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Glenn flips open the cell phone, pages through the messages until he finds the text he's looking for.
Stay where you are. I'll find you.
He tries again for a signal before closing the phone in frustration, taps it against his forehead and resists the urge to break down. Of course there's no signal – everyone and their dogs are trying to get through on the network, frantic to reach family and friends in the chaos. And it's only been twenty four hours.
The thought of dogs makes him raise his head, take in his surroundings again. He tries to look at the pet store with fresh eyes, studying the piles of dog food stacked against the plate glass window for chinks in their kibble armour. But none of the peek-holes he's left are at eye level, and the stacks effectively block out a person – or walker's – line of sight. He checks now, easing along on his hands and knees and slowly lifting his head to stare out the lowermost window in the barricade. Half a dozen walkers shuffle past, one of them with bone and bloody sinew still dripping from the hole where his right arm used to be. Glenn shudders, ducks quickly behind the kibble. As long as he's quiet, he should be okay. The entire place stinks of guano and piss, but he released the animals out the back door before he boarded up the front – he's not sure he believes in God, especially now, but he sent out a little wish that at least some of them make it to the woods outside Newnan and a chance at a life – and he's found snack cakes and about a pound of M&M's behind the counter.
He'll be fine until Daryl gets here.
He tucks his knees against his chest, leans his back against the barricade. Closes his eyes.
When he wakes, it's to Daryl calling his name.
Glenn jerks, heart pounding. The dream had been a good one, a surreal sort of half memory of the time they went fishing. Glenn had hopelessly tangled their lines, nearly fallen out of the boat, and then forced Daryl to throw back every fish he caught. Daryl had barked out his name but Glenn had been insistent. It was one thing to eat a fish you caught if you had no other food, but it was entirely another when there was a cooler full of steak waiting back at—
"GLENN!"
Glenn is on his knees in a heartbeat, pushing his face toward the chink in the glass. He blinks, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, just as Daryl screams his name again. The man's voice is hoarse – who knows how long he's been calling while Glenn slept, lost in a dream, blissfully unaware – and the walkers are closing in, three of them coming from the left, four more from the right. As he watches Daryl shoulders his bow, takes out the closest with a precise shot to the head.
"GLENN!"
The desperate, anguished shout knocks him out of his stupor, and he pounds on the glass, screams Daryl's name. Sees the man look around in confusion, finally adjust his sightline and notice him. He gestures to the back door, and Daryl nods… and then runs in the other direction. He tugs at the arrow still embedded in the walker's head, barely misses getting snagged by another, and Glenn thinks his heart actually stops in his chest before the arrow comes free and Daryl is sprinting for the back door.
He waits until Daryl has signaled that the coast is clear before disengaging the bolt, letting Daryl stumble inside. The man is dirty and sweat-soaked, his arms scratched by brambles, his eyes wild. He has never looked better.
Later he'll find out about his technologically inept boyfriend tracing his phone signal, and the bedlam on the interstate, and the government actually dropping firebombs on Atlanta. Now he just pulls Daryl into his arms, tries not to sob with relief.
"Told you I'd find you," Daryl says into his hair.
* * *
The camp in the woods also has other people. People to take shifts on watch. People to man the fence line when the walkers get too close, taking them out with shovels and pickaxes and broken hoes. Glenn finds an old rusty fireplace poker in the long grass, spends a couple of nights cleaning it until it gleams and then carries it everywhere. He uses his knowledge of Atlanta's back streets to make covert raids into the safer parts of the city, barters with what he finds. Daryl keeps the survivors in fresh meat.
Not that they don't have their problems. Daryl comes back to their stall with bruised ribs and bloody knuckles on more than one occasion, until the bigots and homophobes learn to hold their tongues and keep their hands to themselves. But every time he sees the walkers pushing up against the fence, snarling and snapping their rotting jaws, he's reminded that it could be a lot worse.
Glenn looks up when Daryl pushes through the old horse blanket partition, frowns at the worried look on Daryl's face. "Something wrong?"
Daryl shrugs as he hefts his crossbow, checks the tension. "Just that Philip fuck, stirrin' up trouble again."
