THIS CHAPTER: Daryl struggles alone in episode 5 of season 2, "Chupacabra."
It's been a while since Daryl's been on horseback, but it's like riding a bike. Within ten minutes he's able to take aim on a twitchy squirrel with his crossbow and pin the little bastard to a tree in one shot. He yanks his arrow from the bark and stuffs the squirrel in his back without slowing his borrowed horse's trotting pace. He meanders through the forest near the bank of the river, scanning for any sign of Sophia, and something in the river catches his eye.
He pulls gently on the reigns, slowing the horse, and dismounts her. He fastens her to a tree, not bothering to tie the rope, and eases himself down the bank. He approaches a fallen tree that lies in the shallow brown water and picks up what had caught his attention—Sophia's doll, snagged on the rotting branch. Daryl stares at the pitiful thing, all waterlogged and filthy, wondering how long it's been there, and casts his gaze around the forest.
"Sophia!" he hollers into the trees, though he severely doubts she's nearby. Still, it's solid evidence, a reminder that she's a real goddamn person lost in the woods, that who they're missing is real and deserves to be looked for. Daryl returns to his horse, determination fluttering harder than ever in his throat, and keeps moving. He keeps his eyes peeled and focused on the forest floor, searching for footprints, pieces of clothing that might've been snagged on twigs, anything. He's distracted only when his horse is briefly spooked by a few crows that squawk and flutter out of a nearby bush, but he gets her back on track in a second.
The rattlesnake in the leaves, however, frightens the horse considerably more than a couple of crows. She bucks, neighing loudly, and despite Daryl's best efforts to get her under control, she sends him flying. He hits the ground hard and the world jolts awkwardly as gravity makes him its bitch—he topples down the incline toward the river, much steeper than before. The forest is a blur of green and brown before his eyes as he tumbles gracelessly down the unforgiving rocky slope, scraping and cutting himself on stone, until he finally lands in the river with an inelegant splash.
"Son of a bitch," he groans as an acute, hot stab of pain sears through his side. He clutches at the source of the discomfort and looks down to see that one of his arrows has gone right through him. He lies there, stunned and gasping in pain, and the water around him quickly turns a dark red. He forces himself to his feet, his hand pressed uselessly to his side, unsure whether to press down on the entry wound or the exit wound, as he sloshes unsteadily through the water. Every move is a painful struggle, but he forces himself to reach the sandy shallows just several yards downstream where he had found Sophia's doll. When he reaches it he wants to collapse, but he knows he can't.
He gets to work. He unsheathes his knife and cuts his shirt sleeves off at the shoulders, then sets about tying them together. He wraps them around his torso, securing them around the shaft of the arrow in his side so as it keep it from moving around. He pulls it tight and grits his teeth hard against the pain. When it's done, he looks up at the steep wall of rock next to him.
Daryl has his work cut out for him.
He grabs a sturdy stick from the sand, a handy makeshift walking stick, and pauses when he hears movement off in the trees. Something heavy, mostly likely walker-sized. He reaches for his crossbow, only to realize he'd lost it sometime during his fall down the cliff. And so he backtracks, crouching in the river and poking his stick carefully along the riverbed, searching for his crossbow. He finds it soon enough and wades painfully back to the base of the incline. The arrow in his side hurts like a bitch, and he steels himself for a long, hard, unpleasant climb.
Daryl has endured a lot of pain in his lifetime, but he's not prepared for how much dragging his ass up a cliff with an arrow in his side hurts. He's pathetically slow, each step and reach making him want to vomit, and he has to breathe deeply like he's trying to push a baby out of his asshole. He tries to let himself rest for only a second or two after each step, but when he pushes himself forward with all his strength it takes an enormous amount of effort not to black out or cry.
It gets worse when the cliff's earth gets crumbly and his walking stick is rendered virtually useless. Daryl discards it and watches it tumble down to the river far beneath him. He still has a ways to go. He takes a breath and swings his arm up, finding a firm handhold, but when he tries to pull himself further along, he can't. He settles back to try again.
"Come on," he growls to himself aloud, breathing hard, "you done half. Stop bein' such a pussy." And he swings himself up again, but it doesn't work. He's weak.
