Panic erupts. I raise my gun for a few quick, aggravated shots at the truck, but I hit the SUV harmlessly. I curse angrily and fumble with the sniper rifle strap in my haste to secure it over my shoulder. Finally, I am climbing down the tree. I let myself fall the last few feet, and rise to face a few walkers.
They go crazy, rushing me in an extreme hunger. Adrenaline pumping, I draw my two knives. I throw my throwing knife at the one on the right, and plunge my hunting knife under the chin of the closest. One left. Normally, three walkers at a fifteen yard range would cause some anxiety, but I'm in rage mode. I grab my bow and nock an arrow in record time, back pedaling while I load to put distance between me and the final walker. Despite my extreme adrenaline rush, my grip is firm and my aim is steady, and the arrow disappears through it's eye, my sixty pound draw weight showing true at this close range.
I dart forward, grab my arrow where it has stuck into the ground, and take off for the cars. Everyone is crowded around where Daryl is lying, gasping and grabbing at the worn, gray pavement around him.
"Someone get me some cloth!" Michonne orders frantically, hands coated in blood as she pushes on the wound. Big Tom tears off a piece of his t-shirt under his leather riding vest and hands the swath to Michonne. She creates a pad and presses it to Daryl's right upper arm where the bullet struck, securing it with her belt. I hear load moaning and turn my attention down the road, opposite of where we came. Coming towards us is a small herd of two dozen walkers, currently seventy yards away.
"Company!" I shout to the others, knowing the walkers will be attracted to the fresh blood and dead bodies. I raise my bow and take down five in rapid succession, but know they'll be here before I can kill them all. Glenn and Ralph have taken out four between them, but they, too, realize it's futile.
"Let's go! Get in the car!" I say, spinning around and helping Michonne get Daryl back to his feet. His teeth are clenched in pain, a sheen of sweat covers his upper lip and forehead. His face is a red flushed grimace as we unload him in the back seat. I climb back to the front, Michonne and Big Tom slide next to Daryl, and Ralph and Romero get in the trunk. Glenn keeps shooting down walkers as he backs into the driver's seat.
"Drive!" I shout, opening the window when he finally starts the car. The first walker touches the hood of the car when Glenn finally starts reversing. I draw my hand gun and fire shots, hitting two, thankful when Glenn finally pulls away. He drives straight back towards the prison, cutting the trip down from thirty minutes to fifteen in his haste. Daryl is losing blood despite the pressure Michonne is applying. I'm panicking during the whole drive, wishing Michonne could stop his pain, or Glenn could drive faster, or, most of all, I could help Daryl in some way. But while I know a lot about fighting, working out, and performance enhancing drugs, I have no standard medical training. All I can do is sit, tensed up, in the front seat, trying to relax.
Once we're finally back, Michonne and I jump out of the car at the gates. I shoot down the surrounding walkers with my bow, Michonne wielding her katana in the mesmerizing combinations of a seasoned pro. We take out at least fifteen before finally driving the walkers back. Once we get a good gap, Sasha, on gate duty again, hauls the wooden doors open. We rush in after the Yukon, before finally bending over and catching our breath. Big Tom pushes the back door open and drags Daryl out. He's strong enough to lift him, and he does just that, setting off at a jog for the infirmary.
"What the hell happened?" Sasha asks, shocked at the state we're in. Everyone else seems too anxious focusing on Big Tom to respond, so I tackle Sasha's questions.
"We met some resistance from a small group. Eight of them, rifles and a big SUV. Took them out, but Daryl got hit while the bastards were driving off," I ramble out, words mashing together. Sasha looks dumbfounded, then angry.
"Well why not go hunt the bastards down?" she demands.
"Oh, I will. But not now. Daryl needs attention, and things have to cool down first. Trust me, when the time comes I know where to look." I push past her, annoying her with my lack of answer, and walk briskly to the trunk of the Subaru. It's already open, Ralph and Romero are talking intently to Glenn. I grab a tub of weapons, as does Michonne right behind me.
