The morning air was damp and sticky. A slow fog had been rolling in over the last two days and it was finally here in full force. He could only see about 20 feet in front of him and if Daryl hadn't been so certain that he could find some wildlife in this mess he would still be lying in his sleeping bag. But animals loved the fog. The limited visibility made them feel safe. Stupid. Daryl had always loved the fog before the Walkers, knowing that it meant an easy kill and a full stomach for a week. Now it made him somewhat uneasy to be in it.
The biggest danger in a fog was losing one's sense of direction though so Daryl double checked his compass so he would know exactly how to get back to camp. It only took about fifteen minutes to come across the trail of a moderate sized deer. Judging from the depth of the tracks he guessed it was a female. It was just after mating season and with any luck the female might be heading back to its herd. After the fawns were born the females liked to stick together in groups for protection. All the bucks had probably taken off to secure as much mating as they could but if one had stuck around it was going to be on the end of Daryl's arrow pretty soon.
He had been stalking his prey for about 45 minutes with the singularity of thought possessed by a man on the hunt. That's what Daryl's world had always been about, staying the Hunter and not the Hunted. Whether it was avoiding his Dad's swinging fists or Meryl's mind games Daryl might have fallen down a lot but he had always gotten back up.
He heard the sounds first, that alerted him he was not alone. He pulled his hunting axe half way out of its sheath then raised his crossbow. He let the wet undergrowth muffle the sound of his footsteps. He was like the fog himself, rolling in without sound.
The woods were thick down here in the valley (more runoff water) which gave Daryl plenty to hide behind but a harder time seeing. He didn't see the figures until he was 40 feet away. Just ahead of him on the game trail he saw it hunched down over the deer. The fog kept the unmistakable smell of rotting flesh from reaching him until he was about 30 feet away. The deer's entrails were strewn on the ground all around the figure and the squelching sound of the deer's flesh being handled was unmistakable.
Daryl performed a surroundings check before raising his crossbow. He feared the smell of the deer would alert other Walkers nearby but this one seemed to be alone. The deer meat wouldn't be safe for consumption anymore, which probably pissed Daryl off the most but the doe wouldn't be leading him back to her herd anymore. At least he had a Walker to satisfy his Hunter's hunger.
Daryl sighted carefully and loosed the arrow. It hit it's mark perfectly and the Walker slumped forward into the deer carcass with a disgusting sound. Another perimeter check and Daryl went to retrieve his arrow. Damn Walker had ruined his venison breakfast. And damn did that thing stink. It must have been mauled pretty good at some point.
It wasn't until he pulled out the arrow that Daryl noticed something was wrong. The pinkish flesh of the sprawled arm stuck out in his mind as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft. When the bolt left the head blood poured out of the wound. When Daryl realized what it meant he started to sweat and with the fog he felt drenched through and through. He shoved the carcass off the deer and flipped it.
Dirty beyond all measure and now covered in blood the corpse in front of him was disgusting but it was human. Or had been until Daryl's arrow had hit it.
The realization washed over him slowly.
But the smell, he thought. That smell of rotting flesh could only have come from a Walker. Daryl looked around until he realized that it was the deer. The dumb son of a bitch must have come across the doe already dead (it was so old and stringy it had probably died of natural causes) and then started cleaning the carcass to see if any of the meat was usable (no way in hell with a smell that bad.)
Daryl crouched down and tried to think. Could the man have been alone? Probably not, though it could explain how he had survived so long. Daryl risked another glance at the corpse's face. The man was Caucasian, looked very old and hammered maybe 60, balding with gray hair, heavyset with a beer gut, but run through with a good amount of muscle, barrel-chested but also a beer gut.
Daryl wasn't inclined to think that a man this old couldn't have survived on his own for so long but the corpse reminded him somewhat of his own father who probably could have done just fine by himself for much longer.
It didn't matter. First he had to go tell Rick and the others. They needed to know that there could be other humans in the area before there was another accident. Then he would follow the man's trail to his camp and find out if there were more of them.
Rick had taken the news well and gotten a group together then told all the others to stay very near camp until they sent someone with news. There might be other people in the forest and they had to be careful of any more accidents. Shane, Glenn, (black guy), and Andrea along with Rick and Daryl headed into the woods. Daryl lead the way, following the trail of the man he'd shot. It zigzagged all over the place. The man had been following another deer trail for what must have been more than an hour. No wonder he had been so desperate to see if any of the meat was usable.
Daryl was reminded once again how much he hated traveling in a group. It was slow and they were always obscuring the tracks.
"Would you get off my ass? I can't find tracks with you riding me on like a goddamn horse!" He snapped at Andrea after almost two hours. The blond bitch raised her eyebrows like Daryl was supposed to be intimidated by it and it irritated him.
"You keep snapping at everyone to hurry up. Which is it?"
"Hey, knock it off!" Rick called. "Andrea, give Daryl some space to work. We're all tired and this trail is going all over the place. But we have to keep our eyes open for people until we're sure whether or not the man was alone."
Daryl was antsy. He wished that he had just followed the trail on his own. He didn't like leading a group and the whole situation was putting him off his game. Not to mention the damn fog had saturated the ground and the underbrush so the trail was obscured at best already.
