking a human life, a line she’d sworn never to cross.
Her answer came honest, raw, because lying felt like too much effort. “Because you didn’t murder a father and son while their mother and sister watched,” she’d rasped. “You had enough honor to make sure they didn’t walk, ‘til they turned to dust.”
She saw that he’d caught her slip about “her woods,” his sharp mind piecing together what she’d tried to hide, she saw it when his baby blues darkened a shade and a slight frown appeared. But that wasn’t her focus now. His words about the herd—a herd of walkers lingering in a clearing north of town large enough he had to hike for miles to go around, near the old logging trail—hit her like a punch. A herd in that area was bad news, and early, too, for the patterns she’d mapped over the years.
Isolation had turned her into a watcher, studying the dead like some twisted hobby. She’d spent hours perched in trees or crouched in shadows, noting how they moved, how they clustered, their aimless shambles turning purposeful when they caught a scent. It was reckless, getting too close to herds, and it had landed her in hot water more than once—those dead eyes seeming to track her through the dark, forcing her to double back, lose them in the underbrush. A herd moving in this early, in that specific spot, meant trouble.
Big trouble.
Ignoring his demand to “spill it,” her eyes darted from his face to the cabin’s door, half-expecting the dead to be clawing at it already. Fear churned in her gut, teetering on panic, her mind racing through the paths she knew, the routes to her airfield, the traps she’d set. The herd’s presence could mean they’d been drawn by something—blood, noise, or worse, the Saviors’ movements.
She looked back at Daryl, her voice urgent, barely above a whisper. “Do you know how to hotwire vehicles?”
Confusion flashed across his face, his brows knitting together, but then a hard, stubborn look settled in, his jaw tightening. “I ain’t doin’ a damn thing or answerin’ a damn question ‘til you stop beatin’ around the bush,” he growled, his voice low and rough, his eyes boring into hers, unyielding.
She swallowed, the pain in her side flaring as she shifted slightly, the effort making her dizzy. He wasn’t wrong—she was dodging, but the herd was more pressing than his questions. If the herd was moving, or worse, if the Saviors were stirring things up, she needed to move and move now. But she was stuck, weak as a newborn, dependent on this man who was calling her out.
The weight of it pressed on her, but so did the ticking clock in her mind. She had to decide—trust him with more, or keep her secrets and risk everything.
-
Daryl’s eyes stayed locked on Indi, his frustration simmering like a pot about to boil over. She was dodging, weaving around his questions with that sharp look in her eyes, like she was holding onto secrets tighter than a vault. Her question about hotwiring vehicles, the way her gaze darted to the door like she expected walkers to bust through any second—it set his nerves on edge. He could see the panic flickering in her, the way her hands twitched against the sheet, but her refusal to come clean was pissing him off. He’d been patient, damn it, but his patience was fraying like an old rope.
He stewed, his jaw clenching as he leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight. Merle’s voice slunk into his head, mocking as always. Look at her, playin’ you like a fiddle, little brother. You’re out here playin’ hero, and she’s still holdin’ out on ya. Daryl shoved the thought down, but it didn’t ease the irritation burning in his chest. She was alive because of him—because he’d hauled her through the woods, dodged a herd, stitched her up, and fed her like some damn nursemaid. And now she was acting like she could just up and run?
Like hell.
“Listen here,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the cabin’s quiet, rough and sharp. “I hauled your ass miles through them woods, stitched you up when you were bleedin’ out, hand-fed you. You near died yesterday, Woman, and you ain’t in no shape to be moved yet, herd or no herd. You fell off a damn buildin’, had terrible shit done to ya, got stabbed—stabbed—and you’re sittin’ there lackin’ any damn clothes to speak of.” His cheeks pinkened as the words slipped out, his eyes flicking away from her barely covered form under the sheet, embarrassment prickling at him for pointing it out. He cleared his throat, pushing on, his voice dropping to a low growl. “You need at least a day to rest before you even think about movin’. And you best start talkin’ straight with me. I ain’t riskin’ my neck for someone who’s gonna keep feedin’ me half-truths.”
