Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.
Note: I have not seen past Season 4, Episode 9: After.
Hours later, after innumerable jerks back into wakefulness, Daryl was jolted awake by a sudden gust of wind that blew straight through his poncho. Sunrise was only the shadow of an idea to the east but he could sense the clouds hastening across the sky. If the wind kept up like this, he could be facing a serious storm with no shelter. The hunter reluctantly removed the poncho and maneuvered himself on the branch until he was facing the trunk so he could piss down it without attracting the attention of any walkers. As soon as he was done, the scruffy man tucked his poncho back around his legs and attempted to relieve some of the pinch in his lower back. Not for the first time, Daryl admitted he wasn't as young as he once was.
Unfortunately, the increasing morning light did not reveal anything in the stranded tracker's favor. A storm was racing the rising sun and the winds were growing stronger. Daryl flexed his fingers in his sleeves and conceded it might be time to pull out the hand warmers Carol had packed him. The herd hadn't moved in the night, likely the sounds of so many walkers together had confused them. Wind wouldn't be much help in that regard either. He needed a walker to spot something living and make noise so the others would follow it, hopefully far far away, and down a cliff, and into a bonfire. Yeah, it would serve them right to go out like a bunch of lemmings.
A snowflake blown into his eye jerked Daryl's frozen, sleep deprived mind back into awareness. First he wondered what was making the wheezy chuckle so close by, then he realized it was him, laughing inanely at the thought of a herd of zombies walking off a cliff. A few seconds of concentration brought the disturbing sound to an end, and he made his hands fumble at the zip on the backpack. This storm was only going to get worse before it got better. The pack contained 4 hand warmers, the perfect number to put one in each boot and use one for his hands, plus keep one in case of emergency. It was just going to be tricky getting his boot off, the packet in, and laces tied twice without falling out of the tree or dropping something right on a walker's head. Daryl considered saving the two heating packets for when his toes actually started getting cold, but changed his mind when he thought about how stiff his hands would be in just a few hours. Better to do it now.
Somehow, he got his first boot off without trouble, realized how good it felt to air his foot out despite the cold, and paused to enjoy the wicking effect of his wool socks. The boot with packet went back on without a hitch and he eagerly tugged at his other laces. But something about the direction he twisted to free his foot made the scar on his side twinge. That twinge turned into a flinch and the hot pocket meant for his left boot slipped out of his lap and plummeted towards the ground. Time slowed as the off white sachet tumbled through the frigid air towards certain doom. Daryl let out the breath he didn't know he was holding when it hit the ground between two walkers who were looking elsewhere. On one hand, he hadn't managed to attract the herd's attention, but on the other hand, if he hadn't dropped the packet, he would still have one extra for later.
"Quadruple fucked."
With slow, deliberate movements, the shivering hunter got the hot packs situated under the balls of his feet and held the last one in his hands, hunched over his drawn up knees. Trying to balance on his tailbone on the hard branch, he watched the sky lighten with diffused light, which chased away every shadow. Then the sky began to darken again before his internal clock hit mid morning. The wind dug its icy fingers into Daryl's skin, making his nose and ears ache and he peeked down before the light got any worse. There were no longer two herds traveling in opposite directions in the field. Now there was just a huge mass of the rotting bastards, staggering about and generally not getting anywhere very quickly.
The weather continued turning worse. Moist air must have blown in from the ocean to mix with the cold front pushed down by the gulf stream. Or something like that. Daryl had never been one to sit and watch the weather channel when he could be out in it. All that really mattered was the air was getting colder and he was unable to use movement to warm himself up. The hot packs in his boots and clutched between his hands definitely helped, but they would only last for a few hours. After that, he was on his own with nothing more than his corduroy coat and his poncho unless he wanted to piss in the water bottle and use that for warmth.
