A/N: I love instant gratification, and thus, I'm a sucker for reviews. Leaving me some ensures that my author speed doubles.
To those of you that have already reviewed, you're ahead of the curve! Also, I thank everyone who has followed or favorited myself and/or this story. You all mean a lot.
After the last chapter, someone mentioned being sad about not seeing any of Daryl. Believe me, I know! I promise there will be very few of those chapters, if any more at all. That one just felt necessary to set up just how reviled the Dixons were around those parts, and what kind of prejudice Beth was going to be facing down. But the good stuff is on its way, at least. So chins up for that!
I wrote chapter 5 for you in about two hours flat, because you're all good sports. Enjoy.
Chapter 5
Daryl'd had a better hunt that morning than the last seven Saturdays combined. He'd set out some snares and traps to catch game, since his actual on-point hunting had been failing him so poorly recently. He crouched down and untangled a hare from the snare tightened around its neck. It was a pretty good sized one, and soft. The pelt would get him some money, and there was enough meat on it to make enough stew to freeze some to eat later. He added the hare to the string across his shoulder that already supported a smaller rabbit and a couple of squirrels.
He knew that he really couldn't afford the distraction, but it'd been a week since he laid the gravel down on Beth's driveway, and he hadn't seen her that day, or any day since. He thought about passing by her place, just for a peek.
They'd had to let two of the mechanics go from the shop last Monday after the dumbasses took a customer's supped-up Camero out for a joy-ride and fish-tailed the damn thing right into a light post. The shop owner, Roy, had been understandably livid. He pocketed the repair costs to keep the client from doing anything drastic, but the whole crew'd had to work extra to make up for the missing manpower. Finally, a few days ago, Roy had hired a new kid to help replace one of their lost men. The new kid was also very new to cars, too, though, and he'd needed a lot of supervision in the shop. Daryl had been in there by 5 every morning and didn't even come back home until well after dark, falling onto the couch and sleeping until it was time to do it all over again. He hadn't even gotten the chance to do his laundry, and it was lying in piles all over the floor near the kitchen.
Once the weekend hit, he knew he should have kept the workaholic momentum going by cleaning out the trailer like he'd been meaning to, or even restocking the fridge or doing his laundry. But as soon as he awoke that Saturday morning to find that it was brisk from a night of rain, he knew he'd be useless the rest of the day. The forest was calling to him. Besides, it'd have been wasteful not to check the traps that he'd set around the perimeter of his property Friday night after he got home late. So he threw on a sleeveless flannel shirt layered over a wife-beater to ward off the chill a bit, assembled his weapons, and struck out to hunt.
By the afternoon, he'd also bagged a pheasant that he'd managed to catch off guard. The air was still crisp and cool; fall was finally transitioning into winter. The critters would be out in larger numbers, accumulating all of the edible loot they could manage before the snows finally hit.
As he traveled, though, he finally made the decision to do something he hadn't done in quite awhile. He took the fork in this path that would lead him along his old route, right passed the cabin. A part of him felt like it was probably a bad idea; he'd finally been able to concentrate in the woods without thoughts of stumbling across her again. Another part of him wanted to see how all the work on her driveway from last weekend had held up after the rain that night, though. Hopefully her car was no longer getting stuck in the mud. He wouldn't know unless he passed by and took a look.
He had gone by her house the week before, slightly by accident, only to see her car parked in the front lawn. The car was somewhat safer from the perils of the rainy season by being parked there, but she wasn't doing her grass any good. She hadn't bothered to take his advice and fixed her driveway, which had annoyed him. But as he stared ahead, his thoughts returned to their conversation in the diner.
"Well, I don't… have a boyfriend. Stupid or otherwise," she'd told him that day. "Are you good at fixing things?"
Her damned blue eyes had fixated on him and stressed him out. He'd told her he wasn't good at fixing shit, and then ditched her in the middle of her breakfast, like an asshole.
The truth was, though, he was damned good at fixing things. It's not like when he was growing up, his da'd had money to hire any professionals to repair broken necessities like water pipes, damaged roofs, broken windows and the like. His da' was too fucking lazy to do it himself, and Merle was wired for destruction. He didn't have the patience to sit around and figure out how to solve a problem.