"Rick I'm gonna go up ahead. I just need space when I'm tracking."
"That's fine, just stay within eyesight." Andrea hmphed and Daryl shot her a nasty look before jogging up ahead.
It went easier from then. They found the moment when the man had found the deer trail and his trail before that was straighter and steadier. Shane kept calling out to Daryl from behind, telling him to slow down but Daryl could sense that they were getting closer and he wanted to solve this mystery. It had been about another 15 minutes when he found the second and third set of tracks. The man hadn't been alone. He and the others had split up.
Daryl perimeter checked uneasily. Something didn't feel-
With a whump of sound Daryl had the breath knocked from him as a huge mass dropped on him from above. After he regained some air in his lungs he felt the edge of smooth, sharp steel pressed to his throat and recognized a voice talking to him. It was twangy, like the owner had come from down south.
"Well well." It sounded more like he was saying 'whale whale'. "What hayve we got ourselves here? You run off from your mama?"
Daryl got irritated. He slammed his elbow into the inside of the man's knee but his aim hadn't been true enough for the tell tale snapping that went with breaking it. The man went down and in a heartbeat Daryl was on top of him wrestling the knife away. They scrapped and Daryl realized belatedly that the man was calling out. "Murph!"
Daryl pressed on the man's knuckles hard until he dropped the knife and that was when a second mass slammed into him from the side. He was knocked into a tree and his head hit it with an audible smack. A sharp pain slit up his side and he heard a yell that it took him a moment to recognize as his own. His head swam and he heard voices everywhere, more Southern twang and then the soft cadence of Rick's voice, authoritative but measured, calling for order. He heard Andrea shouting, "Daryl!" and then blacked out.
The first thing he was aware of was sheets, soft sheets. He tried to remember what he and Meryl had done last night. The last time he let his brother buy him a drink he'd woken up in a cheap motel with a stripper and a pounding headache. But he hadn't been so dumb to let that happen again had he? He heard Rick's voice. That was unsettling.
Daryl snapped his eyes open and tried to sit up except his side exploded and a wave of pain sent him back down.
"Take it easy Daryl." Rick stood over him and put a hand on his shoulder.
Daryl looked around. He was inside a tent, lying on a cot. Standing at his shoulder was Rick but standing at his side, still radiating pain, was an older man that he did not know. Next to him was a woman he also didn't know.
"Where am I?"
"Daryl this is Doctor Carver and his daughter Katherine. They're fixing you up."
"What kind of a stupid name for a doctor is Carver?" Daryl spat out.
A deep laugh met his remark and it came from Carver himself. He was a short man, bald, with fair skin and wrinkles. "Better than doctor Butcher right?" Daryl almost laughed but his side twinged and he grimaced instead.
"Can you give us some room Rick?" Rick moved to the corner of the tent. "Alright now Daryl, you've got a nasty cut on your right side going from the pectoral to the shoulder. It's deep and it cut some muscle but we've stemmed the blood and applied a disinfectant, which was that little sting you felt when you woke."
"Little sting my ass."
The doctor ignored his comment. "My daughter Kathy here is going to stitch you up and you'll be good to go."
The woman stepped forward with a stool and sat down next to him while the doctor moved to give her some space. "How are you feeling Daryl?" she had the same authoritative, calm voice as her father. You knew she was giving every ounce of concentration to her work but for a few that she spared on conversation.
"Like I'm going to kill the son of a bitch who cut me."
She laughed brusquely. "Well what do you say we stitch you up first? Now I hate to ask this but we don't have a whole lot of painkillers left and I don't want to give you any if you think that you can go without. You ever had stitches before Daryl?" Her father was threading a needle.
"I don't need 'em. Just give me something to bite down on." The girl smiled faintly, stood, and took her belt off. She folded it a few times and put the leather in his mouth. Then her father handed her gloves that she put on and a needle and thread. Daryl closed his eyes and breathed in and out sharply.
It wasn't too painful though for all the stitches that Daryl had ever had this one hurt by far the most. When she finished she took the belt from his mouth and threaded it back through her jeans. "You're a perfect patient Daryl. Now you've got some bumps and bruises but does anything else feel like it's hurting more than it should?"
"Nah."
"Alright then. I think you've earned yourself some sleep."
A voice called from outside the tent, "you done stitching up that pin cushion? My knife's itchin fer him again." A chorus of laughter followed.
Daryl sat up sharply but the woman put her hand on his chest and pushed him down. The old doctor sighed and went out of the tent. Rick gave Daryl's shoulder a squeeze and followed him. He heard conversation outside but it was too far off to make out the words.
"Who are those backwater rats?"
The girl lifted her head, where she had been looking down like she was ashamed. Only now did Daryl recognize a similar Southern accent, though less pronounced to her words, "they're the Gundrun brothers, rowdiest group of assholes that you'll ever meet in your life."
Daryl tried to sit up again but the muscles quivered and he only made it half way. "Somebody ought to shut em up and teach em a lesson." The woman looked sharply at him.
