Chapter 37: The Rooftop
Sunday - 11:47 AM
The department store roof was a slaughterhouse without a body.
Blood everywhere—pooled near the pipe, streaked across concrete, handprints on the door. The handcuffs were still locked tight, chrome glinting in the Georgia sun. And beside them, wrapped in torn fabric, was Merle Dixon's severed hand.
Daryl made a sound I'd never heard a human make before. Part scream, part sob, all rage. He dropped to his knees, hands hovering over the appendage like he was afraid it would disappear if he touched it.
"Merle," he whispered. "Jesus Christ, Merle."
Rick moved to the pipe, examined the setup. "He used a hacksaw. Cut through his own wrist rather than die up here."
"How long would that take?" T-Dog asked, voice shaking.
"Depends on determination. With a good saw and enough pain tolerance? Twenty minutes. Maybe less."
Glenn was backing away from the scene, hand over his mouth. "He cut off his own hand. Just... cut it off."
"Better than dying," Daryl said flatly. He picked up his brother's hand, cradled it like something precious. The rings were still on the fingers—silver band, turquoise stone. Merle's signature jewelry, now separated from their owner.
[ TIMER: 48:22:17 ]
Two days. Less than. The pressure was starting to build again—not critical yet, but noticeable. The headaches would return soon. Then the tremors. Then the desperate hunt for a target.
Focus. Deal with Merle first. The timer can wait.
I examined the blood trail. It led across the roof toward a fire escape, drops getting smaller as Merle got the bleeding under control. "He's moving. Fast. Faster than someone with that injury should be able to."
"Merle's tough," Daryl said. "Toughest man I know. This won't stop him."
"It should kill him. Blood loss, infection, shock. He should be dead or dying."
"But he ain't. Because he's Merle goddamn Dixon, and he don't quit."
We followed the blood trail down the fire escape, through the building. More drops, more streaks. Merle had been moving with purpose, not panicked. He'd found a kitchen—industrial, abandoned when the building fell. The stove was still warm.
A cast iron skillet sat on a burner, handle wrapped in cloth. Dried blood on the metal, burned flesh smell lingering.
"He cauterized it," Rick said. "Heated the iron, pressed it to the wound. That's why he's not dead yet."
"Smart," I admitted. "Brutal, but smart."
"Where would he go after?" Glenn asked. "Wounded, one-handed, alone in Atlanta. What's his move?"
"Somewhere with supplies. Medical equipment, weapons, food." I checked the map in my head. "There's a National Guard post three blocks north. Might have what he needs."
"Or he went south," T-Dog suggested. "Toward the highway. Tried to get out of the city."
"With one hand and no vehicle?" Daryl shook his head. "Nah. Merle would hole up somewhere, get his strength, then move. He ain't running."
We followed the trail out a side exit into an alley. The blood continued for another block, then started to thin. Merle had gotten the bleeding under control, or he'd found transportation.
The trail led us through industrial Atlanta—warehouses, loading docks, abandoned trucks. Perfect territory for scavenging or hiding. Perfect territory for ambush.
A mural caught my eye—graffiti art covering a warehouse wall. Stylized gang tags, territorial markers. The word "VATOS" in elaborate script, surrounded by imagery.
"Vatos," Glenn said quietly. "I've seen their tags before. Hispanic gang that controlled this area pre-outbreak. Street kids, mostly. Some of them were decent. Some... weren't."
"Would they help Merle?" Rick asked.
"Would they kill him for his supplies? Probably. Help him? Depends on their mood."
The blood trail disappeared near a warehouse entrance. We approached carefully, weapons ready. The door was ajar, darkness beyond.
Movement behind us. Fast, coordinated. Three men in dark clothes, faces covered, grabbing Glenn from behind.
"Hey!" Glenn struggled, but they had him. A van screeched around the corner, side door open.
I raised my Glock, but they were already moving. Glenn was thrown into the van, door slamming. The vehicle accelerated, tires squealing.
Rick fired twice—bullets sparked off the van's rear bumper. T-Dog ran after them, gave up after half a block.
"Shit!" Daryl kicked a trash can. "Now we lost Merle AND Glenn!"