With nothing better to do, Daryl watched the zombies slowly stagger around in the field, bumping into each other and occasionally getting pushed to the ground. Then he realized that the ones that fell over couldn't manage to get up again. Some were even starting to collect snow on their filthy clothes and hair as the cold made their joints stiff and their movements slower and more uncoordinated. This was the first time the winter had really set in hard since the end of the world so they had never had the opportunity to test if the cold affected the walkers as much as it affected the survivors.
A hint of a plan started to form in the hunter's sluggish brain. Walkers in limited numbers were easy enough to dispatch, especially if they were taken unaware. However, riled up in a herd was another matter, but the cold that was slowly killing him might just be what saved his life. If the storm slowed the walkers enough, he might just be able to run straight through the herd and lose any followers in the woods. Daryl also knew that if he managed to get out of the tree and the walkers weren't really as sluggish as they looked, there would be no hope of escape.
The hunter knew he would be torn to pieces in minutes if the herd reacted. But, if he stayed where he was, there was no possibility of surviving a second night without shelter. He would lose all feeling in his extremities and his core temperature would continue to drop, reducing blood flow to his brain. Daryl knew he would become incredibly tired and no matter how much he fought it, he would eventually fall asleep and never wake up. At least not as a human. If he died there in the night, he would return as a walker, but he would still be strapped to the tree by his belt come spring.
Despite the severity of the situation, the inane memory of walking through the forest with Andrea came to mind. They had stumbled on someone who had opted out by hanging himself from a tree. When they'd turned, their corpse was left dangling like a rotten pinata until the hunter had put it out of its misery. Thinking about being in the woods made the shivering man remember why they had been out there. Carol had lost her little girl and he had been determined to find Sophia. He groaned in misery. If he stayed in the tree and froze to death while belted to the branch, his corpse wouldn't join the herd below when they finally wandered off. Daryl knew his body would still be stuck in the branches when Carol eventually looked for him.
Staring unseeing at the frost from his breath that had solidified on the poncho, Daryl knew he could never do that to Carol. Fuck dieing in a tree like a scared possum. He couldn't let the older woman see him like that. It had practically destroyed him when he thought for sure he had found her corpse in the tombs. Nope, he was going to go down fighting and at least if he was killed, the hungry walkers would probably eat enough of him that he wouldn't be recognizable. Yeah, that sounded like a plan and Daryl put it into motion. No point in sitting around waiting for the storm to get worse. As it was, the edges of the field were starting to fade as the snow came in faster.
Daryl returned the poncho to the backpack and forced his stiff legs to unbend to straddle the branch. The movement and exposing his legs to the wind made him bite his lip to stifle his groan of pain. It would completely ruin his plan if he caught the walker's attention before he hit the ground ready to run. Forcing his body to move and push cold blood from his extremities was worse even than the pins and needles that came with sitting in one place for too long. But he knew he had to do everything he could to limber up or he would be tripping and staggering like the undead.
Sparing a glance at the ominously dark sky, Daryl checked that the backpack was zipped up and that his belt was back in place before strapping his bow across his chest. The last thing he needed was for his pants to drop while he was trying to outrun a herd of hungry walkers and if he was treed again or had to take shelter before reaching the prison, his only chance at surviving was his backpack. Ignoring the angry purple of his fingernails, the hunter slipped as low as he could in the branches before preparing to lower himself to the ground. He had debated if he should try to be unobtrusive when he exited the tree, or just jump to the ground and sprint for the woods. In the end, he decided to go slowly until something spotted him on the off chance that the walkers would be too cold to care about him. Besides, as far as he could tell because of the cold, he didn't smell like dinner, unless they had a taste for frozen long pig.
Spotting an open space between two walkers, Daryl lowered himself from the bottom branch and landed softly in the snow. He nearly went to his knees when his ankles rolled from landing on the chemical warmers still situated under the balls of his feet but he managed to move smoothly and didn't knock into any of the walkers. A glance around revealed that none of the shambling corpses had taken any notice of the tracker dropping into their midst. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Daryl slid nonchalantly through the crowd, avoiding any contact with the dead lest he draw their attention. Several times he had to backtrack as the milling zombies closed off paths wide enough for him to travel, but he eventually made it to the shelter of the trees as the sky darkened further towards evening.
