Another ten minutes of "conversation" and I was fallin' asleep on my feet. My eyes betrayed me a while ago, and have been letting my ears do all work since.
In the end, Rick finally declared we weren't gonna do anything about it today.
Hallelujah
The kid's gonna be off his feet for at least a week, according to Hershel.
Rick's plan is to let him heal up, then take him out onto the road far from the farm, give him a canteen, and send him on his way.
I think it's a solid plan, though I may not be in my right mind at the moment so I'm reserving judgement.
Shane's been angry about us killing a bunch of their guys & taking one of them hostage but the Hell were we supposed to do?
I guarantee that if he had there, he would have done much worse. Damn hypocrite.
Rick brought up a valid point in response though, I gotta give him props for that. Those guys left Randall for dead. As sad as it is, nobody is looking for this kid.
I understand why everyone is hesitant. Why they're concerned; it's wise caution. I myself am indecisive about the kid.
But the fact remains, he is on his own now.
His group likely thinks he's dead, he doesn't know where he is, or who he's being held by. He's severely injured, and even unconscious right now. He couldn't run even he wanted to.
Plus why would he run from the people who just saved his life —and didn't leave him to be eaten alive when his own group— the people he trusted, left him to the walkers?
Pegged to a fence like a cocktail party snack.
Randall is completely at our mercy, and I don't know why no one's acknowledging that. I can't be the only person here who sees that, can I?
Rick— or Hershel, should have at least should have had similar thoughts, right?
"'ey" Daryl bumped me with his elbow to get my eyes open and jerked his head over his shoulder.
I licked my lips, finally mustering myself to carry my own weight again, and followed him out as the group began to disperse.
I was stumbling over my own boots every so often, and didn't even notice I was on autopilot. I probably look like a walker right now, and doesn't that just make my skin crawl.
Daryl stopped and I almost walked into him.
"Go sleep." He pointed, to what I now realize is my tent.
I nodded without a second thought and I was there. Dropping my gear the second I practically tripped inside and collapsed on my sleeping bag.
3rd Person POV
Eve was out like a light the second she was on the ground. With her skin against the clean fabric, the stark contrast of filth was hard to miss.
She didn't look that dirty when she was walking around, or even leaning on Daryl earlier, but it was blatantly obvious now.
Her skin is several shades darker in patches all over her face. A grimy glisten to her skin, dark tangled hair sprinkled with little bits of what looks like gravel webbed over & sticking to her neck, flakes of crusted blood all over her skin; especially her right hand knuckles.
Daryl went on his way back out to his campsite before someone called out to him from the porch.
He turned and spied Hershel coming down the steps with something in his hand. Something he recognized in an instant, Eve's knife.
Daryl's eyes narrowed on the old man. 'The Hell does he got 'er knife for?'
"Could you return this for me? I'd do it myself but I need to get back in there."
Tonguing his molars, Daryl took the sleek blade; Unsure why he was agreeing to the task, when he had made it crystal clear he was done bein' a gofer for these people.
If it wasn't Eve's he'd have told the old man to do it himself, but he was willing to do this one thing for the only person round 'ere who doesn't push their shit on him.
Hershel went back inside, and Daryl made a return trip to Eve's tent.
This thing is heavier than it looks but it didn't feel weighed down. The handle is a nice weight in his palm, balancing the blade out. He's seen Eve strike with these things, her precision is hard to miss.
'Where'd she get these anyway?' he turned the blade over in his hand, glancing up to watch where he's going as he got within the camp.
Eve doesn't strike him as the type to have something like this made special. Which you'd have to, for quality and craftsmanship like this. They don't sell these kind of knives just anywhere.
They're not meant to sit on a shelf, these things are meant to be used with how sharp they are. She keeps 'em sharp too. Hell he practically never sees her without them, or without 'em close by.
Why would Hershel have it? It's not like he can use it like she could. Surely they'd be better off having Eve use both, than giving one to Hershel even if he didn't have a weapon.
Lowering the blade as he came up on his destination, Daryl stepped one foot inside her open tent, sliding the knife into its sheath just inside the door.
Eve shifted when he did so; muttering. And if he snorted at that moment, no one would ever know.
Why did he snort?
Because, from the long winded sentence that spilled from her normally quiet pie-hole, he only caught 'mayonnaise' 'baby legs' and 'watermelon'.
Daryl walked away, shaking his head. Clearing his throat to wipe the smile off his face, and started off on his trek back out to his campsite.
Eve shot up from her sleeping bag, her breaths coming fast & sharp as her hand shot to her shoulder and she flinched as the stitches pulled in her other at the motion.
Her eyes darted around, fixing on the open tent door, and grabbing her knife without even thinking.
The edge shone in the moonlight as it laid down her arm in the ever ready position to slash, stab, or flip & throw.
Beads of sweat stung her skin like icy drops and she waited.
Silence in the night wind was the only thing that greeted her for the long minutes she sat there at the ready.
Her hand gripped tight around her knife. Swallowing around her parched throat with her steadily decreasing pants.
She dropped her knife finally, forcing her shaky breaths through her nose at last, she fisted the sleeping bag she was on top of.
The moon was bright tonight, or maybe it was just her eyes adjusted well to the dark in a fit of adrenaline, but she could clearly see that she was alone. Too clearly.
She scrubbed a hand over his forehead, wiping the clammy sweat from it and pulled her knees up to lay her elbows over.
She's still wearing her shoes. Which she just dragged a streak of dirt over her sleeping bag. Great.
Wiping her hand off on her jeans, she grabbed her bag and peeled her sweaty, grimy ass day clothes from her skin in exchange for her looser but still running friendly night clothes; In other words, workout sweats.
It was difficult to work around wounds and tired muscles but she managed.
She rubbed her eye with her palm before realizing there was something dry and sticky on it that flaked off.
Sighing, she stood up, shifting around in her bag for a wash cloth before —in a rare instance— pulling her gear on over her difficult nightwear.
The reason she doesn't usually wear it over these is because it's more difficult to secure it around loose clothes than her more streamline day stuff.
She doesn't wear fit jeans and wide strap tank tops(or a simple black shirt) for fashion. They're functional.
So wearing this with her gear felt odd and she kept adjusting it, even though it was on correctly.
She looked at her gun sitting on the ground, waiting to be picked up but she could only stare.
Her mouth dried, and her stomach rolled staring at it.
Noticing her the shake in her hand as her fingertips brushed her thigh, she turned away quick; leaving her tent without looking back.
It's not smart to wander around in the dead of night without her gun, but it's plain stupid to take it with her as she is now.
Besides, they're not supposed to be carrying guns on the property anyway, right?