Chapter Text
The world's on fire it seems. The air is on fire and each breath scorches his lungs, ashy and burnt, an acrid plume of smoke that surrounds them, billowing up unendingly. The CDC is gone, a massive fireball in it's place, burning unchecked. There's no sirens wailing, no fire trucks to come racing over the blackened grass, just flames, raging and reaching up to lick at the sky.
Shane can feel the racing heartbeat beneath his fingers, the heave of the rib cage of the man he's clutching desperately to his chest. He's panting for air, anger and disbelief warring together. He can't move, his eyes wide as he watches the carnage unfold. Daryl's making little gasps, his breathing erratic while the ground trembles beneath them, shockwaves of explosions rocking the vehicles.
What's left of the CDC building is aflame, the world is on fire and Shane's neck still aches from the scratches that Lori left on him only hours before. He can't unclench his arms, he can't let go of Daryl even when he sees Rick's sheet white face emerge from the caravan, signalling for them to pull away before the flames come any closer.
The world's burning.
-
"This is pointless."
He's clenching and unclenching his fingers on the steering wheel, sweat dripping from his temples as he mutters under his breath. His gaze wanders to the rear view mirror, keeping a close eye on the old pickup behind his jeep, half expecting it to sputter to a halt at any second. He can see Daryl behind the wheel, one arm draped lazily out the window. If he squints, he can see the strap of black that bisects Daryl's neck.
His pulse flutters and he swallows, his throat dry. For a brief moment his annoyance is second to the little thrill of lust he feels when he sees the collar. He tries to say that he hates the collar but the flickers of arousal he feels tell another story.
The sun's high with barely a breeze to take the edge off the sweltering heat. His brain is melting, he's sure of it.
Rick's driving up ahead, Lori tucked in beside him. Shane flexes his fingers again and then swipes one hand over his head, pulling his ball cap off his sweat soaked hair. There's Carl, Sophia, and Carol in the backseat and he tries to imagine what they're talking about, what, if anything, Lori has to say. His skin crawls at the thought.
Unwillingly, he drags his gaze away from Rick's car, glancing at the rear view mirror again until he sees Daryl. He breathes out, exhaling forcefully. Sometimes he thinks he's going insane, but then, maybe he's not. He hates that Lori won't talk to him, hates the look in her eyes when she meets his, that she won't let Carl near him, he hates that he was wrong when he left the hospital for the last time, and he's haunted by the idea of having to leave Rick helpless there. He hates Rick for forcing him to take...take ownership of such a badly damaged man. He hates how he feels when Daryl kneels for him.
Fort Benning, a hundred miles from the direction they're heading, it's a fact that makes him grind his teeth together, dull anger coursing through him. Rick's so damn sure, so confident that the CDC is the way to go. The risk is too high in Shane's book, far too high.
"Ain't nothing worth this," he mumbles. His words catch in the wind, unheard by anyone.
Atlanta, home to over four hundred thousand people. Even if most of the population had heeded the original evacuation orders, he knows that still leaves a large amount behind. Couple that with the promises of refugee camps in the early days of the outbreak that would have led to a surge of panicked people flooding back into the city, and those were now dangerously bad odds. Then add the bombings that followed and now...God only knows what they'll be walking into.
Dangerous isn't the word for it, he knows all this, Rick knows this. Atlanta now isn't what Rick remembers, Shane'll bet his last bullet on it.
-
The sun's setting when they pull up to the CDC, the building casting shadows against the silent city's background. It's unnerving, walking through the dead bodies that lie scattered and discarded across the still green grass, and it's dream like, watching the doors to the building open in a wash of alarmingly bright white light.
Rick's hoarse screams aimed at the video camera echo in Shane's ears. It mixes with the panicked cries of the kids behind them and both those sounds pale to the guttural moans and snarls of the undead staggering towards them. He thinks again that this was beyond stupid, driving into a death trap so willingly.
He can feel his grip on Rick slipping, sweat slicked fingers nearly numb from the effort of trying to drag him away from the doors. Rick's all frantic strength and desperate determination and while he shouts for Rick to listen, man, just this once, that it's not too late, they can still make a try for the army base, he hears the clicks and hums of an electric lock unsealing and the doors part, ghostly light spilling out and illuminating them all.
He can't look away from the doors and his arms go slack, letting Rick loose from his grip. He can feel Daryl pressing in close to his left side, crossbow ready to unload at Shane's command and the thought winds through his mind, that he needs to protect Daryl from the unknown before them. There's danger here, he's sure of it.
And he knows, Hell, of course he knows that Daryl doesn't need protecting, but it's his instinct, one that's served him since the dead started roaming through the streets. He's at his best when he has someone to care for. So now, as they file into the lobby, as they approach the startled man with an automatic that's approaching them as if they're ghosts, it's still his instinct to try and keep Daryl a step behind him.
He can hear him, hear his near silent exhales near his ear and as Rick negotiates with the man, agreeing to let the doctor take samples of their blood in exchange for safety, he focuses on the way Daryl presses in closer to him, crossbow still at the ready in his hands. There's a grounding sensation in the moment, a lick of calm in a steady wave of fear and unease.
This building isn't safe. It feels like a trap, one that they're happily marching into, and he grits his teeth as they enter the elevator, wishing unendingly that someone would listen to him. How could a building, one this big, still have power, how long could the generators possibly run?
His thoughts are derailed by the subtle touch of Daryl's right hand brushing the tips of his fingers, a worn, calloused hand just touching, hardly touching, in the crowded elevator, and with that tiny motion there's a small release of tension from his shoulders, drained away in an instant. Shane's there, breathing, and Daryl's hand is touching his, a moment of connection, even if they aren't looking at each other.
He doesn't pretend to understand why Daryl clings to what Merle taught him. He doesn't understand any of it, he's fumbling along in all honesty, struggling with the basics, and it's not like Daryl's all that forthcoming with what he wants. It's confusing and uncomfortable at best, but he knows how he feels when his fingers touch the collar, when Daryl kneels at his side, nuzzling against his leg.
The elevator pings open, distracting him anew. There's blood to be drawn, a price to pay for their supposed safety. Daryl squeezes the tips of his fingers once more before letting go, his gaze still focused on the floor. It's almost a surprise, the sense of loss he feels when Daryl lets go but before he can dwell on it, they're moving en masse, God knows how far underground, following this man blindly.