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A Cry in the Thunder

Chapter 1

Daryl Dixon's fingersD twitched against the butt of his rifle. A cigarette hung limply from between his lips as he peered through the scope. He crouched under his tent as fat droplets of rain hammered down, soaking the soil, creating a slick of mud from him camp to his brother's beat up old truck.

Thunder roared overhead, and he flinched, turning his attention back to the farm house he was currently staking out. There had been a light in the window the night before, but there was no sight of movement coming from inside. Perhaps whoever had been there had simply left a lantern burning. Not likely. The house probably would have gone up in flames. So, he was waiting. This was one of the last standing farm houses in Casper County, and he sure as hell wasn't about to pass it by just yet.

A few of the dead were walking along the fence that bordered the property, but there didn't seem to be any walkers close to the house. It was perfect. All he had to do was wait. If he could take the house, there was a chance the fences could be fortified. He could make some kind of a life in this fucked up world.

A whine from the back of the tent startled him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Merle's yellow lab Brody lift his weary head and lick his snout.

"Whaddya think, Brody?" The dog yawned. "Dunno about you, but I'm sick of this damned rain. Sick of sleepin' on the hard ground." The dog cocked his head before lowering it down to rest upon his paws. "Yeah, you're no help."

Lightning lit up the morning sky, and Daryl tossed his smoldering cigarette butt into the mud outside. He reached for the pocket of the flannel shirt with the cut off sleeves he'd been wearing for the worst part of a week, and he cursed under his breath when he realized his pack was empty. And what was worse, a small tree limb came crashing down, ripping through the top of the tent, letting in the rain, much to Brody's dismay. He growled and cowered under the blanket and looked helplessly at Daryl.

"Alright, let's get the hell outta here," he grumbled. He quickly reached for a damp notepad and scribbled something down before sealing it in a plastic bag and leaving it on the floor of the tent. "C'mon, boy." Brody whimpered but quickly heeded his master's call. Daryl grabbed his rifle and his crossbow and quickly sloshed through the mud, opened the truck door and tossed his things inside. Brody quickly jumped up into the seat, muddy paws and all, and Daryl went back to the tent for his pack.

It took a couple minutes to get the engine to turn over, but once he was finally spinning out of the mud, he wiped his wet hair out of his face and gripped the steering wheel tightly with one hand.

"Fuck this. Hope whoever's there likes company."

He gunned the engine and made it the half-mile down the gravel road, and it was only when he got out of the truck to open up the gate that he saw a mini van parked around back. He swallowed hard, an ache burning in the back of his throat, and he made a mental note to check for antibiotics or cough medicine or something. Nothing was worse than trying to fight off a nasty cold when there weren't any doctors or pharmacists or fucking people anymore.

He quickly pulled the truck through and got back out to shut the gate, narrowly avoiding getting his hand bitten by a particularly nasty looking walker.

He cut the engine and scratched Brody behind the ears.

"Wait here, boy." He reached into the glove compartment for the handgun he and Merle had swiped off a corpse on the way out of Atlanta months ago, and he checked the chamber. He had eight bullets left, so he figured he'd better use them wisely.

He grabbed his keys and stuffed them in his pocket before shutting the door and moving swiftly up the path to the porch. He could hear a cry from inside, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the glass of the front window. He could see a small shadow, someone moving across the room, and he heard a crash, followed by a pained cry.

"Hey, I ain't here to hurt nobody," he murmured, tucking his gun into the back of his pants and holding his hands up. "Just lookin' for medicine, for some food. Maybe a place to sleep tonight."

"I got a gun, Mister!" came an urgent voice that he could barely hear over the rain on the tin roof and the thunder rumbling overhead.

"Hey, that's ok. I ain't here to hurt ya."

"My daddy said everybody's here to hurt us," came the quivering voice that he now realized came from a child. A girl.

"Hey. Hey, it's ok." He watched as the lace curtain over the window on the front door peeled back, and he blinked in surprise at the sight of two baby blue eyes looking at him warily. Her chin jutted up boldly, and she pointed the barrel of a shotgun at him.

"I'll shoot, Mister!"

"Hey. It's ok. Hey." Daryl slowly reached behind him and drew his gun. He held it away from him, pointed to the side, and then he tossed it onto the cushion of a porch swing. "M'not gonna hurt ya. I'm Daryl. You wanna tell me your name?"

"S…I'm not s'posed to talk to strangers."

"Are you alone, kid?"

"No. My daddy's sleeping. He's mean, and he's got a gun, and he'll shoot you." He could see the fear in her eyes, and he could hear the strain in her voice, as if she reserved most of her fear for the very man she called her daddy.

"You wanna go wake your daddy up? Send him out here? Just wanna talk to him. Just need some cough medicine."

"Cough medicine?"

"Yeah. See, I got a sore throat, and I just need somethin' for it. I ran all out, and I need a dry place to sit for a minute."

"Oh," she said softly. She looked over her shoulder for a moment, and that was when he heard the pained cry again."

"Hey, kid." The girl looked back up at him.

