CHAPTER THREE          claimed

"Now's your chance. Go."

PAIN. It's the only thing I feel when I come to. Sharp and consuming, deep, fiery, blooding from every inch of my being like fire licking through my bones. My head, my chest, my legs. It all pulsed with a raw, relentless ache. It hurt in a way that there's no way I'm alive. I must be dead.

But I'm not.

I know I'm not, because every breath I take feels like I'm suffocating. It sends a stabbing pain through my chest. A groan slips through my lips as I crack my eyes open. The light pours into them, bright, stabbing at my skull. Voices bled through the ringing in my head- laughing, hooting, talking too loudly.

"Oh, she's up! We've been waitin' on ya," someone jeers. 

Blurry figures shift in front of me. My hand scapes the dirt and gravel, frantically searching for something familiar. My bag, my axe, anything. But there was nothing except rocks and empty space. 

"Don't worry 'bout that," his voice taunts again. "You're stuff's already been claimed."

Claimed?

I blink a few times, facing my vision to adjust. A group of men stand before me, grinning like they've already decided who I was. One leaned forward, grinning greasy in a way that made my stomach twist. "WHo's gonna claimer her?  If no one else is, I am."

The others chortle and holler like it was the funniest thing in the world. 

"This ain't no auction,"  I rasp, my voice horse and raw, even though my fingers tremble. I try to stand- the ground tilts. A wave of dizziness swallows me and I have to catch myself against a nearby tree, gripping the bark to stay upright.  Stars dance across my field of vision as they break out into laughter again.

"Oh, she's feisty!" one of them laughs. "Those're the most fun."

I spot the truck- my truck- twisted around a tree like a crushed soda can. Tire marks painted across the road. Just the sight of it makes my everything hurt- my body and my heart. The red beauty had given me hope, and now it was gone. 

My eyes trail from each grimy hand to the next, searching for my belongings. "I want her," a fat man says, eying me up and down like I was his next meal. My stomach lurches as he takes a step forward. My hand instinctively reaches for my holster. It turns up empty. 

"You ain't takin' her. Claimed. She's mine."

A different voice this time. Lower. Rougher. 

A man steps through the group- quietly, purposeful. He wore a black best, a crossbow slung over his shoulder, and shaggy hair that hung in his eyes. He looked... unreadable. His face was still, his thin mouth tugged down into a small frown. In his hand- my axe. And slung over his shoulder- my bag. 

"Hey" one of the others objected. "that ain't fair! He got the bag, axe, and the girl!"

"Well, yall should've claimed something. If Daryl here can make the move to claim, yall can too." Another man- older, graying- spoke up. "Now, I ain't denying that he's a greedy som-of-bitch, but, yall know the rules." 

He points at me accusingly, like I was a problem to be handled. "Ain't no point in trying to run. You're claimed now. You run and we'll kill ya." 

I clench my  jaw at his threat, eyes darting between him and Daryl- if that was his name. The gray man turns back to hook group. "I see any means of transportation has been ruined. Boys, let's go."

The group starts moving again. Daryl holds my bag out. I snatch to from him, tucking it against my chest tightly. He doesn't flinch or argue. Just nods towards the others like I was expected to follow. 

So I did. 

My head reels- how did I manage to get into this situation? 'm absolutely stuck here with no way to escape. I know I'm injured and I know I have no means of defending myself. So much for trying to avoid others. The beach will have to wait. Until then, I need to focus on finding my way out of here.

I should've never left the gas station.

The sun dips behind the trees, casting long shadows across the road. My limbs throw with every step. I make sure to keep a safe distance- close enough to stay protected from ghouls, but far enough to  avoid  taking to any of them. 

We stop abruptly at a wether-worm sign. A map with the word Terminus painted in red. 'Those who arrive survive.'

"Getting closer," the ringleader announces.

"You seen this before?" Daryl asks, voice low.

"Oh, yeah. I'll tell you what it is- it's a lie. Ain't no sanctuary for all. Ain't gonna welcome guys like you and me with open arms."

Daryl glances back at me. I say nothing. I ain't seen anything about this before. Even if I have, I sure wouldn't tell them that. I wasn't going to hand over any more of myself to these people. 

The trek drags one, broken up by sharp bursts of pain in my ribs and the constant ache in my calf. I try not to limp, but it was impossibly not too. Every step lit up my calf in a white, hot, fiery pain. 

The leader raises his hand- we stop. 

"Shh. I hear someone."

The ache in my ribs gave me a reason to still.  Finally. A moment of rest.

The aching in my ribs doesn't subside as I stand there, my arms wrapped around my middle. I move behind Daryl, allowing his burly frame to shield me. I didn't like it, but it was better than being seen. Better than being out in the open. 

"We let people in. We did," a voice weaves through the trees.

Daryl tensed. So did I- involuntarily. 

I scanned the forest, thinking now. This is my chance to ruin. Everyone is distracted. Focused on something else other than me. I could disappear. 

I ignore the gut-wrenching pain as I felt for my boot- I nearly collapse in relief when my fingers close around cold metal. 

My gun. They hadn't taken it.

Daryl glances over his shoulder, meeting my eyes. I freeze, heart thundering in my chest as I straighten my posture. I grip the handle of the gun tightly, every hair on my body raised. 

