He was hyper aware of every sound around him, every ray of sunlight, everything he touched as the door swung inward with barely a sound. Dust motes were dancing in the shafts of sunlight falling through the windows and dappling every surface inside with spots of brightness. The clean smell of wood unconsciously registering with him told him that he probably would not find the half liquefied owner of the cabin in here somewhere. It smelled too good and the insistent buzz and hum of thousands of flies was missing.
So, for that matter, was any other sound. There was not a soul in sight anywhere that he could see, but there was a closed door in the back of the main room and anything could be hiding behind it.
The same, of course, was true for the one he was still standing in like a fool. Switching his bow to his left hand for a moment, he spread the fingers of his right hand across the dry, warm wood of the front door and gently pushed some more, opening it all the way so it was flush against the wall to his right. Nobody had been hiding behind it.
In the rear left corner of the room, to the left of the closed door, there was a narrow spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. There was light at the top, so there was probably at least one room with a window up there, not just an attic. However, once he started ascending the stairs anyone upstairs would have an advantage on him. He'd be on the stairs, stuck, with no cover, no maneuverability and no line of sight, no room to aim his crossbow - a sitting duck.
He didn't know what was going to be the greater risk - opening that door in the back or going up to the second floor. But first things first - he postponed this decision in favor of searching the ground floor first. Glancing down, he assessed the wooden floor of the house. Like everything else, it looked well maintained, and so he took his first step in without hesitating. No creaking floorboards.
He let out a slow breath, careful to be as quiet as possible - which was very quiet, seeing as how he could sneak up on Rick in plain daylight without the former deputy sheriff being any the wiser. Although some of the men who had joined them at the prison from Woodbury had hunting experience, Daryl's stealth was still unsurpassed, and he put all of it to use now.
Reaching behind himself, he caught the knob once more and closed the door, again without a sound.
Raising his bow to shoulder height with hands that were rock-steady despite the fact that his heart was racing and he could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck and temples, he started searching the room. He peered under the table and into the nook behind the fridge in the corner. Nothing.
On top of the fridge he saw a flashlight along with a few packs of batteries which he assumed would fit into it. He silently slipped his backpack off his shoulders, opened the drawstring and slid the lamp and the batteries into it. Then he closed it and put it back on again, unwilling to leave it lying about as he still didn't know if he'd have to get out in a hurry.
He looked out of all the windows on the side that had been facing away from him on approach, hoping to see a car or even another motorcycle they'd be able to pick up later - if he made it out of here and back to the prison. But the failing light showed him only trees and bushes and underbrush. He could faintly hear the birds starting in on their evening songs. Darkness was falling fast now. The light in the hut had a distinct red tinge to it and he wanted to get done with his search before it got too dark in here.
He bent down to look under the bench and table in the corner opposite the one he'd first seen peeking in through the door. Nothing again. With the possible exception of the back room, the ground floor seemed to be clear. He braced himself for making his way upstairs.
As he hadn't detected any threat down here so far, he angled his bow upward as he set one foot on the lowest step. He paused right there, allowed his backpack to slide off again and silently set it on the ground next to the staircase. In the cramped space it would be too much of a liability, robbing him of what little maneuverability he would retain on his way up.
He had to hand it to the owner of the cabin - the thing was perfect. Not a single one of the smoothly sanded boards creaked as he inched his way up the stairs, holding his breath, hardly daring to blink, his eyes always on the splotch of light filtering down, watching out for nuances in brightness and shadows that would tell him someone was leaning forward into the light or back out of it.
He was convinced that if his heart were to beat any faster he'd pass out or have a heart attack. Carol was right. He needed to stop going out without backup. Nobody even knew where he'd gone. If there was someone lurking in here, waiting to take him out, he would never be found.
As his head came level with the upper floor he slowed to a crawl, his eyes taking in the light against the wood panelling of the ceiling, again watching for changes that would tell him someone had moved up there, trying to spy him on the stairs, get the drop on him. Still no sound, no movement, no changes in the light except for those induced by the racing clouds in the burning sky and the changing quality of the light itself as the sun was going down behind the forest.
He couldn't avoid it any longer. Standing coiled on one of the last steps leading up, he raised his head minimally to bring his eyes up to the same level as the floor. The upper room - and it was just one single room - was lower because the house's roof was its ceiling and it started at about waist height. The ceiling, with three windows set into it on either side, was panelled in wood. The walls were white, which, together with the six windows, made the room bright and inviting even in the failing light.
A wide, fluffy-looking bed draped all in white and with lots of small, brightly colored round pillows strewn across it stood against the wall opposite Daryl. To its left and right were bookshelves, full of more books than he'd seen in his entire life, obviously custom-built to fit under the ceiling.
