Chasing Amy (Daryl Dixon/The Walking Dead)

Chapter 3 - Captured and Saved

"We can't leave them!" The Rick guy growled.

I slumped down and screwed my eyes shut, breathing deeply through my nose.

"The fence went clean through. There's no way we can get the leg off in one piece," The older, deeper, voice muttered.

I kept breathing through my nose, my eyes still closed as I focused on my breathing.

I used my breath as a coping mechanism, the one thing that was constant in this situation. I was still breathing.

I was still alive, and that was all that mattered.

"Shut up, or I will shoot you!" The gravelly voice. Rick.

I instantly held my breath, thinking he was talking to me. Surely my breathing wasn't that loud? I cautiously opened one eye, and found that he was shouting to Randall.

I stood up again, the denim tightening around my shins. I didn't fail to notice how the fabric stuck to my leg. The bleeding must've started.

"That may be the answer," The white haired man said solemnly. They both took a step back, and the younger one stepped toward us.

Of all three men, he seemed the least dangerous. But then again, the worst ones always seemed nice at first.

The two behind us discussed Randall in a hushed tone.

Randall was gasping for breath, and clutching at his impaled leg.

"Shut up," The boy said, pushing Randall's leg. He let out another painful shriek, and for a second I could see the metal poking out of his shin, and the sight alone made me sick to my stomach, as the the spike moved inside of his bloody joint.

"Stop!" I shouted worriedly, pushing the stranger's arm away from Randall. "You think that's going to make him quiet?"

Realising what I'd just said, I flinched and took an immediate step back. The boy looked puzzled by my reaction, before nodding in agreement.

"I'm sorry," He whispered hurriedly to Randall. "Just sh-shut up." He seemed under pressure, worried about too many things at a time. A little like me.

I didn't say another thing, until the two men came back.

"Can't we just take the leg off?" The young man beside me said hurriedly.

There was a brief pause, as the two men considered their options.

"That hatchet still in the car?"

"No, no! Please don't cut my leg off!" Randall begged. "Not my leg."

The man with the southern accent pulled a small knife from his belt.

"Will this cut through the bone?" He asked the older one. I felt like I was going to throw up. He wasn't seriously going to cut off Randall's leg here, while the groans of a herd of roamers grew louder and louder?

"I'll have to sever the ligaments below the kneecap, cut above the tibia." It became more and more apparent to me that the older man was trained in medicine.

"All right, no choice. Hurry up."

"Oh God. Oh, God," Randall continued to chant these words. I couldn't imagine being in his place right now, but instead I was face-to-face with the three people who killed my brother.

They began to prepare Randall for whatever they were going to do, as I watched behind the fence for any roamers. They were coming, I could hear them clearly.

"Pass me that stick."

"Here."

The young one turned away, his shotgun in hand. "Guys, walkers."