Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. I just simply absolutely love it.

Author's Note: This story has graphic imagery, lots of bad language, violence, and lots of angst. I'm sure you guys figured this all out from Chapter One, but I figured I would reiterate it for the rest of the crowd who may have thought it was over with. The truth is, it's not. Daryl's journey has only just begun. This won't be the longest fic in the history of TWD fics, so don't worry, you won't have to wait too long to see how everything turns out. And please, do review! But, more importantly...

Enjoy!

Chapter Two

About three seconds after Daryl woke up the next time, he realized that he had never felt thirsty before in his life. He thought he knew what it felt like, but he never had a fucking clue.

This, no. This was thirsty.

He moaned a little, but all that emerged between his cracked lips was a little hiss of air. His head was pounding, and he had no sense of taste at all. His tongue felt like a foreign object in his mouth, dry and alien, like he should spit it out. As if he had any spit to start with. There was nothing there.

It was dark, and his fire was still going. That was good, right? Even the wind had died down a little, although fitful little spasms of breeze would kick up occasionally.

Daryl pushed himself to his feet and swayed back against the rock he had been hiding under while he fought down the surge of dizziness. Got up too damn fast, that was all. Got a head rush. Don't be such a wuss, Dixon. Don't you fucking fall over now.

Jesus Christ, it was still hot. How could that be? It would have to cool off at some point, right? His eyes searched the sky and found the northern star, but his head hurt too damn much to figure out the time. Somewhere before midnight, that was as far as he could get. Daytime heat probably hadn't had time to dissipate yet, not completely. At least the sun wasn't beating down on his head.

It was time to get moving. He had to make it to that wash tonight. He had to.

"When you get back, we'll open that bottle of whisky we found and were saving for me and Maggie's wedding." Glenn grinned at him, teeth glinting in the firelight. "Sound good?"

"Yeah, sounds real good," Daryl said, although it came out as mostly air. "Gonna hold ya to that."

"Come on. Let's get outta here."

Glenn walked with him for a while. There was moonlight, and it brightened the area enough so that Daryl didn't trip too often. His jeans were braceleted around his ankles with stickers after a while, thanks to the plants he lumbered through, but he could see to avoid the big obstacles. The idea of falling, maybe breaking something, sent a spike of fear down his spine. He had enough damn trouble already; a broken ankle would mean death.

"I don't wanna die," he whispered the admission. "I ain't ready to die. Not yet."

At his side, Glenn sighed. "You're not gonna die," he said, hands in his pockets. "Trust me."

"Are ya'll lookin' for me?"

"'Course we are."

"Then why the hell haven't ya found me yet?"

Glenn wavered, shivering like a mirage. Daryl reached out, and his fingers wafted through Glenn's arm, touching nothing at all. He was not there. He wasn't ever there.

"Ya fuckin' bitch!" Daryl rasped. He coughed against the dryness in his throat. "Don't leave me here."

There was no reply. There never was one. He was hallucinating, seeing shit.

The moon hung motionless and fat in the east. He took a moment to try to get his bearings again before he trudged forward.

x X x

How many miles had it been? The moon was hanging overhead, giving off a decent amount of light, but he couldn't get his eyes to cooperate as he tried to figure out the sky clock. Must be after two. Must be. It felt like he had been walking for days. Well, nights.

If he were back in Georgian terrain, he would have been able to just track the damn tire tracks those two fuckers had left behind, but the wind had already eaten up that trail, leaving nothing but unsettled sand. Everywhere. As far as the eye could see. And if he were back there, he would have been able to find himself a river. You couldn't walk five miles without finding some sort of creek bed. He didn't like this feeling, this feeling of being fucking lost. He didn't get lost, but he was now. Because he was pretty damn sure that he should have seen the wash by now, the one Tyreese had spotted on the way out here. East at the wash. Only a couple miles. There would be a well, water, shelter. Some place to hole up until Rick found his sorry ass. But water was the thing that sounded really good right about now. Good, like oxygen. Good, like not dying.

A coyote cried out off to his right. Daryl flinched, but it was miles away. And there was another one, answering, and maybe two more. Like a goddamn coyote choir. Pretty dissonant, but in a weird way, it made him feel a little less lonely. There were living things out there. It was not as deserted as it felt.

A few minutes later, he tripped on a stone and fell flat on his belly. It knocked the air clean out of him, and he lied there, wheezing, his breath pushing up a little puff of dirt.

"Get your lazy ass up, you fuckin' faggot."

Daryl jerked, rolling onto his side, tense all over. He knew that voice. Oh, yeah, that was a real familiar tone.

Will Dixon loomed over him. His wife beater had beer stains all over it with his beer belly hanging out, as if he was damn proud of that thing. A Dale Earnhardt ball cap sat on his head, doing a terrible job of hiding the balding across his scalp. "Still a pussy," he spat out at him before laughing as if he'd said something real funny. "You'll always be pathetic and worthless. Never gonna amount to shit."

Daryl's face was hot with humiliation. His father was a prick. When he wasn't beating his ass, he never hesitated in telling him what a fucking low-life he was. But in the end, who the hell had been keeping them from being out on the street ever since he had been 15? Sure as hell wasn't Will-fucking-Dixon. The man hadn't had a job since the damn 80's. Daryl had been the one to improvise, learn to hunt, and make sure they had food on the damn table. He'd been the one to drop out of school at 13 so that he could focus on working instead. Will loomed over him while Daryl struggled to his feet and wiped a hand down his face.

