As I have no other way of replying to my anonymous guest reviewer, whom I'd like to thank a lot for giving me his or her opinion, I need to do it here. The Woodbury people only arrived at the end of the last episode of season 3. Merle died in the previous one and would have been buried right away as the days of refrigeration on that scale are over. Also, I feel that so shortly after the people of Woodbury having rooted for Merle to kill his own brother, which I think is gruesome and cruel on Merle as well, whichever side you look at this from, Daryl wouldn't have wanted them to attend the funeral even if they'd been there yet - and as Merle's brother, that's his prerogative. Again, Guest, thanks for taking the time to comment, I hope that one sentence hasn't put you off too much and you'll be back here. Now, on toward chapter three!
Facing her for breakfast would have been too awkward for him, so he made sure to be awake, fed and out before even Carol was up. He had an agreement with Rick that, unless there were bigger plans involving him, he could go out to be on his own whenever he needed to, and with the influx of what felt like a million semi-hostile strangers from Woodbury, he'd been making good use of it. Rick hadn't indicated that he had need of him the day before, so he slipped out before dawn, pushing his bike for about a mile so as not to wake everyone, waving up to the people in the guard towers and nodding his thanks to the two new faces - Mitchell and Douglas - opening and closing the gates for him.
Once he was far enough out he kicked his bike to life and settled into its saddle with a sigh, content for the first time since he'd found his letter gone two nights ago. The lonely street along with the roar of his bike's engine was more relaxing to him than anything else before or after the Turn, and he completely gave himself over to riding his bike. Merle's bike.
There were times when thinking of his brother made him angry, because of how unfairly life had treated him. There were times when thinking of Merle made him sad for the way he'd wasted his life - their lives - before the Turn. Today, thinking of his brother gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling for which he was quite certain Merle would have kicked his ass.
Merle hadn't been the world's best big brother, but for as long as he'd been there he'd tried to protect little Daryl's skinny ass to the best of his ability, which was more than anyone else had ever done. Now that some water had passed under the bridge Daryl found he believed what Merle had told him that day in the woods before they'd returned to the prison together. By now he was sure that, had Merle known what punishing beatings Daryl was getting from their Daddy, he would have come back sooner to get him out of there. He'd been genuinely shocked at the sight of Daryl's bare back - he couldn't have faked that.
Utterly comfortable on his brother's bike, Daryl allowed his left hand to drop down and rest on his thigh. He felt more relaxed than he had in years which was strange, considering the world they were living in now. For the first few miles he merely paid enough attention to his surroundings to keep his ride safe and notice significant changes since he'd last come through here. It was only when he passed beyond the point where he'd turned the bike to head back home the last time, venturing into unknown territory, that he started truly looking at what was there for him to see.
The biggest change, of course, was the change in seasons. The last time he'd taken this road was right after the taking of Woodbury, a good nine weeks ago, and the trees had still been green then. Now, most of the leaves had turned and some had already fallen, creating a yellow and red carpet for him to drive across. As he knew firsthand how slick this carpet was between layers, he was extra careful, not wanting to risk a fall and serious injury. He slowed down and put his hand back on the handlebar of his bike.
He passed through two small villages, not unlike those he'd searched with Michonne, but as he was alone he minimized his risk. He did not search individual buildings just for the heck of it but only investigated a small store in the first one which turned out to be not only empty of walkers but also nearly untouched by foragers. Not that he found much to take along - and really, with two days's worth of supplies, a med pack, and a shirt and his poncho already stuffed into his saddlebags he couldn't have taken much anyway. He did take a warm blanket that he added to his bedroll which he had tied in place on the bike. He would be grateful for it at night if he didn't find a house to stay in, and they could always use more blankets at the prison. He made sure to close the door tightly when he left.
Around noon he took a short break. He had some jerky and water and a slice of bread which was so stale and hard that it didn't taste of anything any longer. After looking all around to make sure that he and his bike were well out of view from the road, he lay down in the long, dry grass and looked up at the sky, watching the torn clouds skuttle through his field of vision, driven by winds that were still high. The weather was good enough, though, not too hot and not too cold, which he was very grateful for. Riding in inclement weather was a bitch, taking a car for this was out of the question, and he didn't think he could have remained cooped up at the prison which made him feel claustrophobic on bad days and cramped on good ones.
His thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Carol, and he felt his cheeks growing warm. Never before had he opened up to anyone like this, and he felt terribly vulnerable for doing it. At the same time he knew that he would always be safe with Carol. Just as he looked out for her, she would never do anything he wasn't comfortable with.
He wondered what coming back would be like this time around. She had always been there before to welcome him or patch him up. Would she want to hug this time? He felt himself blushing again. Surely not - she'd know he wouldn't be capable of that, not at the gate, in front of everyone, maybe not even in private for some time. Yet once again he despised himself for being so fucked up, for all the things he couldn't do that other people seemed perfectly comfortable with - but at the same time he knew he could trust her to forgive him, even if he himself could not.