Glenn puts down his map, leans his head against the rough planking of the stall. "What is it this time?"
"Not enough people pullin' their weight," Daryl says. "Tryin' to convince people to pull up stakes, head toward some hick town. Got Martinez and a few others behind him now."
Glenn sighs. Sticking together, working together – it's the one thing the camp doesn't do unless the walkers are gathering in numbers at the fence, and it's the one thing that's probably going to tear them apart. And he doesn't relish being back on the road again, sleeping with one eye open when he manages to sleep at all. He still occasionally jerks awake from a nightmare in which they don't manage to sneak past the two dozen walkers they found clustered around the abandoned gas station, and one in which Daryl runs out of arrows when they're trapped in the maze of the storage lockers.
"No point to worry about it now," he says aloud. He juts his chin at the bow. "You going on a hunt?"
"Just checkin' the snares," Daryl says. "Be back before supper."
Daryl's been gone two hours when the choppers arrive.
They swoop out of the sky like something from an old war movie, leading the caravan of heavy Army trucks that trundles up the road. The noise stirs up the walkers, brings new ones from the woods. The soldiers jump out of the trucks in groups of three and four, brandishing weapons that far outstrip anything their little group has in its arsenal.
They're herded into the trucks like refugees. Given no choice. "It's for your own good," the man in charge says, some bully with a crew cut and muscles that are starting to turn to flab. "You'll be taken to a government camp. There will be food and shelter, medical care. You'll be safe there."
It's a rote speech, one that's repeated time and again. And no matter how many times Glenn tries to explain that he can't leave, that his boyfriend isn't here, that they can't be separated, he's pulled into the line. He fights back, gets a boot to the gut and a cut lip for his trouble, hits his head on the wheel well when they shove him into the rear of a flatbed. He stares up at the sun, and despite the whirring of the helicopter blades and the shouting of the army drones he can still hear the boards on the fence breaking as the walkers surge through.
He manages to lift his head from the grimy floorboards, peers over the edge of the rail in time to see the soldier nearest to the convoy get swarmed. Glenn groans when he raises himself up higher, takes in the soldiers running back to their trucks, the sudden streams of automatic fire, the snarls and moans of the undead as they burst through the lines, reaching out with skeletal grey hands. And further back in the field, he sees Daryl racing through the long grass.
Glenn lifts a hand, tries to pull himself up as the vehicle roars to life. Tries to fling himself from the back of the truck. He can see Daryl's lips moving, forming his name. He manages to make it to a standing position, sways as the truck swerves with the ruts in the grass, and thinks he can hear Daryl yelling I'll find you. He clutches at the rail, eyes the guard with the gun pointed unerringly at his chest, and manages to keep Daryl in sight long enough to see the walker stumble into his path and mow him down.
He slumps down against the side of the truck bed, his legs weak. Tucks his head between his knees when the world spins. Tries to hold onto hope, and fails.
"Daryl," he murmurs.
"Heard you talkin' about your boyfriend," the soldier says mockingly. "You can suck my cock, bitch."
The camp in the woods provided safety and security for three weeks. The army refugee centre lasts three days before it's overrun.
* * *
He edges as close as he dares, takes in the old RV parked near the concrete bathrooms of the rest step. The scent of something simmering in the pot propped above the campfire makes his stomach rumble, reminds him of the hunters stew that was a staple back at the camp. But that just makes him think of Daryl, and of camping trips before the world went to shit, and of lying side by side and watching the stars. Of reaching out and touching Daryl because he can, because Daryl is his, and because he can't stop touching him. Of Daryl giving him that sideways smirk, rolling over and kissing him until he can't breathe. And that just makes his stomach roil and his chest ache.
That life is gone. Daryl is gone. So he forces himself stop thinking, makes himself study the area around the impromptu campsite instead.
The camp appears to be deserted… at least for now. The only sounds are the rustle of something small in the bushes and the distant hooting of an owl.
He decides to take his chance.
He's reaching for the pot when the voice comes out of the darkness.
"You look like something that cat chewed up and spit out, son."
Glenn freezes, mentally calls himself ten kinds of fool. Then he raises his head to the top of the RV, meets the eyes of an old man with a floppy hat and a hunting rifle pointed in his general direction. He raises his arms slowly. "I don't mean you any harm," he says. "I'm just… hungry."
