chapter two.

Tasting it as well.

When he stood up, the world started spinning.

"Fuck," Daryl muttered and reached out to steady himself on a nearby tree. He blinked hard once, twice, until the trees came back into view and the sound of birds replaced the ringing in his ears. Breathing hard, the final wave of nausea faded and he spat out granules of dirt stuck on his tongue.

Where the hell had he ended up?

Daryl turned around but every direction showed an identical mass of trees. There wasn't even the faintest sound of running water in the distance to at least tell him how to get back on track. The rises of mountains were above him but, like the trees, they weren't a checkpoint. They were always there. Always surrounding.

On top of everything, Daryl couldn't see the damn crossbow anywhere.

When Daryl tried to take a step, a sharp pain shot up through his ankle and he stumbled back into the tree. Lifting his pant leg, he saw there was no blood at least. He'd worse injuries than that - it didn't even come close to the broke-in-three-places collarbone from last year. Daryl placed his foot back down gingerly and slowly placed more and more pressure on it until he could take a proper step. It still hurt enough to make his teeth grind together and he couldn't walk without a limp, but he'd make do.

Not that he knew what he was making do of. Still, Daryl knew it was more worthwhile to go in search of the river again and follow it back home. So that's precisely what he set off to do.

::

He couldn't find the river.

::

It was much colder at night. Daryl attempted sleep pressed up against one of the huge pine trees and managed it some - a few hours, maybe, but they felt more like seconds and he would jerk awake with any sound. They were really no different from what he could hear nightly from his bedroom window, but out here everything was that much more alive and could actually touch him without the flimsy protection of a window screen.

But nothing did get him. Daryl didn't even see a sign of life beyond the trees and plants and grasses. It was just him out in the big, wide wilderness and he had no idea how to change that.

Daryl tried to sleep again.

::

There were flames everywhere.

Licking against the sides of the house and racing across the grass surrounding it. Kids - friends - around Daryl were speeding off on their new bikes while Daryl couldn't move. Couldn't will his legs to get away fast enough or far enough.

Merle. Mom. Dad.

Those were the order of the words that went through his mind. But even taking a step toward the burning house made his skin feel as though it was burning, scorching him right there in the moment. He could smell and see the wood falling away, the grass growing brown and then black, and he swore he could hear his mother's screams.

Daryl awoke with a start. He dreamt a lot. This was nothing new. He was still in the woods, hearing the growl of a bobcat far off in the distance. Daryl didn't think it would be a direct danger if the stayed still and quiet.

He pressed his back up harder against the tree, closed his eyes, and willed everything away. He willed away the fire, the sounds, the fact he was lost in the middle of the fucking woods with no idea how to get out.

It didn't work.

It never would.

::

The next morning, Daryl decided to try logic. The longest he'd been out in these woods before was a little over a week, a couple of years back when Merle took him camping. And, right now, Merle would tell him to follow instinct. That his stomach grumbling meant food was the most important thing right now.

Daryl also had a vague idea of what was edible out here, so at least it was a tangible task to do - and maybe he could find the river again while he was at it. He hadn't gone that far or fallen that much. He had to still be close. Yesterday he just hadn't tried hard enough, that's all it was. On his report card from last semester that was precisely what his teacher said - doesn't try hard enough. Daryl would prove her wrong. The ankle was hardly noticeable now; just a constant throb he put in the back of his mind along with everything else that wasn't important right at that moment.

He set off east, following the sun, and it wasn't long before he found a bush of blackberries. There were all right to eat. Daryl remembered that.

"You can have blueberries or blackberries," Merle had told him. "But have anything with milky sap and your stomach will turn itself inside out."

It's a lesson he'd taken to heart and tore off a few dozen berries that at least let his stomach settle enough for Daryl to focus again. The only problem with good focus was that it meant everything in his mind was front and centre again.

Like being lost. Being out in the middle of the woods with only a vague sense of direction thanks to the sun. It had to be near noon, the sun now directly above him. Daryl tried to stick to the trees - heatstroke was the last thing he needed.

And what if you can't get back? The voice was from his mind.

You too much of a pussy to even find your way around in your own backyard? Or maybe it was more advice-giving Merle ready to start being the asshole Daryl always knew he was deep-down inside.

"I can," Daryl muttered. He was secretly glad there was no-one around to hear him.

He wiped at the beads of sweat rolling down his face and swallowed against the tacky feeling in his throat. The pain in his ankle was back, but Daryl clenched his teeth against it. Get out of the woods, get home, fix everything up then. His stomach flipped, but he ignored that too.

At least until it wouldn't let up and he was braced against a tree, retching up what was left in his stomach. So much for Merle's advice. Daryl sucked in cool air and bile rose up in his throat again. He stayed bent over, spitting, until he was sure everything was gone.

He needed water. He needed to get the fuck out of here. He could die in the woods - he knew that. He'd heard news stories about it. People gone missing, found weeks later or not at all. Dead because they didn't know their way around.

But you do know . That little voice from the back of his mind was back. You've spent more time out here than you have at home.

Daryl's fingertips gripped harder against the tree. Yeah , he thought. Then out loud, because it was important, "Yeah."

