Just something that came to me after marathoning The Walking Dead and not finding much crossover fanfiction between it and Buffy on this site! Not sure if I want to continue it, though it is tempting, but it was fun to write anyways! Enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: I own neither Buffy nor The Walking Dead. Buffy belongs to Joss and all of the Walking Dead people and events belong to Robert Kirkman, Frank Darabont, and all of the other minds behind the comic and the show. I'm just playing with them.
Pairing: None as of now. Possible pairings if I decide to continue this.
Spoilers: Season 1 of the Walking Dead, none really for Buffy
A simple supply run. Get in. Grab any food, bottled water, medical supplies, or weapons she could scavenge from the ruins of the already picked-clean stores. Get out, this time to a abandoned house she had found on the outskirts of Atlanta. It was nothing impressive, just a little one-story, two-bedroom shack close to the woods, but it was cozy. The owner had lovingly decorated the home with art, photographs, and well-worn furniture, and the pantry had been fully-stocked with all of the basic necessities. Jackpot.
She had gathered up all of the non-perishable food items from the kitchen and the rifle from its hidden spot next to the fireplace. She hated guns, but it being the zombie apocalypse and all, she'd take all of the weapons she could get. She had also taken a photograph of a couple and their two teenage sons from the weathered picture frame atop the cluttered mantle. From the very beginning, she had kept a photograph from every home she had stayed in.
She never stayed in one place for more than a night or two. She was a nomad, traveling from house to house, city to city, state to state. The end goal: Los Angeles, California. She had started in South Carolina, and it had taken her nearly two and a half weeks to get to Georgia, first using a car she had found on the side of the highway and then walking when it ran out of gas twenty or so miles down the road. She had eventually found a bicycle, and both she and her aching feet had stopped for a moment to thank the PTBs before continuing on her way. California had never seemed so far.
Today's run had gone rather smoothly at first. She had encountered a few zombies shambling around the street in front of the dilapidated pharmacy that was her target of the day, but that wasn't a surprise. So was her life now. Using a poorly-crafted sword she had taken off of some kid's bedroom wall a few cities back, she had dispatched them easily. She really needed a better weapon. Guns were easy to come by, but since she hated those, she had taken to using any sort of melee weapon she could get her hands on. It had mostly been kitchen knives and wood-chopping axes until she had stumbled across the bedroom of someone who was clearly into the fantasy genre. It wasn't the greatest quality, he had obviously bought it online or at some trade show, but it was the best thing she had found so far. What she wouldn't give to have her pretty red scythe with her right now.
She had been expecting the zombies. What she hadn't expected was to stumble across a living man, his clothes stained with blood and with a stump for an arm. Wasn't something you saw every day, even in her line of work.
She had found him lying in the street a couple down from the pharmacy. How he had managed to avoid becoming zombie-chow was beyond her, but as she made her way over to him, he had weakly lifted his head to look at her, his eyes unfocused and glassy.
“Are you an angel?” he had asked, and she had laughed at the absurdity of the question. Far from it.
“Yep, that's me. An angel in red leather pants. Just kidding. I'm pretty sure that angels prefer togas and Birkenstocks to fashionable, but still reasonably priced, leather attire.” She had been glad to see that she hadn't lost her humor, but she had been less pleased when he stared at her for a few more seconds before passing out, his head making a dull thud as it smacked against the pavement. Great.
Not wanting to leave him there, she had thoroughly checked him over twice in search of zombie bites using her sword to peak underneath his soiled clothing without having to touch him. Not finding any, she had hefted him over her shoulder, struggling slightly with the several plastic grocery bags that already lined her arms. Of course, he hadn't been too heavy, but all of that weight was still awkward. She would have normally had to worry about overtly flaunting her Slayer strength like that, but since the end of days hit, there had been no one to witness her extraordinary abilities. It was freeing in a way.
She had made good time back to the house. The bike had needed to be abandoned, but she had remembered seeing another in the shed next to the house and didn't give the loss much thought. Thank the PTBs that she was small enough to ride a child's bike. Not normally something she'd brag about, but hey, small miracles.
She had carefully placed him on the couch before adding her newly acquired supplies to the growing pile by the door and grabbing the first aid kit. Not much she could do to his poorly-cauterized stump, but she could at least clean it. Managing to make only a few “ew” faces, she had quickly rubbed it down with some of the wipes in the inner pocket of the kit and taped some sterile gauze over it. She had never been good at the first aid stuff. That had always been more of Giles' forte. Licking her suddenly parched lips, she had pushed the worry for her former-Watcher out of her mind and stared down at the stranger to occupy her thoughts. He hadn't lost much blood. Of course, he was missing a hand and his clothes were drenched with blood, but it looked like he had been able to cauterize the wound before he had lost too much. His skin still held a faint pinkish tint. Thank god. She didn't know his blood type, and she had no idea what would happen if she tried to put Slayer blood into a normal person. Bad things, probably.