"Not lost," I said, studying the van's tire tracks. "Captured. There's a difference."
"Not much of one."
"The Vatos aren't random. They're territorial. Which means they have a base, a structure. We can find them."
"How?"
I pointed at the mural. "They marked their territory. That mural's fresh—painted since the outbreak. Someone's maintaining it. Someone who wants people to know this area belongs to them."
Rick was already moving, following the van's tracks. "They went west. Toward the old nursing home district."
"Nursing homes?" T-Dog frowned. "Why would a gang use nursing homes?"
"Cover. No one looks for gangs in nursing homes." I jogged to keep up with Rick. "Or they're protecting something. Someone."
We tracked the van for three blocks before the trail went cold on asphalt. But the direction was clear—residential area, multiple buildings, lots of cover.
And there, at the center of it all: a nursing home. Three stories, brick exterior, bars on the ground-floor windows. Defensive position, easy to fortify.
"That's where they took him," Rick said.
"How many you think?" Daryl asked.
"Hard to tell. Could be a dozen. Could be fifty."
"Either way, we're outnumbered."
"Then we negotiate."
"Or we go in shooting."
Rick looked at Daryl. "Your brother's missing. Glenn's been taken. We're low on ammunition and standing in hostile territory. You really want to start a war right now?"
Daryl's hands clenched on his crossbow. "What I want is my brother and our people back."
"So do I. Which is why we're going to be smart about this."
[ TIMER: 46:18:44 ]
We approached the nursing home carefully. The front entrance was barricaded but not impenetrable. Windows on the second floor showed movement—people watching, weapons visible.
"They know we're here," I said.
"Good. Means we can talk."
Rick stepped forward, hands raised. "We're not here to fight. We just want our friend back. The man you took."
Silence. Then a voice from inside, accented but clear: "Your friend broke into our territory. He pays the price."
"What price?"
"The guns. All of them. Leave them, walk away."
"That's not happening."
"Then your friend dies."
Rick lowered his hands. "I'm willing to negotiate. But not blind. I need to see him. Need to know he's alive."
More silence. Then the door cracked open, revealing a young man—early twenties, Hispanic, holding an AR-15 like he'd been trained. Behind him, Glenn was visible, hands tied, but unharmed.
"He's alive," the young man said. "For now. You want him to stay that way, you leave the guns."
"Can I make a counter-offer?" I asked.
The young man's eyes shifted to me. "Who are you?"
"Medical resident. I've got skills, supplies, knowledge. Maybe we can trade."
"We don't need a doctor."
"Everyone needs a doctor. Especially in a nursing home."
That got his attention. His grip on the rifle shifted slightly. "How'd you know about that?"
"Context clues. The location, the defensive setup, the way you're protecting this place instead of looting it. You're not bandits. You're caretakers."
"You don't know shit."
"Then prove me wrong. Let us inside. Show us what you're protecting. If I'm wrong, you keep Glenn and we walk away. If I'm right, maybe we can help each other."
The young man—Felipe, his name tag said—looked uncertain. He glanced behind him, got a nod from someone out of sight.
"Alright. But weapons stay outside. All of them."
"Not happening," Daryl said immediately.
"Then neither is this conversation."
Rick looked at me, then at Daryl, then back at Felipe. "Sidearms only. Rifles stay outside. Fair?"
Felipe considered it. "Fair. But try anything, and your friend dies first."
We handed over the rifles—AR-15s, the hunting rifle Daryl had acquired. Kept our pistols. Felipe's people frisked us quickly, professionally. Former military, probably, or cops.
Inside, the nursing home smelled like antiseptic and slow death. The lobby was converted into a common area—elderly people in wheelchairs, oxygen tanks, confused faces asking about their families.
"Jesus," T-Dog breathed. "They're taking care of them."
A man emerged from a back room—late thirties, solid build, leader's bearing. Guillermo, based on how everyone deferred to him.
"You're Rick?" he asked.
"I am."
"Guillermo. I run the Vatos. And you're trespassing."
"We were tracking my friend. Found yours instead."
Guillermo gestured at the elderly residents. "You see what we're doing here? Everyone else ran. Families, staff, city officials. They all ran. We stayed."
