Rick knows this is reckless, foolish behavior, but he can't help it.
When Daryl wasn't back by nightfall, Rick had taken the only other remaining car that had any gas left, and gone out to look for him. He had told only Carol what he was planning, because he knew that of all of them she was least likely to try and stop him. While Rick hadn't exactly confided in her his growing attachment to Daryl she seemed to have realized that something was going on between them. She would understand.
Carol had looked thoughtful when he found her and asked for her help, but after a moment she had nodded.
"I'll open the gate."
This had been half an hour ago. Rick knows approximately what Daryl's plan had been, and he follows the route he thinks the other man had most likely travelled. Unusually for him, Daryl had taken the car. He had recently started hunting and laying traps further afield because the woods around the prison were so full of walkers that it was getting difficult to cover any ground, or find any game that hadn't been gnawed on.
"'ll check the traps from las' night, then run past that store in Sharpsburg, get some more formula for Lil Asskicker," Daryl had informed Rick. Another recent change in procedure had been to make sure that all supply runs were cleared with someone from the committee. They had had to go further and further out in the last few months to find sustenance for all the mouths they had to feed now, and there were now several runs a week, so planning had by need become more elaborate.
Daryl still prefers to go tracking on his own, of course, and does not take kindly to what he calls Rick's "mother-hennin'". At least he had stuck to the agreement and had told Rick where he was going, for which Rick is now damn grateful.
Rick knows that his best chance would be to check out the route to the store first, because, as Daryl keeps reminding him, his tracking sucks ass. In all likelihood he wouldn't find the exact place where Daryl had laid the traps for days.
He never makes it all the way to the store. About three miles from Sharpsburg Rick notices black skid marks on the asphalt. Stopping the car, grabbing his flashlight, he quickly gets out and follows the marks down the slope and between the nearest trees. His flashlight's beam reflects off a number plate he knows only too well.
Heart hammering in his chest he quickly descends all the way to where the car is lying on its roof in the ditch. Skirting round to the driver's side he is actually relieved to see the door standing open and the car looking deserted. Then something on the upside-down back door catches his eye. Shining his light onto the spot he realizes immediately what he is looking at: bullet holes, and these particular ones had certainly not been there this morning.
Rick knows he has two options. One, he can head into the woods just beyond the car wreck, trying to follow the route he is certain Daryl would have taken. Or two, he can get back into his car and scout out the possible places where Daryl could have left the cover of the trees. Rick doesn't think going into the forest would be a good move. Even with his flashlight it would be impossible for him to find the trail Daryl has taken. And not only are walkers in a dark forest a huge risk, they would slow him down and distract him from the task at hand.
So Rick gets back into his own car, trying to make a mental list of all possible exit points Daryl could have aimed for. He has no doubt Daryl would try to go the most direct route back to the prison – unless he was being followed by whoever has been shooting at the car. Rick doesn't dismiss this disturbing notion, but he tries to concentrate on the strategies that are practical right now, not on those thoughts that will only worry him to death.
There is of course the possibility that Daryl is hurt badly and can't make it back home under his own steam. In that case, Rick is certain, the experienced hunter knows better than anyone how to survive out in the open for a night. One place comes quickly to Rick's mind as a possible spot to hunker down: the series of enclosed fields that start about half a mile south of the prison. There are several unpaved roads leading to the fields, and Rick decides to turn into the first one he comes to, right after the bridge over that little stream they had started using recently for fresh fish.
The first two fields Rick comes to don't look promising. One is full of walkers, and the other one looks deserted. Of course, he can't swear that nobody is hiding in the long grass, so he gets out of the car, letting the motor run, illuminating the field with its headlights. "Daryl," he calls quietly a few times while walking along the fence, but has to abandon his position quickly when some of the walkers from the next field with the broken fence remember how they got in there and retrace their steps.
Back in the car, Rick drives past a patch of dense woodland, praying that he's not acting on completely the wrong hunch. If Daryl is in the trees somewhere he will never find him before daybreak, and possibly not even then.
Then the forest gives way to another field, and as he draws closer Rick can just discern a small wooden structure outlined by the pale moonlight to his left. Praying to the gods he doesn't believe in for more luck this time, Rick gets out of the car again, and again leaves the motor running. They can't afford to waste gas, but without the headlights he would have almost no visibility, which is never reassuring, and he needs all the help he can get right now.
Rick clambers over the fence after watching the field for a few minutes, making sure no undead are on their way to him. He quickly crosses the hundred yards or so to the animal shelter he had spotted from the car, approaching it from the side. Inching slowly forward with his gun cocked he peers round the corner into the dim interior.
There is a huddled shape against the far wall, not moving. Rick hesitates, like they all do now when they see a body on the ground. But then he can make out the outline of angel wings on leather, and he is at Daryl's side in two long strides. He crouches down and reaches out, placing his hand lightly on top of the wings.
"Daryl."
His voice sounds shaky even on this one word. The effect is instantaneous, but not quite what Rick expected. Daryl wakes immediately, all right, but where Rick expected to have to hold him down (hence the hand on the vest) the other man only manages to sit up halfway, and suddenly doubles over with a sharp gasp. Rick can feel him shaking under the leather vest and pulls it off to help, and assess any damage.
Daryl's left hand lies across his midriff, hand pressed against his right side. His chest is heaving, his breath comes in painful-sounding rattles. "Wha' you think you doin' out here, you stupid mo'fucker?" Rick can only barely make out the words, but he is almost relieved to hear that kind of language, even now.
"What d'you think?" he retorts. "Where are you hurt? What happened?"
Rick is certain he sees a tiny flinch when he reaches out again for the other man, but then Daryl relents and gingerly leans back against the wooden wall. Rick can tell that even this tiny movement causes considerable pain. Daryl is white as a sheet, even in the inadequate light from the torch. He looks at Rick, his eyes fever-bright.
"Got into some trouble." His voice sounds hoarse and pinched.
"No shit. Now, let me look at you. Where does it hurt most?" Rick lets the beam from his torch travel down. Daryl's left leg is a crimson mess. Rick leans over to inspect the wound, and the crudely fashioned tourniquet. Crude or not, it has done its job, there is no bleeding now.
"Rick!"
There is an urgency in Daryl's voice, and Rick quickly looks up.
"There's… a problem… need to warn t'others."
"Go on."
"Was ambushed. In t'store." The few words, slurred even by Daryl's standards, seem to exhaust him. And they bring on a coughing fit that makes him double over in pain again. Rick is at his side in time to prevent Daryl slumping to the floor face first. He holds him carefully, reckoning that whatever is causing this amount of pain does not need aggravating.
Daryl's breath comes in shallow, raspy gasps. Rick can feel it rattling in his chest, and he can also feel the feverish heat emanating from the other man. He gropes around to the side of his own belt with his free hand, unclasping the small hiker's water bottle he has taken to carrying around at all times. It has served him well on long days working his vegetable patches, and he is glad now to be a creature of habit.
He gently helps Daryl sit up, letting him lean into his chest. "Here, drink this." Rick unscrews the bottle cap and brings the opening to Daryl's mouth. "Slow, now."
Daryl drinks while Rick tips the bottle carefully to prevent further coughing fits. After a few moments he pulls the bottle away. Daryl is clearly dehydrated, pouring the water into him too quickly would certainly not agree with him.
The water seems to have done him good, though. "We need to get back," he continues, more easily. "There's a bunch a' thugs in the forest, and they are gettin' ready to attack."