Nothing to do but wait, she had rationalized before settling into the comfortably-overstuffed chair next to the couch and looking the man over. He was older, probably in his mid forties, and quite dirty. His jeans, wife beater, and leather vest, all black of course, were caked in dirt and blood, and he both looked and smelled like he hadn't showered in days. Not that she could blame him; personal hygiene had sort of fallen to the wayside since the start of this... whatever the hell this was.
She was pretty sure that pre-zombies, she would have never associated with someone like this, but this was a whole new world, and she had quickly learned that people could still surprise her. The nicest looking men and women were sometimes willing to kill for the last can of dog food, and the toughest, meanest-looking ones could be the ones who had your back in a fight. But she guessed that that was how the world had always been. It was just clearer now.
She must have dozed off because the next thing she knew, she was being woken up by the man's moans. She glanced over at him, scooching up a bit further in her chair. With an injury like that, she had expected him to be out for a while, but looking at the clock, she saw that it had only been about an hour.
“What happened?” he asked, his eyes open just a sliver. It was almost night now, and the last few rays of sunlight were filtering through the slightly-opened blinds. A southern twang laced his words, and she raised an eyebrow. Even after all this time, she hadn't gotten used to the accent.
“Something got a pretty good chunk of you.” Blunt, sure, but living in this world, you had to be. Plus, tact had never really been one of her strong suits. She nodded toward his missing-hand, and he looked down and sighed. Not what she had been expecting. A scream, maybe, a gasp, sure, but not a sigh. Man must be tougher than she had thought.
“Looks like.” She had expected him to be rougher, louder, more abrasive. He definitely looked the part of an angry redneck. Then again, he had just had his hand torn off, so she wouldn't be surprised if he was still in shock. Loosing a limb could do that to someone.
“I hope it wasn't one of those Dawn of the Dead
wannabes.” Dawn. She frowned but quickly recovered. “Cause I'd totally have to slay you.” He looked at her like she had grown another head. “Come on. Dawn of the Dead
? Zombies?” She made her best grrr face and held her arms out straight in front of her. Inwardly, she giggled. Xander would have gotten a kick out of that. That sobered her up. After a second of staring, the man shook his head at her. “I'm sensing a serious gap in your pop culture knowledge.” Nothing. He continued to stare at her. She stared back. Eventually she sighed and slid gracefully out of the chair. “Here,” she said, walking over to the supply pile and twisting the cap off of one of the cheap plastic water bottles she had scavenged that afternoon. She handed it, and a couple of aspirin from the med kit, to him. “My medical supply seriously sucks, but this'll help with the pain.”
“Thanks,” he answered gruffly, looking up at her wearily. As he gulped the pills and water down, she turned back to the pile and extracted a can of beans and a can opener before walking back over to the chair. As she worked on the can, she could feel his eyes on her, but she ignored him. “Where am I?”
“An abandoned house I found on the outskirts of Atlanta. Not exactly sure how far.” The lid popped open, and she handed it to him, watching in fascination as he downed the entire can of beans in under thirty seconds after giving it a quick once-over. Once finished, he moved to get up from the couch, but after a second of hovering in the air, dropped back down looking paler and sweatier than before. “Woah there, champ,” she scolded, making a couple of tsk-ing sounds for good measure. “Easy there. You just lost a hand. Might want to take a minute to rest.” He glared daggers at her but stayed put, glowering slightly. His knuckles twitched. She had a feeling that he was seconds away from yelling at her but knew that it would be too much exertion in is already weakened state.
“You'd better watch your mouth, little girl.” His voice came out gruffer this time. Little girl. That was a new one, her mind supplied sarcastically. She could tell by the slight wavering of his voice that he was struggling, but he was putting up a good front. Now done with the beans and water, he crossed his good hand behind his head and looked her up and down, his eyes lingering over some of her better assets. The blonde rolled her eyes. Men. “Out here all alone. That could be dangerous.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. She bristled, uncomfortable with his sudden scrutiny.
“I can take care of myself.” He laughed, one loud bark that echoed around the small room.
“Sure you can.”
“Obviously better than you.” She looked pointedly down at his arm, and surprisingly, he laughed once again. Due to his size and obvious tough-guy clothing choice, she had been expecting him to glare at her or make a snide comment, but he hadn't. Maybe he was delirious. He had lost a lot of blood. Or maybe he was just a good guy. She hadn't decided yet.
He leered at her.
Alright, maybe not such a great guy.
“Spunky. I like that.” He smirked at her, and she made a face. She knew that he was in no condition to attack her, or even stand up, but she felt herself tensing anyways. Out of habit, her hand drifted to the the knife sheathed in the waistband of her pants. “What's your name, girlie?” She paused, debating whether or not she wanted to give him her real name.
“Buffy.” Why wouldn't she? It didn't even matter anymore. He chuckled at the unfamiliar name, but she was once again surprised when he didn't make a snide or "witty" comment. That almost never happened.
“Merle. Merle Dixon.”
Well, that was fun. Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are love!