Her eyes widened slightly, the defiance in them flickering but not fading, her lips parting as if to argue. The cabin’s air felt heavier, the crackle of the fire and the faint hum of cicadas outside underscoring the tension between them. He could see the wheels turning in her head, the way her gaze darted again to the door, then back to him, weighing her options. His gut told him she knew more than she was letting on—about the herd, the woods, maybe even those biker bastards—and he wasn’t moving until she spilled it. He’d earned that much, damn it, and he wasn’t about to let her play him for a fool.
She eyed him tiredly, her look guarded, assessing, like she was sizing up whether he was worth the truth. He didn’t budge, his arms crossed, jaw tight, his stare unyielding. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, exhaustion lingering in every word, a faint rasp that carried the weight of her injuries.
“You’re right,” she admitted, her eyes dropping for a moment before meeting his again. “My home’s a few days hike away. But if we don’t get out of this area, we’re dead. That herd you saw—it’ll double by dusk, triple by dawn. It’ll overrun the forest, the town, everything. That’s why nobody lives here. Mammoth herds sweep through just before fall, head south along the interstate, then come back when spring breaks winter’s cold. Like clockwork. Or… it was. They’re early this year.”
The information hit him like a gut punch, his mind reeling. He’d seen herds before—walls of the dead stretching across the horizon, storm-chasing packs drawn by noise or blood. But migratory herds, moving with the seasons? That was a stretch. Yet the feeling in his gut, that hunter’s instinct, told him it was true. He’d scouted these woods for days, barely a walker in sight, and then in the last day or so, he’d been dodging small groups, skirting herds, hiking extra miles to avoid them. It added up, and he didn’t like it one bit. His jaw clenched, the implications sinking in—a herd that size could wipe out anything in its path, him included.
He stood, unable to sit still, and started pacing the small cabin, his boots scuffing the worn floorboards. The fire’s glow cast his shadow long and restless, his mind churning through her words, mapping the woods, the town, the routes he knew. If she was right, they were on borrowed time. He turned to ask her another question, to press her on where her real base was, but the words died in his throat.
She’d fallen back asleep, her copper lashes ghosting her pale cheeks, her mouth slightly parted, still propped up against his pack. The sheet was tucked around her battered body, her snarled hair fanning out like a halo, glinting in the firelight. She looked… fragile, like some damn treasure pulled from the wreckage of this world.
His breath caught, stuck in his throat for a heartbeat, and he froze, staring. Merle’s voice slunk into his head, teasing, sharp as a blade. Well, damn, little brother, look at you, all smitten over a half-dead girl. Goin’ soft as a marshmallow, ain’t ya? Daryl’s temper flared, his cheeks heating as he squashed the thought, pissed at himself for even letting it creep in.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl, turning away to face the fire, his hands clenching into fists. He wasn’t smitten—hell no. He was just doing what was right, paying a debt. She’d saved his life, and he wasn’t about to let her die out here. That was it. Nothing more.
Daryl’s gaze drifted back to her, unable to help himself, watching her sleep in the flickering firelight. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, her face pale but peaceful, the bruises stark against her skin. His mind wandered despite his best efforts—flashing to the way she’d looked when he found her, blood-soaked and broken, to the strength in her eyes even now, battered but unbroken. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts, but they lingered, a quiet pull he didn’t want to name. Merle’s voice chuckled in his head, Soft, little brother. Real soft. He ignored it, focusing on the crackle of the flames instead.
After a while, Daryl forced himself to move, tearing his gaze away from her sleeping form to gather his things and stack them by the door—his blanket rolled tight, spare bolts clinking softly as he set them in a small pile, the few supplies he’d brought from camp. He couldn’t pack them fully, she was still using his pack as a pillow, her head propped against it, copper hair spilling over the worn canvas like liquid fire in the dim light. He left it, his fingers brushing the edge of the pack for a moment, calluses catching on the rough fabric, before pulling away with a low grunt.
