Merle takes the lead, which is good, because in the darkness it's hard to follow the occasional splotches of dripped blood with only the beam of the flashlight. It's easier to see the dog, which runs, sniffs, and scurries, runs, sniffs, and scurries again.
From the way the blood trails across the forest floor, it seems to Daryl that John's injury must be in his left leg - maybe the ankle or the calf. That means if he's been bitten by a walker, they can save him with an amputation. But it also means John might have a hard time outrunning the herd. The pain has to be intense, and eventually his limps will grow slower than the lurches.
Daryl runs fast on the heels of his hound, his heart thudding in his chest, the sound of Carol's nearby breaths echoing in his ears. They crash through brush, leap over fallen tree logs, thud into mud, and swerve around trees until Daryl skids to a sudden stop. The unholy, hive-like sound of gnashing and growling has reached his years.
Merle stops and barks once, and Daryl shushes the dog, which falls instantly silent except for a single, guilty whine. Carol freezes beside Daryl and holds out her hand as a stop sign to the others behind her. They slow to a jog and then creep up quietly beside them.
"Light down," Daryl hisses, and Jacob turns it down toward the forest floor so the beam is less obvious.
"Is that the sound of a herd?" Jacob whispers nervously. When Daryl nods, he asks, "Are we going to head straight into it?"
"Got to," Daryl says. "If'n we want to find your dad."
"Then we need to be ready to kill," Enid whispers.
"There's probably over fifty left, given how many John shot," Rosita murmurs.
"I have a dozen arrows," Carol whispers. "Three bullets in my handgun, and my knives."
"Got half a dozen arrows," Daryl adds, "'n four bullets in my pistol, 'n m'knives."
"I've got nine rounds in my rifle," Jacob tells them.
"Six in mine," Enid says.
"I have a 15-round magazine," Rosita says. "And it's full."
"Should we wait for the others?" Enid asks. "They're coming this way. They'll follow the trail."
"Ain't no time for that," Daryl says. "Here 'em thrashin'? They're tryin' to get at fresh meat. They got 'em cornered somewhere."
"We go now, and we take them down," Carol insists. "Spend our munitions first, and then to blades. No sense worrying about noise at this point, since we're coming to them. We have to aim well. We don't have a lot of shots to spare."
"Is your ammo .223?" Jacob asks Enid, and when she says it is, he insists, "Give it to me. You shine the light."
"I'm a good shot, you know," she tells him.
"I'm not bad either, but someone has to light the way. You're the medic, and my dad's going to need you. So better I cover you."
Reluctantly, and probably more to avoid wasting time arguing than anything else, Enid unloads he rifle, shoves the bullets in Jacob's palm, and takes the flashlight.
"Ready?" Rosita asks, and everyone nods.
Daryl whistles, Merle barks violently, and they rush up the woody hill toward the sound of hungry walkers.
[*]
Several walkers must pull away from their trapped prey in response to the noisy approach because dozens begin to lurch down the hill. Arrows and bullets fly and walkers fall. Some trip on their own, tumble, and have to be dispensed with as they slip slide down the leaves and mud.
Enid streaks the beam of the flashlight back and forth like a search light, which in Carol's mind creates an almost strobe-like effect: walker in front, walker vanishes, walker in front, walker vanishes. The lack of consistent light makes aiming more difficult, but the swaying of the beam also means that all of them have at least some chance to make out their surroundings.
Carol is reloading her bow when the swish of the beam reveals a walker just three feet in front of her, jaws open and teeth set to gnash. A gunshot echoes in her ears, and the creature slumps to the ground before her. All goes to black, until the sweep of Enid's flashlight reveals a walker six yards away. Carol sends her freshly loaded arrow flying.
Because Rosita has a flashlight attached to her scope, she covers the others and takes down walkers when they come too close, making quick work of her fifteen rounds, and slaying precisely fifteen walkers in the process.
When Jacob's rifle dry fires, Rosita shoves hers at him. "Use the light. Light my way!" She rips her knife from her belt and runs to join Carol and Daryl. Daryl lets fly his last arrow, drops his bow, and simultaneously draws two knives from either side of his belt with a rasp.
Carol gets off two more arrows before tossing her bow and unsheathing her knife. The trio thrashes and stabs its way through the herd as Jacob and Enid sweep lights left and right, up and down the hill.
Hearts pounding in theirs ears, breath growing ragged, and Merle barking and snapping to lead the walkers away when they get too close to one of the family, they work their way up the hill to finish off the herd.
At last, they reach a tree where about half a dozen walkers remain congregated, clawing at the bark and thrashing their jowls at something up above.
While Rosita and Daryl go in to stab, Carol looks up the long, tall length of the tree, hoping to find John safely hiding out in its branches, but instead she spies the white glint of whiskers reflected in the moonlight and hears the screech-like growl of a bobcat, which seeing its pursuers mostly killed, now leaps down to a lower branch. It then leaps hissing onto Carol and uses her as a kind of springboard. The creature's hind claws shred her jacket and shirt around her left shoulder in the process. The frightened feline thuds on its side on the ground, scurries howling to its feet and tears its way through the forest.
Carol, stunned from the unexpected leap, doesn't sense the approaching walker until it's almost bent its head to bite, but Daryl's blade slides into its head from the side. He rips it out, black with walker blood, and the creature falls at Carol's feet. She's blinking when he puts a hand on her cheek and slides his thumb across her cool flesh. "Ya a'ight?"