The first time their sink broke when Merle was old enough, in their da's opinion, to fix it, he'd been handed tools and a manual and told to get to it. Only, Merle had gotten frustrated when it wouldn't do exactly what he was trying to make it do, and he lost his temper. By the end of the whole ordeal, he'd yanked most of the rest of the pipes from the sink and wall, broken whatever was plastic by hitting it repeatedly with a wrench, and even managed to bend the bowl of the aluminum sink. The kitchen was still being flooded with gushing water while Merle and da' had gone at each other over it, breaking two chairs and the kitchen window, to boot, before it was finally over.
Daryl had been only 8 or 9 at the time, but after the fight, Merle had stormed out, and his da' had just gotten plastered. Daryl'd been the one to clean water and broken glass before walking to the hardware store in town. The shop owner had helped him locate the items he needed to fix everything, so he bought it all using the bit of cash he'd stolen out of his dad's stash after he'd passed out. By the end of the fourth day, they'd finally had a working sink again. From then on, the home repairs had fallen on Daryl. He was damned good at fixing just about anything.
It was that day he was standing in the yard, staring at Beth's muddy drive that he decided it wouldn't be so damn bad if he just did the gravel himself. He figured the hard part would be hauling it all in, but his truck was perfect for it. He'd spent years fixing things for his da' and Merle when they hadn't given a shit about it or thanked him in any way. Beth, he decided, would at least be deserving of the effort.
So, he'd come back on Saturday and was surprised to find her car gone. He had been glad for it, too, though. The thing he was looking forward to the least about helping her out with her driveway was going to be those big blue eyes she always unleashed on him. If she was gone while he did it, he'd get it done faster and be less bothered by the time he was finished. He'd worked most of the afternoon, first lining her driveway with hemlock railroad ties, stained and treated to protect against the elements. After that, he took about four trips, loading up the gravel and then driving it back to her place to spread along her driveway, starting near her cabin and working his way backward toward the road. By the time supper had hit, she still hadn't appeared, and he'd driven away both relieved and disappointed to have not encountered her.
But now, a week after he'd covered her driveway in gravel, he stood in front of her cabin to find it just as empty. Her car was nowhere in sight. The gravel looked to be holding up against the mud underneath, though, and he could tell by the indentions in the dirt that her car hadn't been parked in her front yard recently.
He continued on his path, leaving her property behind him. He headed up toward the river, the same route he'd taken the first day he had run across her in the woods. The red dog was still elusive to him; it might as well have been a chupacabra for as many times as he'd combed these woods without ever having laid eyes on it.
Finally, he broke through the thicket and found himself at the river. He used the trunk of an enormous tree to steady himself as he balanced on the exposed, gnarled roots that had been washed of their stabilizing dirt by the rains that had raised the river twofold. The water was higher and rushing through the bends much faster than it had been in months.
On the other side of the river, he saw movement in the brush. He kept absolutely still, since that was more imperative than his scent; he was downwind from the opposite riverbank. A buck shouldered its way through the foliage on the lower bank, stepping lightly over fallen branches and stones, trying to make its way down for a drink.
Daryl slowly eased his crossbow off of his shoulder, bracing his hip against the tree trunk for better support and balance. He knocked an arrow as gently as possible, glad that there were a few branches hanging low between him and the deer that was more focused on its quest for water. Once the bow was loaded, he hefted it up and held it steady as he lined up the shot, lining up his sight with the buck's tear ducts, and then raising his aim by centimeters. He held steady, accounting for distance and the wind coming toward him. Finally, he squeezed his finger on the trigger.
His arrow whistled as it split the air, and in the next instant, the buck's front legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, Daryl's arrow sticking out of his forehead. A clean shot.
"About damn time," Daryl muttered, glad to have his bad streak ended.
He settled his crossbow across his back and adjusted the strap to sit more comfortably on his shoulder. Then he gripped the tree trunk as he turned, keeping his footing sure and firm as he attempted to climb back to solid ground. He thought about where he was at along the river, and tried to decide where the best way would be for him to cross and collect his kill.
Just then, though, a low growl sounded from his left, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head to face the sound.