"Sasha, can you help?"
"Yeah. Romero!" she calls, grabbing his attention. "Watch the gates for me!" He nods and takes her rifle, sitting in the watch chair.
"Glenn, grab a tub, too," I order but not demandingly. He complies, and the four of us set off up the fields. I walk quickly, anxious to drop off the weapons and see Daryl. The others easily keep my pace, just as eager as I.
"Everyone will be in the infirmary with Daryl. I'll take you guys to the armory," Glenn says, taking lead. We enter the courtyard and go in the set of doors leading to the Council's conference room and, eventually, the infirmary. I follow Glenn inside, entering an open hallway with desks on either side.
"These are all empty," he tells me. "On the upper floor are offices we use for meetings and stuff; that's where we discussed this mission. Down here, past the stairs, is the armory. If you go that way," he says, pointing at a long hallway perpendicular to the doors, "you'll reach the infirmary."
We continue towards the armory and meet another guard. She exchanges a look with Glenn before turning and unlocking the steel barred doors. We push past her into the room, and I look around, disappointed.
This is the weakest armory I've seen of all the settlements I've raided. Several tables are set up in the middle. One table is dedicated to ammo for handguns, rifles, and shot guns, as well as flares, grenades and tear gas. However, the ammo is thinning, and there are only a few each of the latter items. One other table features a small collection of machetes and axes, a good display of knives, and two more katanas. The third table is empty, waiting for use. On the walls are guns. This is where the room is most extensive, but it's still lacking. Several kinds of guns are hoisted, hung, or leaning against the walls, but only a few of each, if not only one. I place my tub on the empty table and walk over to a small wall on the other side of the room.
Before me are bows. Two are worn, older, but still bows nevertheless. The third one, however, is a vibrant blue beauty. I raise my hand to run my fingers over it, a smile stretching over my face despite the lack luster collection. I feel ironic; my new safe home has impenetrable barred doors, but no weapons. Then I drop my amusement. There are monsters outside the fences, and some of them shoot back. We needed my weapons. And, throughout all of this, lying in a bed of pain, is Daryl.
My smile disappears.
"Do what you want with the weapons," I say before grabbing something from a tub. It's the best crossbow I've come across; perfect craftsmanship and top of the line. I know Daryl will love it - from the sound of it he never would've been able to afford one before. I toss my rifle and hang gun on the table, opting to keep my bow and arrows across my back as well as my knives in their holster. Then I leave the room and set off for the infirmary at a jog.
I rush down the hall Glenn pointed out earlier but it takes me awhile before I finally reach the infirmary. It's a whole Cell Block with cells dedicated to quarantining severe illnesses and offices supplying beds for injuries. I grab a medical mouth mask at the door before I walk past some coughing people in cells. My feet ring out as I pound up the metal stairs and across the upper level. I walk down a row of offices, peering into each one until I find Daryl.
He's lying on a bed, shoulder swathed in white gauze, surrounded by Hershel, Rick, Carol, Maggie, and a few others. I want to charge in there and talk to Daryl on my own, but I know it wouldn't win me any points with the council. Instead, I wait until Hershel glances up and sees me at the door before excusing himself to come into the hall. I hug the cross bow tight to my chest, as if it were Daryl and I were comforting him. Hershel doesn't wait for me to ask before he plunges into Daryl's condition.
"The prognosis is positive. He lost some blood but not enough to need a transfusion; luckily the bullet just grazed his arm. It's a very painful wound, but no lasting damage. An inch or two to his left and he'd lose mobility in his shoulder for a year, possibly forever. But he was lucky, and his arm will only be sore for a few months - if that. He should regain majority usage a few weeks from now, but he's on bed rest and minimal movement until then; he still lost quite a bit of blood and needs to regain his strength." I listen intently, unconsciously chewing my lower lip as I wait with bated breath. When no bad news seems to come, I exhale in relief.
Unexpectedly, I feel a desire to lunge forward and hug Hershel. I'm surprised by the feeling, and only regard him with thankful eyes.
