Daryl scanned the ransacked shelves quickly, his eyes picking out the useful items with the ease of long practice. The whole store was picked practically clean, but there was enough left to keep this visit from being a total waste of time. He shuffled toothpaste, soap, gum, and assorted junk food indiscriminately into his bag, until he came across a few beaten-up packs of beef jerky. Merle loved beef jerky. Problem was, the packs were spattered with some long-gone walker's dried blood. Daryl tried to imagine taking it back to camp. That damn woman Lori would probably bitch his ear straight off the side of his head. Well, that was a good enough reason for him. He wrapped them in some plastic and stuffed it in his bag, which by that point was pretty much full.
He passed the cash register on his way out. The owner was sitting there with a friendly grin, as friendly as a bare skull could manage anyway. With a brief surge of contempt, Daryl noticed the gun clasped in the skeletal fingers and the mural of blood, brains, and bone shards the man had painted on the wall behind him with his final act. Another coward who chose to go down with the world.
"Thanks for the goods, you fucking pansy," Daryl muttered as he pushed through the cracked glass door, pocketing the dead man's firearm for good measure.
He checked the area one last time for walkers, planning to take his leave of the sorry place. It was a gas station, and he'd originally been attracted by the prospect of fuel, but the tanks had already been sucked drier than high noon on a summer day. Looked like they'd be siphoning their gas from abandoned cars again. Not exactly safe, but it was their only option.
Scuffling to the right. The back of Daryl's neck prickled, adrenaline clenching his stomach tightly in its fist. He crouched for cover behind the nearest car, silently cocking his crossbow. Then he peered up through the windshields, hoping to get a count of how many he was up against.
Crunch. Crunch. The walker's footsteps on gravel reached him before it did, coming into his view from behind a red Suburban. His first thought was that its feet were awfully small.
His second thought was, There is no way I can do this.
She looked like Marcie. Obviously, the resemblance wasn't strong; this walker had been dead awhile, and half its jaw had been blown off by some idiot who hadn't had the skill, or more likely the sense, to aim for the brain. But enough was left for Daryl to determine the eye color, which was blue. Like Marcie's...had been.
It was very thin, not seeming to have fed recently, with streaks of gore in hair that could have been blond. It wore a tattered children's nightdress and flimsy bedroom slippers that were filthy and gray. As Daryl watched silently, the little girl, the walker went still as well, turning its head from side to side like a dog catching the scent of prey. Shit. He must be upwind. He had to shoot her. Now.
Instead, Daryl slipped his crossbow over his shoulder. He melted into the shadow of the surrounding woods.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you.
Night came on slowly in the Georgian summer woods, the light fading slowly enough to give Daryl the excuse he needed to keep moving. Eventually, he tripped over an exposed root and realized that unless he wanted to spend the night on the ground, sleeping with the walkers, he'd better set up camp.
Daryl reluctantly forced his legs to stop moving forward. They ached from the eight or so hours he had been traveling, uninterrupted aside from a short water break. He pressed his palm against the rough side of a tree, glad of the support, before pulling out a ragged but clean cloth and mopping the sweat from his forehead and neck. He knew he shouldn't have pushed himself like this. Running had probably scared away some game, and he was going to sleep too deeply tonight. But for some reason, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that the little-girl walker from the gas station was following. Still couldn't. He discovered that he was afraid to look back the way he had come.
This is so fuckin' stupid. If Merle were here, he would probably give Daryl a good beating to restore him to his senses. He would also probably tell Daryl that he was a worthless piece of shit, as usual. Or would he? Merle had loved Marcie too. But, as Merle often put it, he wasn't "damned soft in the head." No doubt, he'd have blown that walker to hell without a second thought. And he'd have been right to do it, too. Put the little girl out of her torment.
Daryl punched the tree. It made his knuckles bleed, but the pain felt good, chasing his dark thoughts into a less prominent place in his mind. He took two small knives from his pack, then examined the surrounding trees. Several had the soft yet rough bark that he required, but only one was tall enough to offer any kind of concealment or protection. He stuck one knife in, testing its strength; it was firm, it would hold. Using the knives, he scaled the tree quickly and hunkered down on the most comfortable branch that could bear his weight. He hung his crossbow carefully on a branch. Then he strung up the brace of squirrels he had shot before encountering the gas station, grimacing at the slight but unmistakable stench of decomposition. Dead things did not fare well in the southern heat, a fact to which the walkers could heartily attest. He'd have to return to camp soon. Or he could just eat them himself. There were always more squirrels. In fact, with no cars to run them over and no humans to cut down their homes, they were everywhere.
He lay there for a couple seconds, relaxing his muscles. He wished he had some ice to rub them with so they wouldn't be so sore in the morning. Then he remembered that there was no ice anymore, except maybe in fucking Antarctica. That was a depressing thought. The best he could do was to prop his legs up to try and drain the lactic acid faster.
His stomach suddenly contracted, complaining with a loud groan. Jesus! He pressed down on his midriff, trying to silence the noise; he didn't need any nearby walkers thinking that was some kind of signal. He shouldn't have gone so long without eating, either. Today, I did a lot of things I shouldn't have, but the one thing I should have done, I didn't. He smiled painfully at the thought. I'm such a fuckin' rebel.
Daryl dug around in his pack with one hand until he encountered something shaped like a can. He pulled it out. Spaghetti. Not the best, but not the worst either. He rooted around in the front pocket until he found his fork. It was plastic, and hadn't held up well under its extensive use. Dirt had somehow collected in the many scratches on its surfaces since morning, the last time he'd used it. He'd be damned if he was going to waste his water on a fork though. He rubbed it a few times with his shirt, then simply sucked the dirt off and spit it out. Good as… well, not new, but it was clean enough for him.
Some pathetic, round, brown things were huddled on the surface of the spaghetti when Daryl pried the can open. He guessed they were meatballs. Honestly, he didn't want to eat them, but food was food. By the time his stomach was taken care of, the moon had risen high, and he could just glimpse her shape through the leaves. He still felt keyed-up and kind of jittery – he kept thinking he could hear something moving below – but he tied himself down anyway, hoping his brain would get that he was trying to sleep and shut itself up.
He stared up at the moon, waiting for her to take pity on him, and blur his reality to oblivion.