His mind stewed on the memory of that dark-haired man running from the building, buckling his belt as walkers trailed him, spitting curses about a “crazy bitch.” Daryl re-cataloged the man’s face in his mind—sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, dark eyes narrowed in fury, the way he moved with a cocky swagger even in retreat, pants sagging slightly. Fresh blood on his knuckles, glistening in the sunlight, the timing too perfect to be coincidence. No doubt lingered in Daryl’s mind—that was the bastard who’d snagged Indi after her fall, who’d done God-knows-what to leave those handprint bruises on her thighs, the raw marks on her wrists. If he ever got a clear shot, that man was done. The thought settled cold and certain in his gut, a promise etched in steel.
He nodded off against the wall, his crossbow close at his side, the familiar weight grounding him. Sleep came in fits, his body jerking awake every hour or so, eyes snapping to her in the bed, checking the rise and fall of her chest under the sheet. The fire had burned low, embers glowing faintly, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn walls. He woke before full light, the cabin cool in the pre-dawn hush, a chill seeping through the cracks despite the summer heat outside. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he checked on her again, kneeling quietly beside the bed. She was out cold, her breathing steady but shallow, her face relaxed in sleep, bruises stark against her pale skin.
He let her sleep a bit longer—they’d need to move today if she was right about the walkers. The thought gnawed at him, but he pushed it down, focusing on the immediate.
Slipping out quietly, the door creaking softly behind him, he scouted the area, moving through the woods with silent steps, his boots barely disturbing the pine needles underfoot. Eyes sharp for threats, ears tuned to the rustle of leaves or the distant groan of the dead. The air was crisp, heavy with the scent of earth and resin, the first hints of dawn painting the sky in grays.
Not far from the cabin, maybe a quarter mile in, he encountered the edge of a group of walkers—dozens shambling deeper into the woods, their groans low and relentless, a chilling chorus that sent a shiver down his spine. They moved in a loose pack, rotting arms dragging, milky eyes vacant but purposeful.
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath, crouching behind a thick oak tree, his crossbow half-raised.
She was right.
Merle’s voice mocked him, Told ya she knew her shit, didn’t I?
Daryl’s jaw tightened, frustration mixing with a grudging respect as he backed away slowly, slipping through the underbrush to avoid drawing them, his heart pounding a steady rhythm. The herd was growing, just like she’d said, and if it doubled by dusk…
Heading back to the cabin, his mind raced—they had to move, and soon. The paths he knew, the risks, the supplies they’d need. He shouldered the door open quietly, but froze at the sight inside. Indi was attempting to get out of bed, her movements slow and pained, each shift costing her. She’d pulled the bloodstained oversized shirt over herself, tying the cut edges together in a makeshift knot at her side, the fabric hanging loose on her frame. But she looked ready to collapse, her face ashen pale, bare legs trembling under her weight like they might give out any second. The sheet pooled on the floor in a tangle, her bare feet planted on the cold wood, toes curling against the chill, one hand clutching the bedpost for support, knuckles white from the effort.
Daryl darted to her side in a flash, his boots thudding on the floorboards. “What the hell you doin’?” he scolded, his voice rough and sharp, reaching out to steady her as her legs buckled. She jerked away from his grip, a scared noise escaping her throat—a sharp, panicked gasp that made her stumble further. She almost ate shit, her body pitching forward, but he caught her arm, pulling her back upright.
Her breathing came heavy, ragged gasps filling the cabin, her free hand clutching at her chest as her eyes went wide, unfocused. Daryl realized it then—she was on the verge of a panic attack, her body trembling not just from weakness but from fear, raw and clawing. His grip softened immediately, his thumb brushing her arm in a gentle circle without thinking. “Hey, easy,” he said, his voice dropping softer, gruff but steady, like talking down a spooked animal. “You need my help, I Ain’t lettin’ you fall.”