Fortunately the herd was thinner in the forest, but the tree cover had sheltered the dead still wandering around and Daryl quickly drew several sets of eyes with his movements. Not even bothering to kill any, the hunter switched to a rolling lope to put distance between him and the herd. As he ran through the forest, the skilled tracker debated his route. If it was warmer out, he would never head straight back to the prison. His movements would have drawn the entire herd after him and they would continue until they ran into something that blocked their path. But with the weather so cold, and his own endurance limited, Daryl hoped the walkers wouldn't form a herd and follow him back to the prison.
Daryl's legs felt like lead, his shoulders ached, his feet were cramped, and his lungs felt like they were on fire, but the prison had to be close. It took all of his concentration to keep moving forward when all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep until spring. The hunter hadn't even bothered to keep track of any walkers following him. He knew that Carol wouldn't normally be worried about his trip running into the next day, but with the storm coming in, she would be frantic. Just the thought of her worrying made him push through the accumulated snow a little harder, and made him ignore how dry his mouth was. Cold and exhaustion left him incapable of higher brain function.
He caught himself tripping in the building snow and forced himself to concentrate on getting home. Daryl chuckled through his short panting breaths at the thought of actually having a home. Of course it would be the end of the world before he decided to get attached to a place. But the hunter really knew that it wasn't really the place that made it home. It was Carol. Without her, he would have left the group early on, gone looking for Merle, or gotten himself killed. Now he was determined to reach the caring woman.
Each jarring stumbling step was accompanied by a mental mantra of Carol... Carol... Carol. As the exhaustion gave way to blessed numbness, the snow turn the landscape white and featureless. Daryl relied instead on his internal compass that seemed to have reoriented to always point towards the older woman. Just when the determined man was sure his legs were going to give out before he reached the prison, the tall chain link fence appeared out of the snow. Relief filled Dixon and gave him enough strength to inanely hope that Glenn and Maggie weren't on watch as they seemed fully incapable of keeping their eyes up and their hands off each other.
With the gates in sight, Daryl let his chin drop to his chest and his staggering footsteps slow. He had never been so tired in his life. All he needed was a little break, just a quick rest before pushing on through the clearing to the fence. When his knees gave out and he went to the ground, the hunter was actually thankful for the snow that covered the sharp gravel underneath. If he had fallen on the bare ground, his pants would have torn and then Carol would have stayed up late into the night stitching them back up again by the light of a dying flashlight. Daryl couldn't feel the snowflakes sticking to his numb face, but he could clearly recall the exact way the grey haired woman would say his name.
Sometimes it was chiding for not wiping the mud off his boots before returning to their shared cell, or playful when he flicked water at the back of her neck. And more than once it was a plea for help when they were surrounded by walkers with no apparent way out. But no matter how she meant it, Carol always said his name with a softness he couldn't remember anyone else ever using. Merle and their father had said his name with a sneer, as if he wasn't worth the trouble of having him around.
Unwilling to think on his previous life, Daryl turned his mind back to his favorite way Carol said his name, but when he imagined the breathless way she had accepted some trinket or another he'd found on a run, she sounded terrified instead of awed. The fear in her voice shocked the scruffy hunter and he struggled to understand what had gone wrong. He knew she had adored the little arrow charm he had found to replace the cross she used to wear, but his mind continued to play Carol's panicked cry over and over. Daryl's heart ached at the tone he had only heard from the older once before when Sophia had gone missing and he wanted to do anything he could to make her stop being afraid.
His whole world seemed to suddenly shudder, and the hunter assumed he had closed his eyes at some point. It took concentrated effort to open them again and he recognized he was looking up at the white sky. Daryl knew he must have slumped sideways in the snow but before he could convince himself to move despite his exhaustion, the sky was blotted out by a shadow. Despite not being religious, his mind automatically filled in the blank in his reasoning as an angel standing over him. And indeed, the diffused sunlight through the storm made a halo around their head until their hand flashed out and slapped him hard across the cheek. The blow stung even though his skin was numb from cold, but the sharp pain grounded the hypothermic man and he forced his senses to focus.