"'Course you are," the old man says. He studies Glenn for a moment in the moonlight, scratches at his beard before lowering his weapon. "Climb on up. Bring the pot. And grab a couple of beers out of the cooler there while you're at it."
Glenn manages a handful of bites of stew and half a can of warm beer. The food sits like sludge in his gut, but he forces himself to eat. He needs his strength back.
He doesn't say much, but the old man keeps up a running commentary regardless. He nods when Dale talks about his wife, the job he retired from, the hazards of trying to stay one step ahead of the walkers. He talks about the people he's lost. It only occurs to Glenn later, after they've picked up the girls and are making their way back toward Atlanta, that Dale must have been just as lonely and scared as he was, as anxious to make a connection in this new world.
He slips his hand into his pocket, rubs a thumb over the old cell phone. The battery has long since died, but he just can't throw it away.
Stay where you are. I'll find you.
He only realizes he's crying when Dale's hand comes up to squeeze his shoulder. "What do you say, son?"
Glenn swipes at his eyes unashamedly, faces the old man. "I'm sorry, I wasn't—"
"There's an old quarry Irma and I used to visit," Dale says. "Isolated, got a fresh water lake. Should be safe from the walkers. We could do some fishing, if either of us can figure out how to work the damn reels. Irma was the fisherman of the family, not me."
Glenn tries to imagine living in safety on the edge of a lake. Sleeping on a cot instead of nestled haphazardly in the crook of a tree branch. Not having to constantly be on the lookout for walking corpses. Starting over. "Yeah," he finally says.
"Okay," Dale says heartily. "We'll head out in the morning."
Glenn nods, turns his face up to the stars and takes a breath. "Not sure how much help I'll be with the fishing, though. The one time Daryl took me, I got caught up in the line so bad he had to cut me out."
Dale cocks his head. "Daryl?"
"My boyfriend," Glenn says softly. "Daryl was my boyfriend."
* * *
"Good to see you back safe," Lori says as he skids to a stop and hops off the old ten-speed. Her hand comes up to touch his cheek, turns him way from bending to unload the supplies he scavenged. "You didn't take any unnecessary chances, did you?"
"No, mom," he jokes. No need to tell her about almost getting trapped at the dead end, or dangling from the broken eaves-trough with a dozen walkers snapping at his heels. The last thing he needs is Rick and Shane harassing him again to bring someone with him on his runs. So he holds back the scary shit, and just grins when she gives him a gentle smack before leaning in to kiss his cheek.
"Let me help you with those," she says. She reaches for the bags looped around the bars as he shrugs out of his backpack. "Did you happen to find any powdered milk this time? Not," she adds quickly, "that everything you bring back isn't happily and gratefully appreciated."
Glenn shakes his head distractedly, squints across at the far side of the camp and the new pup tent set slightly apart from the others. "New guy?"
"Came in yesterday," Lori says, glancing over before returning her attention to the canned items straining the limits of the bags. "Seems okay."
Glenn straightens, takes a step and raises a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the morning sun. The tent is green, khaki green, and… he edges to the side so that he can see the faded white numbers imprinted on the side of the canvas. The tent is exactly like those from the refugee camp, the ones that held the army personnel. The ones that held the men that were supposed to protect the survivors, not crowd them into airtight rooms, deny them food if they were 'insolent', take the women aside and…
The things they did. The things he couldn't prevent.
Glenn closes his eyes, clenches his hands into fists.
"No," he murmurs. "No, Lori, this isn't good."
He takes another shuffling step closer, tries to decide what to do. But when the tent flaps get pushed aside, he drops to his knees.
He's vaguely aware of Lori calling his name, of someone running up from the side and reaching for his arm. And he must make some kind of sound, because the new guy's head snaps up, scans the area and zeroes in on him immediately.
Daryl's hair is longer, his body leaner. But there is no mistaking the sharpness of his eyes, the quickness of his movements as he eats up the ground between them.
Daryl's hands wrap around his biceps, shaking as much as his own.
"Told you I'd find you," Daryl says just before their lips meet.