Daryl doesn't care- he tosses my axe to the ground by my feet. "Now's your chance. Go."

What?

I watch him walk away, confused, something gnawing at my gut.  He's different from the rest of them; he's doesn't belong with them. Not really.  He paces into the clearing, his form taut. Then it happens- the group turns on him. 

They beat him, brutal and animalistic. Kicks, punches, curses and laughter. I stand frozen, axe in hand, bag only shoulder, my chest rising and falling heavily as Daryl grunts under their relentless abuse.

Run, my mind screams.  

Help him. He didn't hurt you. He saved you. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping my head with shaking hands. What would Lincoln do?

I hear the men from the group laughing sickly. Then I move. I drop my bag, drop my axe, and take a deep breath.

And I step into the clearing. 

The ringleader glances up at my arrival. He holds a gun to a man's head- his hands tremble, eyes calculating despite the fear etched into his features. 

"What do we have here?" he sneers.  "Too scared to run?"

I don't say anything. My eyes drift to the woman hostage- a woman with dark skin and a terrified expression watches me, scared, confused.

I look back to the man under the Claimer's gun. His sharp, blue eyes pierce mine. There's a silent moment of understanding between the two of us before he moves. 

I swear time slows as he slams his head back into the Claimer's face. His gun goes off, a wild shot. I aim my pistol at one of the men pinning Daryl down- they only laugh. I straighten my back subconsciously in an attempt to appear bigger, more assured of myself. I plant my legs,  the heel of my boots digging into the ground. Out the corner of my eye, the man is in the Claimer's grasp. My stomach curls- I think I just got myself into some deep shit. 

But then he leans forward, and tears into his throat with his teeth.

Everything stops.

The men beating Daryl freeze in horror,  jaws ajar. I stare in a fearful awe at the blood soaked man. Everyone around me breaks into chaos- the woman twists her captor's wrist, firing his gun. The bullet slams into his skull and the shot echoes through the trees. 

I squeeze my tigger. My shot drops the man on top of Daryl in one clean hit, right between his eyebrows. 

Daryl scrambles to his feet, stomping on his second assaulter without mercy.  The bloodied man turns, face soaked, chest heaving. He's terrifying.

The fat Claimer- the one who wanted me- stares at him, paralyzed. He drops the boy in his grasp, hands raised in a fearful surrender, and drops the knife. It doesn't matter, because it doesn't save him.

He Saunders over, driving the knife into his gut. I can't watch as he stabs him repeatedly and drags the blade upward. I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing the bile that rises in my throat. 

I could never stand when Dad and Lincoln would gut deers. 

My arm falls, gun limp in my hand, goosebumps prickled down my spine. The clearing is now still, painted crimson. I stare at the blood spilt across the ground, like if I focus hard enough, maybe it'll stop being real.

A thump pulls me back. I look up- Daryl stands over me. He drops my bag, then my axe. A single, silent nod before moving on to check no the others. 

I sit there for a while, staring at my dirtied boots. The adrenaline ebbs away and the pain crashes in, hard. My entire body shakes, clammy and blood slick. I can't stop shivering. Maybe it's from the cold, maybe from shock. I tug the leg of my jeans up to examine my throbbing calf. A deep gash runs down it, stopping right above my boot. It's stopped bleeding, mostly, but it's raw and ugly. I pull the fabric back down and wrap my arms around myself. I'm so damn tired. 

I must've dozed off at some point, because I jolt awake by something poking my side. 

Daryl.

"You stayin' with us or you got someone out there waitin' on you?" It's not Daryl who asks. It's him. The man who tore the Claimer apart. 

I let my eyes shut and shrug. "Maybe."

"Hey, what's your name?"

"None of your business."

He sighs like he expected such an answer. "You're just a kid. We can't leave you out here alone. What's your name?"

I rock slightly. "Elody."

"Daryl said you crashed that truck back there. That true?"

"I don't know how to drive," I say with a short, bitter laugh that causes my ribs to protest. I wince as he continues, "How many walkers have you killed?"

If my eyes were open, I'd roll them. "I don't know. I didn't realize I was supposed to be keeping score."

I finally crack my eyes open to meet his- blue, sharp, and cold. He crouches before  me, studying every inch log me like he's trying to figure out what I'm hiding. 

"How many people?"

"Three." My voice is hoarse as I answer without missing a beat. "You done with the questions?"

His eyes narrow. "Why?"

I glare at him, my brows furrowing. "Because I had to. Jesus, why else would I? You think I like it? God."

He doesn't flinch. He only hits me with the next one. "Why'd you help us?"

I throw my arms out beside me, exasperated.  "I just felt like I needed to, okay?  It was the right thing, I don't know, man!"

He stands up, gaze never softening. "You hungry?" I shrug.  

"We  leave at sunrise," his tone is flat, non-negotiable. "You ride with us, you leave your weapons with me. You can sleep in the car."

He crouches with a wave of caution as he hold out my pistol. Daryl watches, arms crossed over his chest. 

The leader watches as I climb to my feet, limping toward the car, each step heavy. I wrench the passenger door open and slide in, letting the door slam close behind me. I feel their watchful eyes on me as I rest my head against the cold glass.  

I close my eyes. Just for a minute.