He knew this place. Somewhere in his brain there was a map and a path out. He just needed to focus. Focus . To stop being a bitch.

It was going to be okay.

::

Daryl was stumbling. He considered it a good sign that he knew he was stumbling. If he were further gone he wouldn't be able to recognise it, right?

The trees looked further away until he slammed into them, head aching and hands scratched raw. Everything hurt but in a way that made him feel numb more than anything else. When he coughed flame rose in his throat, then dulled to the same throb in his feet.

But when he tripped over a log there was nothing left in the reserves to pull himself back up.

::

At first he thought the sounds he was hearing were coming from his dreams. His dad's voice breaking through 'cause Daryl knew he couldn't escape, not even all the way out here.

But the sound was too strong - too alive - and it didn't disappear when Daryl opened his eyes. A piercing screech Daryl had never heard come from anyone or anything before.

Daryl scrambled back against the hard wood of the tree, felt scratches tear through his shirt and into his skin. The screech sounded again, echoing through the woods, and Daryl could feel his heartbeat in his ears as he slowly made his way through the brush. Dead leaves and twigs shuffled and snapped under his feet and he was sure whatever that thing was would have to hear it.

But nothing else moved.

Daryl figured he had two choices: Go toward the sound or away from it. There was, he supposed, also the third of staying still - but he was awake now, had to get moving anyway. No way was he going to become some animal's dinner by lying still.

Another screech. Closer this time. He tried to work out what it was. Not a bobcat, and definitely not an owl.

He snapped a bigger stick and cringed, waiting. He was pissed at Merle right now - it was his fault Daryl even bothered coming out here. If he could've just kept his ass out drugs and juvy, Daryl wouldn't be here right now. He wouldn't be about to fight for his life against some fucking monster.

So he guessed he'd made up his mind after all.

From there, it was just a matter of shutting down every non-essential part of his brain and going forward. Hand to hand combat had always been easier for Daryl, but Merle'd had him focus on guns for the last year. Didn't matter. He didn't have any other options to use anyway. He'd live or he'd die. That was the basis of everything, wasn't it?

Step after step, one foot in front of the other. Ignoring the crushing of foliage and the scream of whatever this thing was.

At least until he saw it.

It looked a dog, but Daryl knew it wasn't. It couldn't be with the sharp plates arching across its back and the daggers for teeth that were revealed when it opened its mouth to call that same, echoing screech Daryl had heard the first time.

He knew what it was. He'd heard the legends. Chupacabra.

Daryl took off. Pushing back tree leaves and getting whacked in the face with branches. He felt the sting of a cut against his cheek but couldn't even afford to reach up and touch the blood. Behind him the inhuman movements of the Chubacapra were closing in. Dragging closer, closer...

Daryl's foot caught in an upturned root and he felt himself fall before he was actually there. Suspended in animation, a slow-motion fall as his body was twisted and, once again, he was looking at this creature.

And then the sound of bubbling water as his body collided with the ground.

Bubbling. Water.

His brain didn't quite get to what that meant as he remained face-to-face with the Chupacabra. It closed in, its sharpened nails reaching out as Daryl tried to find something, anything to defend himself with.

Then, suddenly, it changed.

Daryl couldn't even pin-point where it started. Just that this...thing, went from Chupacabra to Merle Dixon right before Daryl's eyes. All grins and sauntering walk.

"Drink up," it said and pointed to the water behind.

Daryl was always good at following orders.

::

Following the river back home took less than half an hour. Daryl had only been just above it the entire time, dehydrating and starving to death because he was too stupid to think straight on his own.

Merle - the Chupacabra, whatever it was - had disappeared the moment Daryl cupped his hands under the water and swallowed down the icy liquid. Merle's laughter somehow rang through the trees for a little longer, giving Daryl comfort he'd never admit to out loud.

He opened the back door silently, fully expecting Dad to be waiting not too far away. Daryl may have lost count of days out in the woods, but it was long enough.

At least it should have been.

Instead Daryl found himself pulling off boots alone and facing more of that isolation as he walked down the hall and into the kitchen. Dad wasn't hunched over the table, waiting like he used to on nights Merle was supposed to be home with the weekly income, cleaning a gun while one eye stayed on Daryl. Daryl downed a glass of lukewarm water and went into the living room.

That was where he saw Dad. Lounging in his lay-z-boy with the grainy TV screen showing men running back and forth against a grey-green field.

Daryl stood there awkwardly. He knew that trying to sneak up to his room won't last for long; avoiding punishment - being a pussy - was worse to his dad than breaking any rules.

"Daryl," his dad said and turned to him. Daryl cringed, waited. "Grab me another beer."

He does, returning to hold it out to his dad at arm's length. He snapped the tab open with an audible hiss and took a long gulp. Daryl was tense, poised, ready to accept what was needed.

"What're you still doing here?" his dad asked. "Let me watch the game."

Daryl went, numb. Feet more than mind taking him to the kitchen where he pulled out near-stale bread and pb&j spread. He made the sandwich, methodical, and when he bit down that was when it dawned on him:

He hadn't noticed I was gone.