"I'm Sophia," she said weakly.

"Sophia, where's your daddy?"

"My daddy's dead," Sophia admitted. "He died a long time ago."

"Sophia, is someone hurt?"

"No. Someone's sick," Sophia said softly. "It's my mama, Mister. I think she's dying."

"Did she get bit?" Daryl asked, keeping his voice soft and even, remembering the way the cops spoke to him when they pulled him and Merle out of class to tell them their parents were dead.

"No," she sniffled. "But she's real sick."

"Sophia? How old are you?"

"I'm five," she sniffled.

"Ok, can you…can you put the gun down?"

"You're a stranger."

"But maybe I can take a look at your mama. See if I can help?"

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, Sophia. I ain't a doctor, but…maybe I can help her. Maybe we can help each other, Sophia. Whaddya say?" Sophia chewed her lip and blinked the tears out of her eyes before finally nodding.

"Ok, but I'm not giving you my gun. I gotta protect my mama, since it's just us left."

"Hey, that's alright. You been trained how to use it?"

"Mama taught me after daddy died. But she says I gotta be careful."

"That's right. You gotta be careful. So you hold it like this, ok?" He mimed with his hands, and Sophia turned the gun to hold it safely. "You got it?"

"Yes sir," she sniffled. And then she reached up and unlocked the door. She hurried off quickly, as the cries from upstairs became louder, more pained. Daryl let himself into the cool, dark house, and he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the dimly lit home. It was then that he saw the little blonde girl crouching on the stairs with the gun safely held in her hands. The screams grew louder, more urgent, and Sophia was trembling on the stairs.

"Sophia, you wait downstairs. You wait, alright? I ain't gonna hurt you or your mama, but I need ya to wait, ok?"

"Promise you won't hurt her?"

"I promise," he said softly. Sophia swallowed hard and stepped off of the stairs, keeping a wide distance, moving as he moved, making certain she didn't let him get too close. When the cries grew louder, more pained, Daryl rushed up, feeling a little sick, wondering what he was about to find. Hell, it could be a trap. He'd fallen into one or two of those in the months since the world ended. But, as he grew closer, he could feel the energy, the pain coming from that room. And when he opened the door, he felt a pull in his gut when he saw the young woman hunched over in the bed with her head bowed and her hands over the curve of her stomach. Her body was shaking, and she was groaning in pain, and the sheets were tinged pink.

"Shit," he murmured. She snapped her head up, eyes wide with fear as her dark, brown curls fell into her sweaty face.

"Sophia!" she cried out.

"She's ok. Hey. She's ok. She's just scared. She's downstairs."

"Sophia!" the woman cried again. "Sophia, you answer your mama!"

"I'm ok, Mama!" Sophia called from downstairs. The woman let out a heavy, shaking breath, and she groaned, gripping her stomach again.

"I can't," she cried. "It's dead. I know it's dead. It's ripping me apart. Oh God!"

"Hey. Hey, it's…oh shit." He ran his fingers through his hair as she fell back against the mattress, breathing hard as she gripped the sheets between her fingers.

"Please tell me you're a doctor. I've been praying for a doctor for days."

"Sorry," he murmured.

"Just as well," she slurred, as her eyes began to roll back. "Don't let my little girl die. No matter what happens to me. Don't let her die. Oh, God!" She arched back then, and Daryl moved toward the bed, crouching at the side. Her hand found his, and she gripped it so hard her knuckles turned white. "If I die, you don't let me turn! You don't let her see me like that."

"I…"

"You'll end it. You will, won't you?" She reached under her pillow, pulling out a sharp blade with a knuckle guard. "Please."

"Ok. I…ok." He swallowed hard, reaching for the knife, and he put it aside, and the woman arched up, baring down, gripping his hand. "Please finish it. Please." She cried out, and Daryl moved, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion and in warp speed at the same time. He felt sick, dizzy, like the world was falling out from under him, and he pushed up her gown as she reached up for her ankles, baring down and pushing hard.

"I…I see a head," he murmured, as if surprised. In this world, new life wasn't even a thought in the back of his mind. It was death, decay, disease.

But the harder she pushed, the faster everything happened, and in minutes, a wriggling, pink little thing lay between her legs on the bed, little legs kicking and hands grasping at air.

"Oh my God," she panted. "Oh God. It's not crying. It's dead. It's dead." She covered her face with her hands. "Do it fast. Please. Please."

"It ain't…it ain't…" He ran his hand through his hair before he reached with shaking hands to pick up the wriggling infant, vaguely recalling every television show he'd ever seen where a baby wasn't crying when it was born. He gently tapped it on the back with the heel of his hand, and in moments, a cry pierced the air, and the woman's eyes flew open as Daryl reached for the closest thing, a soft, white sweater, to wrap the baby in.

"Oh my God," she whimpered. "Oh my God." Daryl glanced up at her, eyes wide as his arms trembled with this new life wrapped in them. "It's ok?"

"It's ok," he panted, as his heart slowly began to return to its normal rate. "It's…it's a boy."