{whisper} Daryl?
{whisper} Daryl?
{screams} DARYL!
Daryl's eyes shoot open. He sits up quickly, his hand going for the knife sheathed around his shoulders. His body rigid and tense, he scans the room. He sees the group asleep and scattered across the floor. No walkers. He exhales deeply and relaxes a bit, realizing it was just a dream. No, a nightmare. It had been almost every night since she was taken that he awoke to hearing Beth calling for him. Screaming for him. He didn't know what he hated more; not being able to save her or not knowing where she was. Everyone was sound asleep. It was cold in the warehouse. He slumped over and glanced to his duffel bag, laying at his side. He reached over and unzipped it, pulling out a small bottle of Jack Daniel's. He unscrewed the top and tilted his head back, taking a large swig. He stared down at the bottle as the whiskey burned its way into his belly. A small smile came to his face and he chuckled as he thought back to the night he watched Beth drinking moonshine for the first time. He shook his head as he remembered the question game they played. Her voice echoed in his head as he wondered where she was or what she was doing or even if she was alive.
His eyes looked around the room. Glenn was on guard at the window. Daryl looked hard at Glenn, he wasn't moving and seemed to be asleep yet his eyes were open. Rick was sleeping in the corner of the room, his hand resting on a knife. Even though Ricks' appearance was rugged; his beard grown long, dirt and dried blood on his face and his hair matted, he seemed to be at peace and sleeping soundly. Carl was by Ricks' side. Daryl though for a moment on how much Carl had grown. He was just a little boy when the group first came together but as he looked on him now, he was nearly a man. Daryl took another swig of whiskey and looked towards Michonne and Maggie. Michonne was asleep, propped up on the column. Daryl could tell she wasn't but half-asleep. He knew because when he moved his legs to stretch a little, her hand, almost like a reflex, went straight to her katana.
Daryl screwed the top back on the bottle and slipped it into the duffel pocket. He zipped it quietly and then leaned backwards and relaxed onto the wall. He felt the scars and callouses on his hands, dried blood and dirt wedged into the cracks and lines. His arms bruised from the snap of his bow. How many walkers and people his hands had killed. He had lost track of time. He couldn't tell how many months or had it been years he was with the group. Time seemed of no importance in this apocalyptic world. Only numbers. He had heard Rick say it a hundred times: There is strength in numbers. He looked back across the room: Rick. Carl. Michonne. Maggie. Glenn. They were not just numbers. They were his friends. They were more than friends. They were family.