"Thank you. So much," I say with a strong intensity.
"Just doin' my job," he says, surprise evident.
"Do you think I could see him?" I ask. Hershel seems to understand I mean privately, and nods his head before pulling away and back into the room. Barely a minute later, the whole group walks out. Rick exits last.
"Rick! Glenn's in the armory with Sasha, Michonne, and the guns," I say, catching his attention.
"Good," he replies tensely before heading down the stairs after the others. I turn to face the door and enter the room, anxiety written plainly on my face.
"Hey," Daryl says faintly in a gruff voice.
"Hey," I respond gently. I walk forward, hiding the crossbow behind my back with one hand. I sit in the chair next to the bed, and slip the crossbow to the ground before he can see it. "How are you?" He glares at me angrily.
"Not you too. Hell, I don't need no babysitters comin' in here tellin' me everythin's all right! Are ya gonna treat me like a man or do I need to kick you out?" I give him a wry grin.
"Well you're definitely yourself. Actually, I just want to make sure you don't hate me." Now he looks at me, confused.
"Why would I-"
"Because I'm the reason you were shot! I tell you 'I have your back', and what do I do? The first sign they show of giving up and I buy it - no hesitation. I didn't even consider they might be playing us! I should've had my sights on them the whole time, ready for that type of bullshit. But I didn't." Daryl only gives me an incredulous look.
"Are you serious? I don't blame you for this. No one does. You took out half of them. We should've been more careful, but the fault don't go to anyone. Hell, without your quick thinkin we might been walker chow right now."
I sit quietly, assessing his comments. Did my quick actions really save the group? I mean, I did grab the sniper rifle and make sure my team was in cover. I chose some high ground and took the thieves out before they even knew I was there. It's not like those were super smart decisions, though; they were pretty straight forward. Hmmm. I guess not everyone would've thought about being a sniper. Maybe I did more than I thought.
"Seriously. Today was good. We practically doubled our armory and all that happened is I was shot? I'm not saying I'm okay with it every time we go on runs, but this time I'll take it." He tries to reach his hand up and push hair out of his face, but stops in a grunt of pain.
"Don't move your arm!" I exclaim, jumping up to push him shoulder back down. He gasps, eyes going wide while he clenches his teeth. It takes me a second to put it together.
"Oh, shit! I'm sorry," I say, realizing I just pushed on his shot arm. He tries to play it off, but I know he's in a lot of pain. "Here." I reach my hand out, intending to brush his hair back for him, but he turns his head away from my hand.
"Let me help you," I say gently. He looks at me with reproach, but doesn't lean away when I stretch forward again. I brush his hair behind his ears, trying to maintain a harmless expression. His eyes soften, but he is still weary, like he's expecting pain from my hand. My fingers linger for a second, but I pull back and sit in my chair. I definitely don't expect him to thank me, but I don't know what to say for once, so I sit there silently.
"Oh! I almost forgot!" I reach down next to my leg and grab the crossbow off the floor. "Here. This is for you; the best crossbow I've found on the road." I hand it to him, and he instantly inspects it, eyes taking in every inch. "Barnett BCX, camo finish and brand new. I found it sitting in a corner of a settlement in... Well... I'm not sure exactly where. I didn't even know I was in Georgia until I got here. Anyways, its old owners probably didn't know how to use it, so I liberated them of the trouble," I say smugly, hoping he doesn't care that I'm a thief of sorts. I'm just relieved no one's said anything about that so far. I would think they'd be wary of me but I'd never steal from my own group.
Daryl is still turning it every way he can, the closest thing to a genuine smile I've ever seen is on his lips. I grin to myself, glad I am helping. He may have blocked out every word I've just said with the amount of intensity he's inspecting the crossbow with.
"That ones yours. I'm sure Rick will approve. Anyways, I should be heading to see him. He'll want to know how the run went." I stand up and turn when I feel a hand catch mine. I spin back around, a curious look on my face.
"Thank you," Daryl says seriously. I smile, turn back around, and exit the room.
