Changing To Adapt ➵ TWD

➵ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

Lucas stares wide-eyed and shocked silent at the severed hand. The blood on the concrete like a gory painting representing life. He narrows his focus, following the lashes of blood under his feet as it thins out and veers off in another direction.

Daryl snaps before he can say anything.

Turning around, he lifts his crossbow and sets his finger on the trigger.

With an aborted curse, Lucas ducks for cover. It takes him a second to realise its not being aimed at him.

Tension comes to an all time high when Rick reacts in similair, the Python pressed threateningly against Daryl's temple.

"Hey-!" Lucas throws his hands out, a stutter in his breath, "That is a stupid idea, the hell are you thinking?"

This group is a ticking time bomb waiting to explode, and Lucas doesn't know how close he is to getting burned.

Screw trying to find safety in numbers, I should leave while I still can.

His eyes flit nervously between them. Damp with sweat, his shirt is sticking against his back like a second skin. T-Dog isn't breathing with the crossbow aimed at his head and Glenn is still ducked, frozen and waiting for his next move.

"I won't hesitate. I don't care if every walker in the city hears it." Rick says.

Lucas's unknown desire to stop them dives out the window.

"I'm out." He decides, taking several steps away and heading for the stairs in order to bail.

"Damn it - wait."

Lucas turns around at Rick's rushed demand, relieved to see the weapons gone, and in place, uncertain gazes. But he keeps his feet swivelled towards the emergency exit, just in case.

"You got a do-rag or something?" Daryl asks quietly. T-dog nods, reaching cautiously into his bag and handing him one. The situation is almost immediately put behind him.

The redneck picks up his brother's severed hand and wraps it up carefully.

Lucas's eyes lock on to the blood stain underneath his shoes. "Here we go," he says, stepping away to gesture at it.

The trail steers them towards an office, inhabited by one, lonely, half-eaten corpse. Jerking around like a puppet on a string.

It ends up dead on the floor, an arrow between its eyes.

Lucas steps around the mess and lifts a hand to press over his nose.

"Had enough in him to take out these two sumbitches. One-handed. Toughest asshole I ever met, my brother. Feed him a hammer, he'd crap out nails." Daryl tells them, crouching down by two dead corpses.

"It's called blood loss for a reason." Lucas snarks, "He's gonna be confused, lose his awareness. He'll pass out soon if hasn't already," He explains, glancing around the room.

"Merle!" Daryl's voice echoes.

Lucas flinches, steadying the knife in his hand, "We ain't alone here, Dixon," he whisper-yells.

"Screw that! He could be bleeding out. Ya' said so yourself." Daryl barks.

Lucas twists quickly to face him, jabbing a finger at his face. "If looking for your dying brother gets us eaten by the dead you attracted then what the fuck is the point of us being 'ere, huh?"

He's gotten so used to the quiet of being alone that every noise sets him on edge. Couldn't they see they were being too loud?

Their frustration clings onto each other, threatens to simmer and explode.