Chapter 10

It had been almost 8pm when Daryl had fallen asleep on top of the big, comfortable bed in the log house by Mirror Lake. His totally exhausted body had welcomed sleep and for a few hours, the oxycodone had dulled the pain of his Shane-inflicted wounds. At about 1am he began to dream again.

He stumbled through the woods, lost and afraid. A crossbow bolt protruded from his left side near his waist. It was getting dark and blood loss was making him progressively weaker. The pain was intense but he continued to move forward. He had to keep moving or the walkers that were coming after him would catch up to him. Tree branches slapped at his face as he moved through the trees.

Daryl whimpered in his sleep and hugged the pillow tighter to his chest. His eyes moved quickly back and forth underneath his closed eyelids.

The sun was setting and the woods became darker. It was harder to see and Daryl tripped over a root and fell, coming down on the tip of the bolt imbedded in him and breaking it off.

He jolted and cried out, a spasm running through his body.

He moved toward a light that had suddenly appeared up ahead. It was a fire at the edge of the forest. He could see the outline of people standing around it. Thank God. He shambled toward the fire and the people. He could hear their voices as he got closer.

His hands clenched and unclenched as he slept and despite the coolness of the room due to the ceiling fan, he broke into a sweat.

As he stumbled from the woods into the light of the fire, the people all turned to look at him. Andrea, Rick, T-Dog, Glenn, Dale, Shane and Merle all eyed him suspiciously.

"WALKER!" shouted Andrea leveling Dale's 30-06 at him.

"I ain't no WALKER!" Daryl insisted.

"Hold up, Andrea," Dream Shane said. "I've got this one." He brought up his Mossberg 12 gauge and pointed it at Daryl's chest.

"Ya gotta listen to me," Daryl pleaded, "I ain't no damned WALKER!"

Dream Rick stepped between Daryl and Dream Shane's shotgun. "Shane, put the gun down, you, too Andrea," Dream Rick said with authority in his voice.

Daryl uttered a sigh of relief. Suddenly he was looking at Dream Rick's Python, pointed at his chest. "Why?" he asked.

"Because you're worthless. You have no redeeming qualities. You're redneck trash. You hurt Carol. You didn't save Sophia. You don't deserve to live."

Daryl hugged the pillow tighter. Hot tears sprang into the corners of his eyes.

Daryl's shoulders slumped and he lowered his head in shame. Hot tears sprang into the corners of his eyes.

"Awww look," mocked Dream Merle who stood next to Dream Shane, right arm with a totally intact hand slung over Dream Shane's shoulder like they were best buddies. "Darleena's cryin'."

Daryl looked up at Dream Rick and Dream Rick raised the Python so that it now pointed to Daryl's head.

Tears rolled down his cheeks and Daryl swallowed and said angrily, "That's the fourth time you've pointed that thing at my head. You gonna pull the trigger or what?"

A smile slowly spread across Dream Rick's face and he cocked the hammer back on the Python and said, "Yes."

Daryl's eyes flew open and he let go of the pillow he'd been clutching. He leaped to a sitting position pushing himself backward off the bed as the Python went off in his dream. He'd been too close to the edge of the bed and fell over backward, striking his head hard on the corner of the nightstand and landing on his back on the carpet.

He lay on his back next to the bed and tried to catch his breath. Everything was dark and for a second he didn't know where he was. Realization sank in and he started to sit up. Sharp pains simultaneously assaulted his head and the spot deep beneath his healed bolt wound.

He decided against trying to sit up and reached up to feel his head where he had hit it on the nightstand. A large bump was already forming and Daryl could feel warm blood on his hand. Damn, he hoped he wasn't getting blood on the carpet.

Sharp, stabbing pains tore through his head like lightning bolts. What the hell?

Oh, this was fuckin' great. He'd fought and taken out a shitload of walkers just hours before, survived being impaled with a bolt, climbed a ravine twice while wounded and bleeding, hauled his wounded ass back to camp only to narrowly avoid being shot through the head and now he was going to die naked and bleeding on an expensive carpet because he'd hit his fucking head on a piece of furniture.

How embarrassing. After going through everything he'd had to endure, he would be taken out by falling out of a big comfy bed and thwacking his head on a nightstand.

He laughed as he lay there on his back and then winced. Fuckin' hurts. He mentally carved his epitaph in his head.

Daryl Dixon

1976 - 2012

Mighty Hunter - Super Tracker

Invincible to both Man and Walker

Died from a nasty blow to the head

It happened when he fell out of bed

He slowly got to his feet, sitting first and waiting for the dizziness to pass. White hot pain stabbed his head again and he cried out. He steadied himself with a hand against the wall and made his way to the bathroom. The moon was out, and the moonlight came through the large and ridiculous window over the tub, casting shadows on the bathroom floor and revealing the furnishings in hues of gray.