And he begins to slide down. Daryl desperately tries to hang on, but to no avail; he falls, farther than before with the added bonus of an arrow lodged inside him. When he hits the ground this time, his consciousness slips away.
He's not sure how long he's out, but when he opens his eyes, a rugged, criticizing face swims into view.
"Why don't you pull that arrow out, dummy?" Merle suggests. "You could bind your wound better."
Daryl's eyes slide shut again as he smiles, head pounding. "Merle…"
Merlse chuckles dryly with a smirk and looks Daryl over. "What's goin' on here? You takin' a siesta or somethin'?"
"A shitty day, bro," Daryl slurs.
Merle snorts. "Like me to get you a pillow? Maybe rub your feet?"
"Screw you."
Merle laughs and kneels beside him. "Uh-uh, you're the one screwed from the looks of it. All them years I spent try'na make a man of you, this what I get? Look atcha, lyin' in the dirt like a used rubber. You gonna die out here, little brother. And for what?"
"Girl." Daryl's eyes open slightly as he thinks of his quest. He squints and shuts them again against the sunlight, but he focuses. "They lost their little girl."
"So you got a thing for little girls now?" Merle sneers.
"Shut up," Daryl snaps, his voice weak and barely there.
"'Cause I noticed you ain't out lookin' for ol' Merle no more," Merle points out.
"Tried like hell to find you, bro," Daryl whispers.
"Like hell you did," Merle scoffs. "You split, man. Lit out first chance you got."
"You let out," Daryl protests. "All you had to do was wait. We went back for you, Rick and I. We did right by you."
"This the same Rick that cuffed me to the rooftop in the first place? Forced me to cut off my own hand?" Merle asks, amused. The reminder makes Daryl's eyes widen, his surroundings sharpen a bit. Bits and pieces of Merle in front of him float into his awareness, his hand…his hand is still there. "That's who we talkin' 'bout here? You his bitch now?"
"I ain't nobody's bitch," Daryl insists.
"You're a joke is what you are," Merle says sharply. "Playin' errand boy to a buncha pansy-asses, niggers, and Democrats." He smiles unkindly. "You're nothin' but a freak to them. Redneck trash, 's all you are. Yeah, they're laughin' atcha 'hind your back. You know that, don'tcha? I got a little news for you, son: one'a these days they're gonna scrape you off their heels like you was dog shit."
Daryl's eyes slide shut, and Merle claps him on the chest commandingly. Daryl opens his eyes.
"Hey, they ain't your kin," Merle growls. "Your blood. Hell, if you had any nuts in that damn sack'a yours, you'd go back there and shoot your pal Rick in the face for me." He leans in and raises a hand—the hand that's not supposed to be there—to grab Daryl's face. "Now you listen to me. Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you 'cept me, little brother." His fingers pat Daryl's cheek gently before grasping firm again. "Ain't nobody ever will."
He lets his face go and pats his chest again, standing up. "Come on. Get up on your feet before I hafta kick your teeth in. Let's go." He kicks Daryl's boot, jarring him, and reaches down to start pulling on his foot. Daryl jolts painfully, the fiery heat of it clearing his head more. He looks down at Merle kicking his feet and—
Merle isn't there. Instead, a walker is hunched over at his feet, snarling and gnawing ravenously on his boot. Daryl jerks away, scrambling back as best he can, his terror temporarily swallowing his pain. He kicks the walker viciously in the head, sends it tumbling, and tries to reach for his crossbow where it had fallen a few feet away from him. But the walker is on him again in a second, and Daryl throws punches like he would in a garden-variety bar brawl, though the walker is hardly slowed by it. He rolls and manages to pin it in the mud for a moment, its decaying fingers yanking on his hair, and he rolls again, throwing it as hard as he can away from him. He leaps to his feet just as the walker does, and he wields a thick tree branch like a baseball bat; he cracks the walker with it and it falls, and Daryl straddles it before it can rise again. He bashes the ugly bastard's skull in repeatedly with the branch, breaking its head open and pulverizing the brain.
