Red ~ TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Can't Blame You for Trying

No rest for the weary.

My grandmother was fond of that saying. I can't remember how many times I heard it on countless summer mornings when my sister and I were forced to rise before the sun to do chores.

My grandparents owned a sprawling 250-acre ranch in the hill country of East Texas. Before my dad drove off a cliff with my mom in tow they could afford to hire hands to help with the cows, horses, pigs and chickens, but after two grandchildren unexpectedly became their responsibility, not so much. Raising children was expensive. Raising two children they never expected to have in their care forced them to take a second mortgage on their home, empty the retirement account they were only a few years from enjoying, and meant no more full-time staff at the ranch.

Of course I wouldn't find any of this out until much later in life. All I knew at the time was getting up at the ass crack of dawn was for the birds, and I let my grandmother know it. She only smiled, dumped a load of farm fresh, scrambled eggs on my plate and told me there was no rest for the weary. Sometimes I think my grandmother would have fared far better in the apocalypse than any of us.

Stuffing the last of my meager possession into my pitifully small pack I took one last look around Cellblock C and sighed, hoping this wouldn't be the last time I stood here. Yesterday while I was out frolicking through the woods and blowing shit up Rick put our fate in the group's hands. For the first time since he declared a Rick-tator-ship he allowed them to make the choice to fight or run. They chose to fight. I was shocked when I found out. I would have bet money they'd vote to run, but people could only take so much before they started punching back and we'd finally hit our limit.

The plan to stay by making it look as if were gone was kinda brilliant. The Governor had us in terms of manpower and weapons, but we knew this prison inside and out, and we could use that to our advantage. Besides, The Governor's arrogance played right into our hands. Deadpool said we didn't need to win. We just needed to make it more trouble than it was worth. I excelled at being more trouble than I was worth so this plan was right up my alley. The Governor may not be willing to admit defeat, but we were betting our lives and our home his people would. We didn't believe they would die for this place.

Hopefully we were right.

"Come on Firecracker, we ain't got all day!" Merle yelled. And just like that I wished for hearing loss. Pulling the pack onto my shoulder I walked down the metal staircase. "That all ya got?"

"That all you've got?" I looked him up and down slowly to emphasize the point. I may only have a small backpack full of crap, but it was one more backpack full of crap than he had. The man had nothing except the clothes on his back, literally. Carl walked out of his cell, a bag bigger than he was slung over his shoulder. "You good?"

"Gotta be." Man, I loved this kid. He stopped beside me, adjusting the shoulder strap as he eyed me critically. "You good?"

"The ringing is down to a dull symphony playing in the background. Hershel says it should be gone by tomorrow." I put my finger in my ear and wiggled it up-and-down a few times, shaking my head for good measure. "At least the vertigo's gone."

Falling down all the time was only fun when you were drunk.

When the three of us arrived back at the prison yesterday we were swarmed by the group who were equal parts shocked at our state of arrival and outraged with Merle's failed plan. Daryl was forced to jump out of the car to get between his brother and Glenn before WWIII broke out, and from what I could see (since I still couldn't hear a damn thing) threats and accusations were being lobbed from both parties. At that moment I was thankful for the pounding in my head and the roaring in my ears.