Apart from that, there were only a thick, round floor cushion with another handful of books lying on it and several small stools. No wardrobe, no fucking table or chairs, nothing else to hide behind. He was overlooking the entire room from his spot on the staircase. Nothing. Clear. All that was left was the bloody closed room downstairs.
Because of the cramped stairwell he had to keep his crossbow angled upward on his way down as well. He was very careful about placing his feet, wary of hurting his right ankle even more which had started throbbing again after the day's antics. The last thing he needed was to return to Carol more fucked up than he'd left. He did know that it made her sad to see him hurt, and she'd had her share of sad in his book. No need to add to it if he could help it.
He heaved a soundless sigh of relief when he stepped off the stairs again. Now for that damned room. Stalling, he looked around the large room - maybe he should do a quick search of the cupboards before opening that stupid door, just in case he had no more time for that afterward?
He opened the cupboard closest to him to check for supplies - canned food, dried beans, coffee, anything - and the hinges creaked. His heart jumped into his throat and speeded up some more, his nerves instantly on high alert. He'd given himself away.
Now he could no longer delay - he himself, by being so careless, had taken away all of his choices; and until now, he realized with deep regret, he'd still had the choice of opening the door or just walking away. It would have meant sleeping out in the open, but it had been possible. Now, however, he had to open that door, himself, or risk it opening at a time not of his choosing.
Briefly, he thought of Carol waiting for him to return back at the prison. Listening at the gate for the sound of his motorbike. She would be worried for him tonight, would wonder whether he'd found a safe place to stay where he could get some rest. How long would she keep waiting if he didn't come back? How long until she'd give up hoping?
Hot gratitude flooded him when he though of his letter, of her saying that she wished she'd had it already when he'd briefly gone off with Merle after all that Woodbury shit.
Now she did have it. She knew how he felt about her.
And he ... He knew ...
She might feel the same about him. At the end of the world, he had finally found someone who cared enough for him to notice when he didn't come home at night, and worry about him.
For just a moment, he doubted that it had been wise to burden her with his feelings for her. Wouldn't that make it all the harder for her the day he didn't come back? Fuck, why were feelings so complicated? Why was it so easy to hurt others so deeply on this most intimate of levels?
Would anyone go out to search for him, the way they'd gone out for Sophia? Or would most of them be glad to see him gone? The silent, brooding redneck who growled and snapped at them whenever they tried to get close to him?
"Officer Friendly jus' gonna get summun else ta do the huntin' for 'em all", Merle's voice piped up, unbidden, inside his head. "Ain't none o' them gonna miss ya any, lil' brother, don'tcha worry. They's gonna get along jus' as well without your sorry ass hangin' around."
Just then he heard the tiniest sound from behind the door in the back of the room. Cursing himself once more for his carelessness - checking for supplies before clearing the house, how much more of a dumbass could he be?! - he made his silent way across the room and toward the door in three swift strides. Whatever was hiding in there was not an animal, because it was alive. Any forest critter locked in there, or the owner's dog, cat, whatever - would have starved to death, and animals didn't turn.
It had to be a human, which was bad news either way. Maybe, ironically, the owner had died peacefully in there in his or her sleep, turned, and been lazy and quiet until now because Daryl was the walker's first potential victim to step through the door. Walkers he could do with ease. Their only motivation was to feed and they were very straightforward about it. They ran at you, you aimed, shot, stabbed or did your thing, they dropped dead a second time, game over.
The live ones had become far more frightening at this point. Their encounter with the Governor had taught them that not all humans left alive embraced the concept of working together for the good of the species as a whole. Some people had apparently gone Darwin, setting themselves up as the fittest ones who were going to survive at any cost - even to themselves.
That guy Milton, their own Andrea who had stayed in Woodbury over Michonne's misgivings, hell, his own brother and the innocent people of Woodbury who'd moved into the prison - none of them were monsters. They'd been blindfolded by a psychopath who had snapped under whatever he'd been through. What was it he would find behind that door?
Careful not to make another sound that would give away his position, he hugged the wall next to the door. Once again he reached out with his left hand, his right holding his bow steady in front of him. His fingers closed around the knob, gripping it tightly.
He felt like the door should start pulsing in time with his raging heartbeat now.
He started gently twisting the knob, waiting for a maniac to rip the door open from the other side and come charging out at him. When he couldn't twist the knob any further and no maniac appeared, he pushed against the door ever so slightly and it started swinging in on well-oiled hinges.
Already looking through the sights of his bow, finger on the trigger, he stepped into the opening without a sound.
A single bed, neatly made up. A vase with dead flowers on the nightstand. A dark-haired boy, his face a rictus of fear, cowering next to it, a rifle in his shaking hands, aimed at Daryl. Time slowed down to a crawl.
Daryl raised his left hand in a gesture which was probably as old as mankind. "Now, we can -" he began.
A shot rang out.