He rolls away onto his back when the walker is dead, preparing to take on the second geek that lumbers in his direction. Daryl doesn't let himself think about it as he grips the arrow jutting out of his side and pulls—it comes out with the nasty sound of tearing flesh. He clenches it between his teeth and struggles to draw his crossbow (even with both hands it's a difficult task in his state) as the second walker staggers closer. It's practically right on top of him when he falls back, takes aim, and fires. The bolt goes through the walker's head and it collapses in a rotting heap.
He doesn't let himself rest. With the arrow out of his side, he sheds the sleeveless remnants of his shirt, bundles it up, and fastens it tightly to his wound.
"Son of a bitch was right," he mutters. No surprise there—hallucination or not, Merle has an annoying habit of always being right.
Daryl gets to work. He takes a seat on the fallen tree and cleans his hunting knife as best he can in the river water before cutting into the squirrel he'd killed earlier. He prefers his meat cooked, but right now that's a luxury he can't afford and he needs his strength. He plucks out the meat, bloody and cold, and eats it raw. When he finished, he snatches up Sophia's doll and shoves it under his belt before stealing one of the walkers' shoelaces from one boot. Daryl cuts the ears off the walkers and strings them along the shoelace and fashions it into a trophy necklace around his throat.
He always did admire a warrior's tradition.
The second attempt at climbing the incline seems less daunting, but once he actually gets to doing it, it proves just as difficult and painful. He pants and chokes back agonized sobs as he struggles to haul himself further up. The heat and the effort and his battered body make his head swim. The screech of a bird high overhead is absurdly distracting, and he finds himself staring stupidly at the sky for a long moment.
"Please! Don't feed the birds!" Fuckin' Merle. Daryl looks up at the edge of the cliff, where he's trying to reach, and his brother leers down at him. Daryl knows he's not real, but he can't help but look away, somewhat ashamed.
Merle cackles, "What's the matter, Darlina? That all you got in you?" Daryl pulls himself up, a muffled scream hissing through his teeth. "Throw away that purse and climb!"
Daryl throws an irritated look over his shoulder at Merle briefly. "I liked you better when you was missin'."
"Now come on, don't be like that!" Merle laughs. "I'm on your side!"
"Yeah?" Daryl huffs, scrabbling for something sturdier to hang onto. "Since when?"
"Hell, since the day you were born, baby brother. Somebody had to look after your worthless ass."
"You never took care of me," Daryl spits, hanging onto a vine and testing its hold. "Talk a big game, but you was never there! Hell, you ain't here now!" He gasps for breath, dizzy. "Some things never change."
"I tell you what," Merle says nonchalantly, "I'm as real as your chupacabra!"
"I know what I saw," Daryl insists. He drags himself a bit higher up on the cliff.
"Yeah, and I'm sure them 'shrooms you ate had nothin' to do with it, right?" Merle smirks down at him, condescending as ever.
Daryl glowers up at him and shouts, "You best shut the hell up!"
"Or whaaaat?" Merle retorts theatrically, like Daryl's a stupid little kid, always knowing best how to get under his skin. "You gon' come up here and shut my mouth for me? Well, come on and do it, then, if you think you're man enough." He guffaws obnoxiously, and Daryl hauls himself up further, propelled by fury.
"Hey, kick off them damn high heels and climb, son!" he orders, then laughs loudly again, pleased with himself. Daryl splutters, spitting dirt and leaves from his dry mouth and crying out, glowering at his brother and dragging himself closer to the top so he can beat his ugly face in.
"You know what, if I were you, I'd take a pause for the cause, brother," Merle suggests. "'Cause I just don't think you gon' make it to the top."
But Daryl has a tight grip on a sapling that lets him pull himself further, and Merle crouches with his hand outstretched, urging Daryl closer like he would a dog.
"Come on, come on, little brother." A wide grins splits his face as he cackles unpleasantly. "Grab your friend Rick's hand."
Daryl claws at him and his fingers find flat, horizontal ground. He's at the top. He's at the top of the cliff. He blinks cluelessly for a moment, then drags himself up, up, up—and he stands on sturdy land. His hallucination is nowhere in sight.