Daryl flipped the light switch and winced as the bright light assaulted his eyes. He made his way over to the sink, still sliding his hand along the wall for support. He grasped the vanity, stood in front of the sink and looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked like hell. His face was streaked with tears and the whites of his eyes were still bright red. His hair was disheveled and poofed out away from his face. 'Well,' he thought,' this must be what Big Sexy Hair looks like.' He wasn't impressed.

He grabbed a washcloth off the small pile of them next to the sink and turned on the water. He washed his face and then gently dabbed the back of his head where he'd struck it on the nightstand. It came back bloody and he rinsed it under the warm water and scrubbed the blood off the back of his neck. He cleaned the wound as best he could and felt it gingerly. He could feel the gash, it was about two inches long and it was deep and wide. It really needed stitches in order to heal properly and not to turn into a big, ugly scar when it healed.

Daryl was an expert on stitching up wounds, but he wasn't a contortionist and didn't have eyes in the back of his head, so repairing this wound properly was impossible. It wasn't a big deal. Besides, what's another ugly scar among so many?

He splashed cold water on his face and tried to focus. The sharp pains that had been stabbing his skull had died down to one constant dull ache. That was better. Easier to deal with. But now the rest of his body started to join in the pain-fest and he decided that when he was done here, he'd seek out another couple of oxycodone pills.

He dried his face and patted the back of his head. It was still bleeding. Damn, he really didn't want to be getting blood all over the pillowcases and linens in his bed. ('Yes', he thought and he was overcome with a childish pride in possessions. 'My bed. My big fancy bathroom, my house. This is all fucking mine. Finders Keepers.') He smiled, in spite of his body's escalating discomfort. Yes, he was the Motherfucking Lord of the Manor now, wasn't he?

Daryl guided himself along the wall to the bathroom cupboard and rummaged around until he found the first aid kit he'd seen in there earlier. He pulled two rolls of gauze out of it, some gauze pads, and some bandage tape. Back on front of the bathroom mirror, he held four gauze pads against the wound on the back of his head and held the end of a roll of gauze on top of them. He used his other hand to unwind the gauze as he wrapped it around his head. It went around four times and he taped it. He unwound the second roll and secured that with the bandage tape as well.

He checked his work out in the mirror. "I look like a half assed mummy", he mumbled to himself. As if to prove this point, he stretched his arms straight out in front of him, scrunched his eyebrows into the meanest look he could muster, curled his lip and bared his teeth. "RRRRRRRRWAAAAARRRRRRRRRR" he growled at the mirror. Yes, Daryl thought, it was looking more and more like Merle had been correct in his assessment of Daryl's sanity.

Daryl rummaged around in the saddlebag at the foot of his bed and found his flashlight. He had shut the bathroom light off as he exited the room and now he turned off the master bedroom light. He left the ceiling fan running.

He briefly considered putting on some clothing, a pair of boxers, at least, but decided against it. If he wanted to strut around in his house naked, by God, he would. Strut? More like shuffle and limp at this point.

He flicked on the flashlight and stepped from the carpeted bedroom onto the hardwood floor in the great room. He shone the flashlight around the room and into the corners, just in case the World's Tiniest Walker had arrived and walked in through the pet door and was hiding somewhere in the room. He didn't want any surprises.

He did the same as he entered the dining room and then the kitchen.

In the kitchen he found what he was looking for. The bottle of oxycodone sat on the rose granite counter next to the refrigerator, right where he'd left it.

He placed the flashlight on the counter so it illuminated the refrigerator. He opened the refrigerator and reached for a Dr. Pepper, but then stopped and reached for the Coors on the bottom shelf instead. He pulled a bottle of beer out of the box and shut the door. Ahh, the bottle was cold. He pressed it against his forehead and rolled it against his cheeks.

He shook two little white oxycodone pills into his hand and recapped the bottle and left it on the shelf where he'd found it. He twisted the cap off the cold bottle of beer and flipped it onto the granite counter. It bounced over the granite with a 'ping ping ping'. He tossed the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a couple swallows of beer. He closed his eyes for a second. His swollen and sore throat welcomed the cold and bubbly sensation.

'Daryl Lee Dixon, you know better than to mix alcohol with oxycodone! Are you trying to kill yourself?' Yeah, there was definitely a possibility that he was schizophrenic. Just one beer, he thought to himself. It won't hurt nothin'.

He grabbed another beer out of the refrigerator and walked slowly out of the kitchen and to the front door of the house. He pulled back the deadbolt and opened the door and stepped out onto the deck and into the moonlight.

The deck ran the length of the house. It was about 30 feet wide and ended about 6 feet from the water's edge. A dock out onto the lake extended from a section of the deck and ran about 30 feet out over the water. There was a motorboat tethered to one side of the dock and an overturned canoe and two kayaks on the beach leaned against the other side of the dock. There was a large rectangular slate stone topped patio set on the deck sporting a large beach umbrella and eight adjustable lounging chairs with floral cushions tied onto them.

