Disclaimer:
I'm the author of this story. The Walking Dead is the source of the original work. Daryl Dixon/OC fantasy. I don't know Daryl Dixon, do not own the character Daryl Dixon, and do not mean to cause harm, confusion or headaches. This story is simply intended for enjoyment of the readers. Please don't sue me!
He came out of the woods to cross the gravel road and make is way back to the others. Covered in sweat and pissed as hell. Not a damn thing, for the sixth day in a row. If he didn't find meat soon they were gonna starve.
He glanced up to his left as he carefully crossed, stepping so lightly not even the gravel crunched under his booted feet. About to sweep back to his right, something caught his eye. Tracks.
Daryl cautiously approached, ears twitching like a hare's as he scanned the woods around him. Drag marks. Walker slides. Three walkers, he was certain. Maybe four people. He shook his head. No way in hell they were still alive. As he turned to make his way back, his eye caught on a pop of pink. Lit up by a sunbeam.
His heart thumped, and he felt his stomach roll. It's not Beth, he told himself. You saw her die, carried her out and buried her. It's not Beth. But he found himself picking his way towards her through the brush.
She was lying on her stomach, sprawled forward, arms reaching. Her hands were bound with rope. Blonde waves cascaded, masking her face. A deep red stain in her hair. He saw her chest rise and fall in small spurts. Slowly, Daryl rolled her over with his boot. The face of the angel just about took his breath away, and he stared down at her with a steely gaze before scanning their surroundings.
Walker tracks moved on through the woods, following two more people. Big boot prints, it looked like. Daryl spat, looking back to the bound wrists. He didn't think twice as he scooped her into his arms, quietly retreating into the woods. He looked down at her, sun filtering through the trees and lighting her face. He gulped, thinking back to the last time he held a small blond in his arms like this, his stomach tying into knots.
Nearing the temporary camp, he purposely made his steps heavier, snapping twigs and rustling leaves as he approached. Sure as shit wasn't gonna just walk in like last time. Daryl could move like a ghost when he wanted, but coming face to face with Carl's loaded pistol wasn't a thing he'd like to repeat. Little shit mighta shot him with that thing.
They were sitting round the campfire when he approached, silent, solemn. Maggie raised her eyes and gasped, mouth falling open. He met her eyes and firmly shook his head once. No, he was telling her. Not Beth. Beth is gone.
"What the hell, Daryl?" Carl whined at him. "You can't bring us any food, but you can bring us another mouth to feed?"
Daryl narrowed his eyes and snarled at him as he set her down gently on the grass next to the fire. She was ice cold to the touch, but he could still see the slight rise and fall of her chest. Her breath was a sharp staccato, hitched and labored. But she was breathing. She was alive.
Rick waved Carl off. "He has a point, you know." He stared harshly at Daryl, quirking an eyebrow.
"Could'n leave her." He said simply.
Rick nodded once, his eyes hard. It was what it was.
Maggie swallowed and came around the fire. She knelt down, brushing the matted hair off her face. She raised her hands gently to her neck. "She has a pulse. It's slow, but strong."
Maggie's eyes travelled down, taking in her faded pink tee, worn out skinny jeans, and small work boots. Her shirt was stained with blood. Her jeans were so thin and ragged Daryl could see little strips of skin peaking out, glimpses of porcelain through a curtain of beaten blue.
Maggie gently touched her wrists, pity and concern in her eyes, then flicked her knife to break the tie. She tried to pull back the rope, but crusts of blood and skin held it tight. She rinsed a little water on it, trying her best to gingerly pry the strands out of where it was worn into the girl's skin. As she was able to lift off part of the rope, she gasped.
Girl must have been bound for a while, Daryl thought. Her wrists were beyond raw. They were gashed, and shredded, with red sores oozing. Her skin worn down so deep you could almost see the bone.
Maggie gently placed her wrists back on her lap, then moved up to look at her head. "Just a scrape. Head wounds bleed worse, but she should heal up just fine without stitches," she said softly, eyes full of concern.
Daryl pulled his thumb into his mouth and worked on the nail bed, watching as Maggie gently rinsed the blood out of her hair, wiping the dirt out of the raw skin. By the last rays of sunlight, Maggie wiped the dirt off her face, tenderly cooling the hot skin. With her face clean and clear, Daryl could see she was older than he thought at first. Maybe mid-twenties, thirty at the most. Her skin looked soft, smooth; her lips pink, full.
"Have to bandage up her wrists as best we can. They may become infected, but we'll just do what we can." Glenn nodded and went to fetch the little bit of clean cloth they had left.
Maggie took a small hand in hers and poured a bit of water into the sores on her wrist. With a strangled cry, she bucked awake, snatching her hands back and sliding back away from the fire. Her eyes were wide, racing, trying to take it in but unable to focus. She panted hard, and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest.
Faces, so many faces. None she knew. None were dead. Her eyes flitted rapidly, she reached her hands down to find a weapon, anything. Then she felt it. Searing pain, throbbing in her wrists and hands. She looked down. Her hands. She wasn't bound anymore.
"We need to clean your wrists before they become infected." She glanced up towards the soft voice, meeting the kind eyes in her panicked gaze. The woman was reaching towards her slowly, one hand outstretched, a bottle of water in the other. "I'm Maggie," she said.
"Claire," she croaked, her throat cracking painfully.
"Hi, Claire," Maggie smiled gently. "May I see your wrists, please?"
Claire's eyes fluttered around again, taking in the people. She didn't see them, either of the men who took her, who hurt her. She gave a small nod, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Maggie took her wrist again, pouring the water and trying her best to carefully rinse the dirt and bits of rope out of the tears in her skin. Claire clenched her teeth, exhaling a grunt through her nose, eyes still squeezed shut.
Daryl switched thumbs while he watched, working on the other nail bed. He was impressed in spite of himself. He'd had enough gashes from his daddy to know that hurt like hell, but she barely made a sound.
Claire's eyes opened suddenly, gaze trapping his, catching him staring. Blue, with flecks of gold and green dancing on the edges, he noticed in the flickering of the campfire. His eyes narrowed as he stood there, frozen. Trapped. Drowning.
Rick knelt in front of her, and she jumped, the spell broken. "I'm Rick, and this is my son Carl, Daryl, Michonne, Carol, Glenn, and you've met Maggie. Rest tonight, and we will talk in the mornin'."
Claire nodded and closed her eyes as Maggie finished cleaning her wounds. She bound fabric around each wrist tightly. "We'll change these every few days as we can, and rinse the wounds every day. Can you use your hands?"
Claire wiggled her fingers, and clenched two firm fists. Maggie patted her leg. "Good, then. We don't have any food, but you can finish the little bit of water in that bottle. Get some rest." With that, she walked off.
Claire scooted back against the tree behind her, resting her throbbing head against the rough bark. She looked down over her wrists, now wrapped up tight, over her bloodstained shirt and jeans, and sighed. She heard the others moving around her, going back about their business, settling in for the night. She felt a prickling move across her skin, and glanced up, straight into those hard blue eyes, watching her across the flickering firelight. As she slowly drifted off the sleep, those eyes danced through her mind and into her dreams.