"Never have, never will," Dixon announced, with a scornful up-and-down look. "Just another good for nothin', always causin' shit, and bringin' more shit that we don't need to our family. You need to nut up, Daryl. Stop bein' such a damn pussy!"

"Fuck you." Except all that came out was, "fuh-yuh."

Will laughed at his pathetic attempt to stand up for himself even as Daryl hobbled away. It sounded a little like the coyotes, that same barking high giggle. Or maybe more like a hyena. God, he fucking hated that man. I'm glad you're dead, he thought scathingly. I'm fuckin' glad the walkers tore you open like a goddamn Christmas present, and I'm so damn glad I was there to see it, motherfucker.

The coyotes sang into the night, and Daryl walked on.

x X x

There was no wash. He was pretty sure of that now. And that meant something, something important. He had to figure out what that was. Soon.

And he had to piss. How crazy was that? His mouth was so dry that he couldn't even feel his tongue anymore, and his bladder was complaining like a loud motherfucker. He had to take a leak, let water out. That was jacked up.

He faced southwest and thought about his father back with the coyotes. He was glad that the jackass wasn't here to make fun of the size of Daryl's dick or something. Not that he had anything to be ashamed, thanks for asking, but his father was always doing whatever he could to make him feel small and shitty about something. What better target than the package?

It hurt to piss. It was like his body changed its mind at the last moment and decided it wanted to keep the fluid instead. He made a face and listened to the slow droplets as they hit the hard-packed ground. Jesus fucking Christ, he was so thirsty. Water was like a goddamn wet dream now, literally. He dreamed about it, fantasized about it. All different kinds of water. A sweaty 20-ounce bottle, fresh from a somehow working fridge. A lake, shimmering in the distance. Rain, leaving behind a rainbow in its spray. Waterfalls, a pier on a Georgian Lake. He even missed the goddamn dew drops he had licked off the leaves as a kid.

He clumsily shook off and got a drop of urine on his hand. He stared at it, considering it for a moment, before he rubbed it across his tongue. Holy Hell – it was salty, disgusting.

"Don't do that, Daryl," Rick's soft voice told him. He was pissing, too, and getting a pretty good arc while he was at it. Gonna write your name there, Rick? "Don't stoop that low. Not until you absolutely have to."

"It's sterile," Daryl pointed out, even as he wasn't sure if he actually could even if he wanted to. "It might not be so bad."

It was too late anyway. Daryl's bladder was empty, although it pulsed hotly in the wake of elimination as though pissed at him for pissing. Ironic. He zipped his jeans back up and rubbed his cold hands together.

At his side, Rick was ready, too. "Well, let's go."

"I think I'm goin' the wrong way."

Rick pursed his lips and gazed southeast. "That's not like you, Daryl. Weren't you paying attention?"

"'Course I was, man… but I dunno this shit… I could be in the middle of Mexico, and I ain't got a clue."

"Where you are isn't important. Getting back to us is."

Daryl shook his head slowly. "I think I need to sit down for a sec'… get my bearin's…"

Rick's gaze was level and kind. "Do you really think that's a good idea?" he asked softly.

"Just for a minute."

"Okay."

Daryl slowly sank to the ground, his eyes shut as he held his pounding head. "If I pass out, you'll wake me up?"

"Of course."

"An hour… tops. Okay? Gotta keep movin'…"

Rick turned an eye onto the stars as if searching out the time before he gave a curt nod. "I'll make sure."

Daryl nodded and rubbed his hot arms with his cold hands as he laidback. Just for a minute. Only for a minute.

x X x

The real Rick Grimes was not that far away. If Daryl knew how close, he would be surprised and probably a little pissed off. About twenty miles as the crow flies. Or the buzzard, if you will.

Of course, under the circumstances, Rick might as well have been prospecting on Mars for all the good he could do. He stared down into the bottle of water they had managed to salvage from some house's attic of emergency supplies and thought about Daryl out there someplace. They hadn't come across the Governor ever since he had first been sighted earlier that day, and that worried the fuck out of him. For all he knew, Daryl was with the sick fuck right now, but his gut told him otherwise. He was out there, somewhere, but that didn't make him feel any better.

It was about an hour until sunrise. Not too late. It wasn't too late yet.

Carol stood next to him, her posture strong but her face crumbled in uncontrollable worry. Her eyes were watery with tears that she refused to let fall. She would not mourn for someone that wasn't dead. Like hell, she would. "It's been nearly 24 hours, Rick. Do you really think it's possible that… he's okay?"

Rick's eyes narrowed in on the horizon, but he didn't turn to look at her. He was waiting for the sun to come up and give them some light. Hopefully they would be able to find him before it got too hot. "Okay? No. But alive? Yes."

"He couldn't have gotten far," Carol muttered. A hand found her mouth, betraying her worry. "And we know which direction he probably headed… We'll find him." She took in a sharp intake of breath. "He should have just stayed put."

That made Rick look at her. "Daryl had no idea that we would… or could come after him," he said. "He had no choice but to try to make it back on his own."

"But that's the cardinal rule! Stay where you are and wait to be found," Carol protested, though she knew it was useless. Found by who? Search and Rescue? Yeah, that was a laugh. She let out a sigh. "I just hope he went the right way."

"If he didn't –" Rick halted his words as he considered what to say. "If he didn't, we're looking at a much tougher search."

Carol's eyes shined a little brighter, but she didn't say anything. She just nodded.

Rick drank his water and resumed gazing east, waiting for the sun to rise.