When the world ends, Daryl was with Merle (of course he was) doing nothing (of course he was) except watching his brother drink and snort himself into oblivion (of course he was). Merle had spent the better part of the day pacing back and forth, ranting at the top of his lungs about whatever passing fancy strikes him. Daryl had given up trying to follow the diatribe - not that he really wanted to in the first place - and was busying himself with nursing the one beer he'd managed to snag for himself.
Merle stopped talking suddenly, the room falling into a sudden hush. Daryl couldn't - and didn't really try to - help tensing at the sound differential, but he relaxed a few seconds later as he took in the cause - the bottle held over Merle's thrown back head, liquid fast disappearing - and the silence broke again, the room once more filling with noise.
As he continued tuning out his brother, Daryl's eyes drifted over to his crossbow where it hung near the door. He'd invested some of the meagre savings he'd built up - he'd worked construction and odd jobs a few times, in between moving around aimlessly and bailing out Merle - in getting an actual rack for his crossbow and hanging it by the door. He'd felt a little guilty about the expense, but eventually rationalized it; after all, it was their primary source of food. Plus, Merle had drunk, smoked, inhaled, and snorted the remnants away anyway. At least this way it went towards something reasonably productive.
Currently, that productivity was calling his name in the form of a dull ache in his stomach. They'd run out of the staples Daryl had managed to purchase; Daryl had gone out hunting a few days earlier, but all he'd been able to catch was a lone rabbit before Merle, with his big mouth and loud, inebriated footsteps had scared the rest away. They'd gotten into a fight over that - Merle insisting that it wasn't his fault, so it must have been Daryl's - and the resulting bruise at his eye was still smarting. Half of a rabbit hadn't done much to sate him, either, and, especially given Merle's current pastime, Daryl couldn't wait to escape their close, confining, noisy house for the peace of hunting.
It was then - with tranquil visions of stalking through the forest, of a good haul that could grace their table (an upturned cardboard box) for days filling his head - that the screams began.
Merle hadn't even noticed, too busy flopping on the couch to pay any attention. To be fair, screams were common in the area, but something about these screams were odd, and Daryl was on his feet in seconds, peering out the window - a single pane of intact glass with sheets of plastic stretched across the other three sections - and tuning out his brother more than ever in an attempt to get information.
There was a crowd of people on the street. A few were familiar - there was the hotheaded and scrawny drug addict from next door, the prostitute who spent her nights bouncing between the streets and rich men's beds, Merle's on-again off-again girlfriend with her ratty blonde hair and pockmarked face - but most were strangers. Daryl looked closer, trying to get a sense of what the hell was going on…
And then he noticed the specks of red dotting clothing, the gaping wounds barely visible at this distance, the reaching arms and snapping jaws, the grey complexions that did not belong on a human. That's about when the screams began anew, as one of the people… strangers… things took a chunk from the arm of Merle's girl. Another surged forward, another scream sounded, and the cycle repeated.
Daryl immediately grabbed the crossbow, sliding shut their curtains - newspaper and old T-shirts - closed with a quiet rasp. At least Merle had fallen silent at some point; with no clue what was going on, Daryl couldn't help but feel as though quiet was almost certainly good. Or, at least, not bad.
Daryl slowly inched open the curtains again. Some of the strangers had moved on, but others are still out there, crouched over several fallen bodies and… and eating them? He could hear a few errant growls and snarls as they drifted over on the wind. Daryl pushed past the confusion surging through him, fighting to retain the carefully maintained calm he'd developed over years of hunting. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew that he and Merle had to get moving. Now.
He turned, letting the curtain fall again. Merle had crashed, no longer quiet thanks to the snores leaving a gaping mouth. Daryl huffed out a sigh. He only had two choices: leave his brother to sleep while he gathered supplies (and hope that his brother didn't lure any of the creatures outside over before the stuff was packed) or wake him up (which would only work if Merle woke quietly, and even then, Daryl would have to deal with Merle as he tried to pack).
Cursing under his breath, Daryl rolled his brother onto his side. He couldn't deal with a conscious Merle if they were to get out quickly and quietly, and he couldn't have his brother endangering both of them while unconscious, either, so stopping that infernal racket was practically the only acceptable choice. Unfortunately, Merle (contrary as ever) didn't fully shut up, even if the noise did slacken slightly.
For once, Daryl was glad they didn't own much. It was a mere matter of moments to yank all of his few clothes - a few ragged shirts that long ago lost their sleeves, a single orange flannel (the one intact shirt he owned), a few pairs of ratty jeans and cargo pants, and (perhaps the only nice article of clothing he owns) his motorcycle vest - and some of Merle's into their old duffel bags. They haven't any food to pack, but he packs the tiny first aid kit Merle had taken from one of his druggie friends and a water filter Daryl had stolen after his nine-day stint in the woods.
Daryl hefted the bags over his shoulder and hastened to the window again. The street was more full than before, more of the grey-skins wandering around. On the other hand, at least none of them showed any interest in approaching. Still, it was probably only a matter of time before they - whatever they were - discovered the house and found a way in. There was no down-time, no chance to rest. Something weird was going on, and the Dixons weren't going to stick around to find out what.
Merle didn't wake, even after several rough shakes with Daryl's hand clamped over his mouth, and they were swiftly running out of time. Daryl could hear the thumping of the creatures outside as they approached, and he sped up his motions; Merle stirred - barely - after another particularly hard shake, but merely muttered "Fuck off." and rolled himself off the couch. The ensuing thump had definitely drawn attention, and the banging of hands against their shoddy wooden door shook the walls.
They were officially out of time.
Fed up, Daryl hefted the mostly-comatose body of his brother across his shoulders. Merle didn't make it easy on him, grunting and trying to roll back to the ground, but Daryl kept a solid enough grip on his brother's limbs that no such fall occurred. Instead, despite the weight of his brother and the bags and the crossbow, Daryl crept out the back door and into the forest.
He considered indulging sentimentality, allowing for frivolous emotions, saying goodbye to his childhood home… but the truth was that it wasn't - had never been - a home. It was a house, a building, nothing more. It was their Pa's place - not his, not Merle's - and it held few to none good memories.
No, those belonged to the forest, to the trees around them. Those belonged to hunting trips, to learning how to shoot the crossbow, to afternoons of peace and quiet buffering him from returning to the house and hunger and broken furniture and their father's drunken fists (or knives, or belts). They belonged to Merle; even brash, drunk, high, he was all Daryl had. No, their house was no home, so Daryl turned and walked into those very woods, carrying that very brash/drunk/high brother on his back.
He didn't spare a glance towards his old house. He was too busy picking his way carefully into one home, the other held securely on his back.