wildest dreams ━ rick grimes × male!oc

chapter eighteen:

how THE FUCK do i answer the dreaded question: "call you tell me about yourself?" during an interview???? 😭

also... did i bamboozle yall? oopsies :)

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Chapter Eighteen:  "No sir, by the way, what the hell are morals?"

Someone out there despises Rick. 

He can feel it. 

He knows it. 

Lips curled in disgust, Rick hauls an infected Jim from the middle of their camp site and dumps him at the tree line. "Don't move," he hisses. 

Beside the fire pit, Andrea whispers frantically to Jacqui, holding a hand over the human's mouth to keep her from further yelling. The female beta looks stressed, her eyes are wide and her shoulders are hunched in, sweat making locks of blonde hair stick to her forehead and face. 

Rick rolls his shoulders, shrugging off the feeling of unease that starts to seep between the gaps of his ribcage. He feels the weird need to grab whatever wolves he has near and make sure they're all okay, that none of them are infected.

Even worse, he needs Ren near, except his omega is making his way around the campsite, helping both the humans and the wolves with whatever minor injuries they've sufficed. 

As if sensing his unease, a disgruntled Daryl joins him along with Merle and Glenn, Dale walking up to them a moment later. Nudging the group a little further away from Jim, Rick lets Daryl speak his mind. 

"I say we put a pickaxe through his head an' be done with it," the omega shrugs, uncaring. 

"Is that what you'd want if it were you?" Rick asks honestly, tilting his head. His shoulder twinges in pain and so do both the wounds on each side of his abdomen. Maybe he shouldn't have lifted Jim like a bag of trash and dragged his sorry excuse of an existence across their camp with half healed injuries. 

Daryl twirls the pickaxe in his hand, "Yeah," he says, "an' I'd thank ya while ya did it." 

Good to know, Rick mulls to himself. At least I'm not the only one with common sense around here. 

"I hate to say it…" Dale trails off. "I never thought I would… but, but maybe Daryl's right."

Immediately, Glenn, who's usually calm and quiet, snaps his mouth open, "Jim's not a monster, Dale, or some," he huffs, "some rabid dog." 

Dale frowns, a little caught off guard. "I'm not suggesting—"

"Then what are you suggesting?" Ren asks, squeezing his way into their little group. He bumps one shoulder against Merle's and the other against Daryl's, leaving both the brothers looking confused. "You do that," he says, fiddling with the water bottle in his hands, unable to look Rick in the eye, "and where do you draw the line?" 

"The line's pretty clear," Daryl says, brows furrowing together. "Zero tolerance for walkers, or them to be." 

Ren makes a low humming sound. He pulls off the plastic wrapper around the water bottle and then sticks it back around, looking rather hesitant to speak his mind. 

Merle spares a glance between Rick and Ren, and raises a single brow. "What's the matter?" He questions. "Ya not feelin' good or somethin'?"  

Glenn makes a face. "Since when do you care?" 

"Since mother Russia—" 

Ren cuts Merle off with an elbow to the beta's stomach. Embarrassed, he glares at the redneck. "Don't call me that!" He snaps.