Daryl Dixon was a solitary man. He hunted alone. He ate alone. He slept alone. He kept to himself, only confiding in others when it was absolutely necessary. That's how it had always been and that was how it would always be... at least in his eyes.
The day had started like any other. Daryl rose before the sun and got to work prepping supplies for a hunt. He scrounged up some of the deer meat from the night before and as the first rays of light peeked over the horizon and cast a golden glow across the camp, he was off into the woods—his bow slung over his back and a length of rope dangling over his shoulders. He was gonna catch him some boar dammnit! Sick an' tired of squirrel.
He had been hunting for a couple hours when he finally caught sight of the hog. He had been tracking it for a couple days but this was the first time he had lay eyes on it. It was big, a couple hundred pounds at least. It was a sow and her bristled coat was thick with mud and flies.
Swiftly he drew his bow, locking the bolt into place. He knelt in the brush and everything was quiet. The cool morning breeze chilled the sweat on the back of his neck as Daryl trained the weapon on the beast who was grazing obliviously. His index finger tickled the trigger and just as he flexed to free to bolt he heard fast, short footfalls. Before the man could swing around to see the assailant it was too late.
He was dealt a blow, hard in the ribs crushing the bones and throwing him up and over his bow, sending the bolt spewing out of range. Breath racked out of his lungs as he looked up dazedly to see a blur of brown hurtling towards him.
Daryl tensed up preparing helplessly for the next strike, his hands reached for his buck knife. Then he froze in place as the charging boar—its tusked snout lowered ready to gore him again—was intercepted by a snarling black creature, its teeth gnashing and its eyes fierce. A terrified chill ran down the battered man's spine before pain and shock forced him unconscious... Chupacabra.