She nods and takes in the now quiet surroundings.
"That cat scratch you up?"
"I don't know. I don't feel it."
He sheaths his knife and anxiously pulls down the coat around her shoulder. Enid comes over with the flashlight and shines the beam on Carol's flesh. "Just a superficial scratch," Enid says. "It won't even need stitches. We'll put some topical antibiotic on it later."
Jacob hands the rifle back to Rosita. "I hoped it was my dad up there."
"Me, too," Daryl agrees.
"Does this mean he outran the herd, though?" Jacob asks.
"Maybe," Daryl replies. "But he's bleedin' bad. Might be bit."
"We've got to find him and amputate right away if he's going to have any chance of survival," Enid cautions.
Daryl and Carol backtrack to quickly recover their arrows from the fallen walkers. Back at the tree, Daryl yells, "Merle! Sniff 'em out!"
The dog barks and runs on, leading them sideways along the hill for quite some distance before picking up a scent and then steering them up the trail.
It isn't long before they find a cabin. The last of the herd surrounds it, having stumbled its way up the porch stairs. Five walkers bump against the front door, and five more around a window. Just as the search party arrives, the glass of the window shatters, and the walkers begin to crawl inside.
Carol and Daryl make quick work of the creatures as their arrows woosh and thunk. Daryl runs straight for the door, which he can't open. "'S blocked!"
"John!" Carol yells into the open window. She strips Enid of the flashlight and shines it inside. The light lands on the barrel in John's mouth. He must have held back one bullet for himself, just in case he was overrun. "Don't!" she shouts, and fears it's too late, because as she sweeps the flashlight down, she can see his finger pressing the trigger forward.
But his finger goes slack. John slides the gun from his mouth. "Carol?" he calls.
"It's us! We're here! Stay put!"
Daryl throws himself, shoulder first, against the door.
"Don't bother with the door!" Carol calls. "He pulled a table in front of it." She brushes the shattered glass aside with her leather-jacket-clad arm and crawls through the window. The glow of the flashlight reveals John sitting against the far cabin wall, his bottom pants leg shredded and black with dry blood. A trail of blood drips on the wooden planks from the door to his resting spot. The light also caresses a stack of notebook paper and a discarded pencil that has rolled away from the pages, which are covered with fresh, flowing script.
Carol hastens to remove the furniture that blocks the door. The others rush in, Jacob shouting "Dad!", Rosita lighting up the way with the flashlight on her rifle, and Enid running forth, falling to her knees, and throwing open her medical bag. Daryl, taking in the surroundings, enters last and most cautiously
Enid pulls out a brown bottle of alcohol from her bag and then a saw. "We have to amputate."
"What?" John cries, sitting up straighter against the wall. "No, whoa, wait! Are you sure you can't save it? The bites aren't that bad! They just have little teeth!"
"Are you kidding?" Enid cries as she yanks out her knife to cut off his pants at the knee above the wound. "You know what happens with walker bites. If we don't amputate, the infection will spread, and – "
"I wasn't bit by a walker!" John cries. "I was bit by two bobcats. And scratched up. They were trying to escape the walkers and must have thought I was one."
"Oh." Having torn away his pants, Enid now examines the wound.
"Some of the walkers started feasting on one of the bobcats," John says, "and some went after the second bobcat, and then some went after me. I killed as many as I could, but I got down to my last bullet. I made it here, locked the door, managed to blockaded it." He nods to the papers. "Started writing my last goodbye."
Jacob crouches down and picks up the papers, which begin, Dear Julie,
John snatches them back. "Well don't let your mother see that now!" He balls the paper in his fist as Enid pours alcohol on a cloth.
"Well, if it's stuff you wanted to say to her when you thought you were going to die," Jacob says, "maybe you should try saying it to her while you're still alive."
"It won't make one lick – OW!"
"Sorry," Enid mutters. "I have to clean it to see how bad it is." She pours more alcohol directly on the wound.
John thuds his head back against the cabin wall and hisses. "Won't make one lick of difference, son," he mutters. "When I thought I was dying, I could maintain the fantasy that it would make a difference to her. But I can't do that if I'm going to live."
Enid applies pressure to his wound.
"Well, if you've already given up the fantasy," Jacob reasons, "then it can't hurt either way." He snatches the papers back out of his father's hand and shoves them in the pocket of his own jacket. John glares but makes no move to get them back. He's distracted by the pain and hisses and writhes beneath the white cloth being pushed down by Enid's palm.
"I have to make sure the bleeding is stopped," Enid says. "Carol, can you assist? I need the needle and thread." As Carol pulls out what she needs, Enid looks back at John. "This is going to take a lot of thick stitches, and I'm afraid you might look like Frankenstein for awhile, but you'll live. Also…the stitching going to hurt."
"Daryl," John pleads. "Check out those cupboards and see if there isn't a little medicinal liquid in one of them for me if you would be so kind."
Daryl rummages through the cupboards, tossing down long expired cans and weevil-infested flour and sugar until he finds, back behind some canisters, a bottle of whiskey. He pulls it open with a pop and thrusts it in John's hand. "A true friend you are, good sir," John tells him, and takes a huge swig, and then another, and another, and says, "Woooh!"
Daryl takes the bottle back, and Jacob comes closer on his knees and extends his father his hand, who grips it to help deal with the pain as Enid sews him up.
Between John's third and fourth grunt of pain, Daryl tells him, "Merry Fuckin' Christmas, buddy." And then he takes a swig of the whiskey himself.