"Why?"
"Because someone had to. These people can't survive alone. Can't feed themselves, can't defend themselves. Someone had to stay."
Rick's expression softened. "That's admirable."
"That's survival. They need us, we need them. It's how this works now."
"Then why take our friend?"
"Because he was scouting our territory. Checking defenses. We thought he was with a raiding party."
"He's with us. We're not raiders."
"Everyone's a raider when they're hungry enough." Guillermo crossed his arms. "So here's the deal. You give us the guns, the ammunition, whatever food you've got. We give you your friend. Everyone walks away."
"Or," I interrupted, "you tell us what you really need. And we see if we can provide it."
Guillermo looked at me. "Who are you?"
"Someone who's tired of everyone defaulting to threats. You're protecting vulnerable people. That's noble. But you're running out of supplies, running out of time. We can see it."
Felipe stepped forward. "Guillermo, he's right. Mrs. Patterson's oxygen ran out yesterday. Mr. Chen needs insulin we don't have. We're losing them."
"I know."
"Then let us help," I said. "We have medical supplies. Not much, but some. Antibiotics, insulin, painkillers. We trade—supplies for Glenn and information about the area."
"Information?"
"Safe routes, walker movements, supply locations. You've been here for weeks. You know this territory. That's valuable."
Guillermo was silent, calculating. Then he nodded. "Show me what you've got."
I pulled out my medical kit—the supplies I'd been hoarding since LA. Antibiotics, syringes, bandages. Not comprehensive, but useful.
Guillermo examined them, called over Felipe. They conferred in Spanish, rapid-fire discussion. Felipe looked at the antibiotics like they were gold.
"Alright," Guillermo finally said. "Deal. Your supplies for your friend and our knowledge. We'll mark you a map—safe routes, supply caches, where the walkers concentrate. You stay out of our territory, we stay out of yours."
"And the guns?"
"Keep them. You'll need them more than we do. Our walls are strong, and we're not planning to leave."
Rick extended his hand. Guillermo shook it.
Felipe cut Glenn free. Glenn rubbed his wrists, grinning. "You guys actually negotiated. I'm impressed."
"Don't be. We got lucky." Rick turned to Guillermo. "If you need anything else—"
"We'll manage. We've been managing this long."
We left the nursing home with Glenn, a map, and a surprising sense of something like hope. The Vatos weren't villains. They were survivors trying to do the right thing in impossible circumstances.
When did I start caring about that? When did 'the right thing' become relevant again?
Back in the van, Daryl was quiet, holding his brother's wrapped hand. "Still didn't find Merle."
"We'll keep looking," Rick promised.
"When? We got Glenn back, got our supplies. Mission accomplished, right?"
"No. Mission continues until we find your brother. Dead or alive."
Daryl nodded, grateful.
[ TIMER: 44:15:33 ]
We drove back toward the quarry camp as the sun set. The Atlanta skyline burned orange and gold, beautiful and dead simultaneously.
I'd given away antibiotics I might need later. For what? For strangers protecting other strangers. For people who'd probably die anyway when the supplies ran out.
Getting soft. That's dangerous. Caring is dangerous.
But Abuela—one of the elderly residents—had smiled at me when I'd examined her blood pressure. Reminded me of my grandmother, back in the life before. The one I barely remembered now.
Stop it. That person is dead. You're Patient Zero. You infect people to survive. You don't save them out of kindness.
But I had. And I couldn't quite explain why.
Rick glanced at me from the driver's seat. "You were right. About them not being evil."
"Sometimes people surprise you."
"You gave them most of your medical supplies."
"They needed them more."
"That's not like you. The Jax I've seen is calculating, pragmatic. Doesn't give things away without expecting return."
"I got information. That's return."
"You got a map we could have drawn ourselves by exploring. What you really got was the chance to help people who couldn't help you back."
I didn't respond.
"That's not a criticism," Rick continued. "That's why I'm glad you're with us. World needs more people who'll do the right thing when it costs them something."
If you only knew. If you knew what I really am, what I've really done, you wouldn't say that.
But I kept silent, and the van drove on through the Georgia evening toward a camp that was about to become a battlefield.
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