After what felt like half an hour he sat back up again and put his leather jacket and vest back on. Riding only in the vest, with his arms bare, would have been too cold this late in the year. Taking the bike back out onto the road from where he'd been hiding with it, he once more kicked it to life after rapping the tank with a knuckle to check how much gas he had left. He'd be okay for another day, he estimated, but he was going to syphon some by midday of the following day at the latest.
Making good time, he reached the next little village, raided a closet-sized store for a few cans of soda and bags of jerky and continued on his way. By now it was roughly three in the afternoon by his estimate and he started to look out for a place to spend the night. He checked out several farms which painfully reminded him of the Greene place but it seemed they'd all been hit by groups that weren't looking to use them for shelter but just to plunder and pillage what they could. The doors had been kicked in, breaking the locks, and none had all windows on the ground floor intact. Setting any of them up as a safe shelter for the night would have been much too time-consuming.
By the time the sun touched the trees he had resigned himself to spending the night out in the open. He'd started looking for a sheltered place that still had sun now and would be easy to camouflage. He came upon another stretch of forest - no sun at any time - and speeded up slightly. The trees were mainly pines so there were no dead leaves covering the street.
Just then he noticed a faux-rustic sign coming up that pointed out the way to "Lakeview Cabin - Hunting Lodge" down an overgrown dirt track which branched off the road at a right angle and looked as if nobody had used it in years. Slowing down to a crawl, he turned off the road and onto the trail, carefully following it into the woods.
Following his hunter's instinct, he killed his engine a few minutes in. He didn't want to risk announcing himself to any potential occupants of the "Hunting Lodge" which would probably turn out to be a glorified wooden shack. Nor did he intend to risk his bike. When he spied a huge, overgrown stack of felled trees, never processed into boards or firewood, he first investigated it and then gently leaned the bike against it, carefully camouflaging it with the leafiest branches he could find in the area.
Then, shouldering his loaded crossbow and avoiding the path leading to it, he set out for the lodge again, the eerie sound of the wind rushing through the treetops covering what little noise he produced.
After about ten minutes he saw it in the distance. He hadn't been far off. It was little more than a wooden shack, but it seemed to be well maintained even though the people who had owned it surely hadn't been back since the Turn. As he had left the path he wasn't coming up directly on the entrance but slightly askance so he could see one side wall of the building as well. There were fluffy frilled curtains in every window, and flower baskets with dead plants were hanging from the rafters. This little house had meant a lot to someone before the Turn and they had taken good care of it. If he was lucky it hadn't been damaged by the same kind of marauders that had hit the farms he'd come across and he'd be able to stay here tonight.
So far he hadn't seen anything to indicate there were any other human beings, living or dead, anywhere near the house, but he stuck with his tactic. Keeping out of the line of sight of the windows by coming at the house from the corner he was facing, he crept from one bush to the next, staying low, keeping his head down with his hair hanging over his face so it wouldn't stand out against the trees and his dark clothes, and being extra careful about placing his feet. Having a branch snap under his weight now just wouldn't do.
When he reached the corner of the lodge he flattened himself against the wall, one ear to the weathered boards to listen for sounds from inside the building. His heart was hammering in his chest. If there were people in there he had to get away again without being noticed. He couldn't risk getting spotted and tailed back to the prison. They had enough on their hands with that crazed Governor still on the loose.
He remained motionless for more than a minute, listening intently. But there was nothing to hear beyond the rustling of the trees and the occasional bird. Once he heard a squirrel chittering at something in the distance, but it was too far away to matter. Finally, he swung his crossbow down from his shoulder, ducked down and passed along the front of the house, keeping well below the two small, curtained windows that were between him and the door. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was in plain view to anyone coming toward the house on the dirt track now, with any sort of cover too far away to be of any use to him.
Once he reached the door he flattened himself against the wall again, his back to the house, and listened some more. Still nothing but the sounds he would expect in a forest at this time of day. Closing his eyes, his nerves humming, his ears straining for any sound from inside, he reached for the doorknob with his left hand. Closing his fingers around the cool, smooth metal, he made a gentle twisting motion, wary of any noise the knob might make. It turned without a sound and the door moved inward ever so slightly. He held on to the knob and opened the door by not even an inch, just far enough to be able to peer through the opening.
Holding his breath, Daryl leaned forward, daring to expose himself for a peek into the house. Through the tiny opening he spied a neat room with a table and four chairs sitting under the curtained windows that he already seen from a distance. Through one of it he could see one of the flower baskets beyond it. There were cushions on the rustic wooden chairs and a checked tablecloth on the table, plus a vase with a bunch of more dead flowers in it. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Apart from the door not being locked there was no sign that anyone had been here since the Turn. But why was it unlocked? Could it truly have been undisturbed since before shit went down? Or was someone inside, watching his every move? Well, he wouldn't find out by just standing there. He stepped in front of the door and opened it.