"Somebody ought to but it ain't gonna be you. You're injured. Now if you try to sit up one more time I will belt you to this bed." Daryl looked her in the eyes and saw a stubborn strength that both pissed him off and drew respect from him. He lay back down and remembered what had gotten them into this mess.
"In the woods this morning I was hunting a deer. When I came across what looked like a Walker."
"Walker?" she asked.
"A person gone and died then come back with a nasty appetite," Daryl said with an ounce of disbelief.
"Oh. We call them infected. But go on."
"I shot him from far off, speaking of which, son of a bitch, where is my crossbow?" Panic swept over Daryl. That was his only possession that he treasured. He looked on both sides of the cot.
"Was that yours? I saw a man from your group, buzzed head, with a crossbow." Damn Shane. Bastard probably figured if he had died that he might get it by default. Bastard, but he would give it back. Daryl relaxed even though he wished he had it with him. "How much do you know about crossbows?" the woman urged.
"Enough." She was watching him intently.
"I ask because I have one. I have bolts and extra strings but it's gotten damaged in some fighting and I wonder if you might be able to fix it."
"I could take a look but there ain't exactly an REI to go get parts from."
"I'd be much obliged regardless." There was a silence.
"You wanna go get it?" Daryl asked.
"I'll let you get some rest first." She pulled her gloves off and started moving towards the tent door.
"Somehow I don't think I'll sleep well with those jackasses nearby." She paused at the entrance.
"I'll stay with you if you like."
"I don't want to be any trouble." She walked back over towards him.
"It isn't any." She laughed once, "you were telling me about your Walker before we got all distracted."
Daryl almost felt his face coloring. He wasn't just embarrassed, what he had done was shaming even though it was an honest mistake. And damn that man could have been this girl's grandfather or something. Maybe she'd just pick up a scalpel and off him herself.
"It wasn't no Walker. It was a man. He was leaning over a deer that musta been dead for a week and I smelled the rot and thought it was a Walker."
The girl's eyebrows drew together. "What'd he look like?" she asked seriously.
"Old man, maybe sixty, beer gut, dirty gray hair." Recognition crept over her face and she clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.
"Did he have a tattoo on his arm?" she whispered softly.
"Of a naked lady? Yeah."
The girl turned around. "Shit."
"Look I'm real sorry. I had no idea. If you were close to him-"
She turned back and her face was perfectly pale. She stepped closer to him and put a hand to his mouth, "not so loud." She whispered. "Look I wasn't close to him, none of us were. That man you shot was Haemon Gundrun, the dirtiest, most awful, crass human being to ever befoul God's green earth. Even his own sons out there hated him. But if they find out they are going to kill you and anyone else in your group that they can."
The voices a ways away from the tent got louder and Daryl could start to make out some of it out. Catherine could too. There was fear in her eyes and Daryl was itching to have his crossbow with him. Among the now shouting voices Daryl could hear Rick's. Catherine reached under the cot and handed Daryl a scalpel. Her face was deathly serious.
"If you hear me scream I want you to cut a hole in the back of the tent and run as fast as you can, go back to your group and get gone. Not unless you hear me scream though alright?"
Before Daryl could stop her or respond she went out the front of the tent. He sat up and squeezed the scalpel tightly in his hand. The arguing voices were just outside the tent now. He recognized the voice of the man who had made the pin cushion comment. "Well I don reckon that I like yer tone. You might be the leader of your little posse but your word don't mean shit here."
Catherine's voice was next. "What's going on here? I have a sleeping patient in there and I would appreciate if he wasn't disturbed."
"Hold your horses there missy. We just tend to get a little riled when we get attacked by strangers."
Rick's voice. "Your man jumped him first. Now this does not have to escalate any further. Isn't there enough violence in this world without fighting people too? Can't we just take a breath and look at this rationally?"
"Alright mister Lone Ranger I think it's about time that you and your buddies go on back to wherever you came from."
"We aren't leaving without Daryl."
A silence. "Then I guess we have ourselves a problem here cause until our Pa gets back we're not letting your man go nowhere."
Doctor Carver's voice came next. "Rick I think it might be best that you follow Aaron's suggestion." Daryl's grip tightened on the sheets, bastard. "It really is probably for the better. Now it's getting late. Why don't you go back to your camp and come back tomorrow morning and we'll sort this out then?"
"We aren't leaving without Daryl." Daryl considered making a run for it but they were so close he wasn't sure he could do it quietly. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep he could get someone in the eye with his scalpel,
Catherine's voice was next. "Rick, Daryl ought not be moved right now in his condition. His stitches could open up real easy. Nothing will happen until old Gundrun gets back anyways and he might be out hunting for another day or two."
Daryl remembered Rick examining the corpse and hoped that he was making the connection. They were waiting for a man who was already dead.
"Doctor will you keep a good eye on our friend until we come back tomorrow morning?"
"Close as I can Rick. Now why don't you let Kathy take you back where we found you? Can you make it back to your camp alright?"
"Yes, thank you doctor." Rick was really going to leave him here with these hicks?
The tent flap opened and Daryl barely laid down and shut his eyes in time to appear sleeping. Heavy staggering footsteps came into the tent and Daryl's grip on the scalpel tightened.