"Yeah, you better run!" he hollers ridiculously into the trees, just because it makes him feel better.
And off he staggers through the woods, aiming for the farm. He's disoriented but judging by the sunlight he'd guess it's sometime in the late afternoon when he finally stumbles out of the thicket and into the open grass of Hershel's property. He can see the RV from here. People are running at him. Four of them, T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Rick come to meet him. Rick is at the front, holding him at gunpoint. Daryl sways on his feet, unimpressed.
"Is that Daryl?" Glenn asks nervously, and Daryl stomps weakly forward.
"'S the third time you've pointed that thing at my head!" he snaps. The group sags in relief when he speaks, proving himself not to be walker. "You gonna pull the trigger or what?" Rick lowers his gun, but not a second later a gunshot cracks through the air, and a white hot punch in the head knocks Daryl to the ground.
"NO!" Rick screams in the direction of the shot, running to Daryl's aid. "NO, NO!"
Daryl lies dazed in the grass, bleeding from a burning wound on the side of his head, and he feels hands on him—Shane grabbing his wrist to pull his hand away from the wound and tugging on him arm while Rick wraps his arms around him and helps Shane haul Daryl upright.
"I was kidding," Daryl complains, his face squashed against Rick's shoulder until the sheriff and Shane pull his arms around their shoulders, holding him between them. His head lolls forward into Rick's neck as they start to drag him to the house, and he blacks out.
They let him rest for a bit even after he wakes up inside the farmhouse on the first real bed he's slept in since before the world went to shit before asking him about Sophia's doll. He lies on his side as Hershel sits next to him and stitches up the wound from his arrow, and Rick kneels next to the bed on his other side as they pore over the map of the surrounding areas.
"I found it washed up on a creek bed right there," Daryl says, pointing at the spot on the map. "She musta dropped it crossin' it somewhere."
"Cuts the grid almost in half," Rick says, looking over at Shane who sits against the wall.
"Yeah, you're welcome," Daryl grouches, wincing and peering at what Hershel is doing.
"How's he lookin'?" Rick asks Hershel.
"I had no idea we'd be goin' through the antibiotics so quickly," Hershel says curtly, cutting the thread on Daryl's stitches. "Any idea what happened to my horse?"
"Yeah, the one that almost killed me?" Daryl says sourly. "If it's smart, it left the country."
Hershel washes his hands in a small tub of water situated in front of the vanity mirror. "We call that one Nelly. As in Nervous Nelly. I could've told you she'd throw you if you'd bothered to ask." He goes over to Rick and says pointedly, "It's a wonder you people have survived this long."
Rick leaves him alone with Herhsel, who finished cleaning him up and dresses the wound on his head, then leaves him alone to give him some privacy and let him have some more much-needed rest. In the kitchen he hears Carol and others bustling around cooking dinner, and the aroma wafts into the bedroom. It smells amazing and Daryl's stomach cramps hungrily, but he has no appetite. The bed is warm and comfortable and clean, but he doesn't fall asleep. He rolls over when the bedroom door opens, and when he sees that it's Carol, he covers himself up with the sheets. He has no desire for a woman who was regularly beaten by her husband to see his own scars left by his father.
"How're you feelin'?" Carol asks softly.
"'Bout as good as I look," he mumbles, rolling over again, putting his back to her as she places a tray of food on the bedside table.
"I brought you some dinner," she tells him. He twists a bit to look at it. "You must be starving."
She looks at him for a moment, then comes closer and leans down. Daryl flinches away, expecting a slap, but instead Carol kisses him lightly on the temple and straightens up. He stares at her incredulously for a second. No one's ever given him anything remotely resembling a kiss in his life.
When he finds his voice, it's just to mutter, "Watch it, I got stitches."
"You need to know something," Carol says quietly. Daryl peeks over his shoulder at her. "You did more for my little girl today than her own daddy ever did in his whole life."
Daryl falters, then grumbles, "I didn't do anything Rick or Shane wouldn't've done."
"I know. You're every bit as good as them." Her voice goes quieter. "Every bit." She leaves the room then and gently shuts the door. Daryl brings the blanket up to his shoulder, hunkering down and staring at the wall.