Daryl slowly made his way over to the first cushioned chair and sat his naked butt down on it. The cushions were comfortable and he lifted the arms of the chair to adjust it. He tilted the head of the chair back about half way between upright and flat and brought his legs up onto the lounger.

The stars were out, scattered across the sky like diamonds on the darkest blue velvet and he gazed at them, searching for the constellations he was familiar with. A light breeze was blowing and the night was blissfully cool. He closed his eyes and listened to the tall pines whisper and rustle as they swayed and danced in the breeze. The sound of waves lapping at the shore and the chirping of the crickets was like music to him. Occasionally a bullfrog would express its opinion from the other side of the lake with a deep "ra RUP ra RUP ra RUP".

Daryl opened his eyes and looked out at the lake. The moon reflected a line of light onto the water's surface, broken by the small waves that had been kicked up by the night breeze. Daryl tipped the Coors up to his lips and drank the rest of the first beer. He belched loudly which silenced the crickets and the cantankerous bullfrog for a good 30 seconds before they continued with their nightly concert performance.

Daryl finished the second beer over the course of the next ten minutes and chuckled when his second loud and robust belch not only silenced the crickets and the bullfrog, but echoed across the lake. Wow, he could be a pig. He glanced towards the chain link fences and decided that later today he would walk them and see how much protection they afforded the property against walkers. He also wanted to check out the garage. At the top of the list of 'stuff to do' was to get that locked room on the third floor opened. He was damned well going to do that, even if he had to take an ax and chop through the damned door.

He watched the stars and thought of his former companions. Did they wonder where he was? Did they even care that he had left? He wasn't naïve enough to think that they wouldn't miss the meat he brought to them, but he was quite sure that none of them would miss him. Those dreams he kept having. What the hell were those all about? 'Freud would have interesting things to say about them,' he thought. He knew that Shane wouldn't have any qualms about putting a bullet through his head, but Rick? Andrea?

He decided that he wasn't in the mood to think about it, so he closed his eyes and listened to the pines whispering to the lake and the lake's waves gently splashing against the shore in response.

He almost fell asleep, but roused himself enough to go back inside the house, lock the door and stumble into his bedroom. He nixed the idea of boxers, naked skin against the bed linens just felt so nice, and this time he pulled the top of the soft blue quilt down to the bottom of the bed, exposing the pale blue cotton sheets beneath it. He climbed into the bed beneath the top sheet and scooted over so he was in the middle of the bed. He lay on his right side and arranged one pillow behind his back and two beneath his head. He hugged one to his chest and then pulled the cool, crisp sheet up to his neck and tucked it under his chin. He had checked the dressing on his head and it appeared that he had stopped bleeding. That was a good thing.

The thrum-thrum-thrum of the ceiling fan and the ticking of the clock on the wall lulled him towards sleep again but before he drifted off, he wondered if he should let Rick know about this place.

Rick couldn't sleep. He was worried about Shane and he was worried about Daryl.

He'd been friends with Shane since the two of them had been in elementary school. They had become best friends in third grade and had remained best friends through high school and the police academy. They had shared an apartment until Rick had married Lori. Rick knew that he and Shane were a lot alike in many ways. He also knew that in some ways, they were like night and day.

Rick was slow to anger and would generally think before he spoke. Shane flew off the handle at the slightest provocation and his mouth usually flew solo, letting his brain catch up later.

Rick tried to avoid physical confrontation as much as possible. Shane seemed to thrive on it.

Rick was troubled by the whole Shane/Daryl incident. He knew that Shane had not given him the full story as to what had gone on and it was only when Rick had presented him with evidence that he knew Shane had been hiding details that Shane admitted he had been less forthcoming with everything that had happened.

Rick was convinced that Daryl wouldn't have left and set out on his own just because he and Shane had fought and Shane had gotten the better of him. Rick was quite sure that if Daryl had been sober the end result of the altercation might have been much different. No, Daryl had left for another reason; not just because Shane had bawled him out for not helping with the wood or the haying and then trounced the shit out of him.

Rick was shocked and disappointed to learn that Shane had kept information from him on purpose. He had always trusted Shane, literally trusted him with his life at times, and to find out that Shane was less than totally honest with him about anything was like a punch in the face. He could forgive Shane if Shane had simply forgotten to mention a detail or something that might warrant further scrutiny, but Shane had deliberately deleted important information from his report to Rick regarding his disagreement with Daryl.

And where the hell was Daryl? What was he doing right now? Was he sleeping? Where? Did he find shelter? Was he safe? Why did he leave Merle's motorcycle? Was he lying dead somewhere? Why the hell did he leave? Didn't he know how important he was to all of them?

The questions spun in Rick's head.

He would do his best to find Daryl. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but he would do his best.

He would keep an eye on Shane, too. Shane was his best friend and he loved him, but Shane was dangerous now, and couldn't be trusted. Shane needed to be watched.