Sound rushed in like it was filling a void in his head and words suddenly made sense again. The figure leaning over him was shouting and shaking him by the denim coat. "Daryl! Wake up!"
Carol's face was a mask of dread and determination as she shook the younger man to keep him awake. It had been pure luck that she had randomly decided to walk the fence despite the storm. She had been on edge ever since Daryl had lit out of the prison like his shoes were on fire and hadn't come back as the snow thickened. There hadn't been any walkers on the fence to take her jitters out on and the grey haired woman had just been about to go back inside when she saw the snow covered figure stagger out of the trees. With the storm obscuring the details, she had watched the figure slow and then go down to its knees. The maternal woman knew somewhere in her gut that it was Daryl and quickly slipped out of the gate with her knife prepared for the worst.
Her too-large boots made running across the lumpy, snow covered ground treacherous and Daryl slumped sideways as she shouted his name. For a moment, Carol was struck by the similarities to the time the hunter had limped out of the woods at the farm and was grazed in the head by Andrea. Only this time, all of her dread was focused on the younger tracker. After what felt like an eternity, she reached the prone man and stopped just out of his reach, knife held ready. It wouldn't be the first time someone rushed to another's aid, only to be too late to save them and instead was infected too. As Carol searched for any sign either infection or life, she hesitated.
If Daryl was infected, or already turned, she wasn't sure she would have the strength to end him. The nameless walkers were simple to pretend weren't people once upon a time, and putting down Ed had been easy after everything she had suffered at his hands. But Daryl was different. He was everything a good man was supposed to be, but also entirely misunderstood by everyone that judged him by their perception of his brother or his appearance. Carol held her breath as she silently begged for him to open his blue eyes again so she wouldn't have to find out if she was strong enough.
At last, his eyes opened and stared up at the featureless sky and Carol could have cried. She took the last couple of steps to fall to her knees at his side, trying to ignore the disturbing blue tint to his lips. When he didn't seem to react to her presence, Carol panicked that she was too late and slapped him hard across the face and screamed his name again. Blessedly, his eyes slowly focused on hers and she bent forward in relief until her forehead rested on his chest. Daryl was too exhausted and frozen to respond, but he knew that he had made it back to Carol and he let his eyes slip closed again.
Cognizant of the foul weather and the dangerously blue tint to the younger man's skin, Carol deliberately put away her relief and started trying to figure out how to get him back to the prison and warmed up before he ended up with frostbite. But when she saw Daryl's eyes were closed again, the grey haired woman thumped a fist down firmly on his sternum.
"Damn it, Dixon! Don't quit on me now."
The hunter grunted at the impact and tried to nod his head that he understood, but it was as if his muscles had been disconnected from his brain and he couldn't make them work. Carol knew he wasn't going to be able to walk any further and she was unwilling to leave him long enough to get help or a vehicle. She berated Rick under her breath for allowing Glenn and Maggie to share watch, knowing they were most likely cuddled up in the tower, ignoring their job. There was nothing for it, the older woman would just have to drag Daryl back to the prison.
She staggered to her feet, ignoring the wet patches on her knees and grabbed the denim collar on his coat, heaving as hard as she could to get his legs straightened out. Next, the thin woman manhandled Daryl's arms above his head to slip the crossbow and backpack straps off. Carol donned the gear and gripped his frigid wrists and began tugging him through the snow. Despite his condition, the hunter really did try to help push himself along with his legs, but the movements were uncoordinated and weak.
Author's commentary: I just wanted to make the statement that hypothermia is not something to mess around with. Please don't try to sit in a tree overnight in winter, nor should you attempt to make a fire in a tree. Trust me from personal experience, it will not end well.