Standing not five feet away from him was a dog. It was large enough to come up to his waist; probably some sort of a Boxer mix by the look of its long, lean legs and large jowls. Its teeth were bared, muscles tensed like it was ready to spring on him. It was missing one eye and half of an ear, with scars crisscrossing what Daryl could see of his shoulders. The fucker looked mean as shit.
And it was the color of red rust.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. As though his voice had broken the trance, the dog snarled and came at him. In an instant, Daryl jerked backward, lost his footing, and tumbled off of his perch. He fell into the dark, swirling waters below.
He swirled around and lost sense of which direction was up. He was good at not panicking, though, and he damn sure wasn't planning on drowning in the same river he'd taught himself to swim in. He released a mouthful of air and felt them tickle his face as they pushed past him to get to the surface; so he was facing down. He began kicking in the direction of the bubbles, clawing at the water to get to the top. Once he broke the surface, he pulled in a huge gulp of air. The water was going too fast for him to have much control over where he went, but he kept the current at his back and began trying to move outward toward the bank. He kept searching for a root or fallen log to clasp on to that looked sturdy enough to haul himself out of the water with.
Suddenly, he noticed the water breaking before him, and a large boulder loomed up out of the water. He barely had time to pull his arm into his chest and brace himself as he hit it, his shoulder taking the full brunt of the impact.
He let loose a flurry of swearing, but kept determined to reach the shore, despite the throb that was taking over his arm. Another rock came at him, but he was able to swerve and push off of it with his feet, getting him that much closer to the bank. Then the river gave way underneath him, and his stomach dropped as he went over the sharp drop. He narrowly avoided two more boulders, but was frustrated to find himself right back in the middle of the river again.
He made his way back over, but was worried about how his right arm was tingling. He was also quickly losing strength just trying to stay above water. His crossbow was still strapped across his back, probably weighing him down, but he wasn't about to let go of it. He buoyed himself a bit when he came to a section of the river that was slightly calmer. Using each foot in turn, he kicked his boots off of his feet to make it easier to swim. Just as he finished, the river took on speed again, and his quick break was over.
Finally, Daryl spotted a tree ahead that had been uprooted and was hanging low over the river, skimming the water with its branches. He tried to keep it in sight, calculating the best spot to grab onto it, when the river suddenly dropped again, the water taking him under. His head collided with something unforgiving, and his vision exploded in a multitude of color.
Feeling merciful, the river spat him back out and he sucked in a lungful of air. When he opened his eyes again, though, his vision was blurred. He was going straight for the tree, and just as his hand missed the branch he'd been aiming for, his body slammed to a halt, straining against the strap slung across his chest. He choked on a bit of water, but managed to reach behind him and grasp one of the trees sturdy limbs, pulling himself around. His crossbow had gotten caught at the junction of the trunk and one of its massive branches. Daryl gathered up his remaining strength and used it to pull himself backward toward the tree, fighting with all of his might against the river's current.
Reaching one hand up, he managed to grasp a limb sticking out of the topside of the trunk, silently thankful that the tree hadn't been any thicker around, or he might not've had the arm length to make purchase on it. His cheek and forehead scraped against the rough bark of the tree as the water beat against his back, threatening to pull him back under. What seemed like a lifetime later, Daryl had finally succeeded in hauling his body up onto the trunk of the tree. He crawled across it on his hands and knees, too dizzy and weak to try balancing while standing.
Finally, his hand hit earth, and he clenched the dirt in his fist like a lifeline. He pulled his whole body onto the ground and sprawled out, panting. He rolled onto his back, completely indifferent to the crossbow digging into his kidneys. As he stared up into the canopy high above, he watched birds flit from branch to branch, and what few leaves remained on the trees rustled in the breeze and sent fragments of sunlight cascading down on him in a kaleidoscope of color. Then everything in his vision began to fade from the corners inward, and before long, it went completely dark.
Daryl finally roused sometime around dusk. He opened his eyes to find that his vision was still slightly blurry, and the world felt like it was tilting. He launched himself over and promptly emptied his stomach out onto the ground next to him. He was still completely soaked, which told him that he hadn't really been laying there all that long. His body seized as he was wracked with a shiver that sent his teeth knocking together; in the couple of hours he'd been out, the temperature had dropped rapidly. He sat up slowly, pausing to ride out another wave of nausea, and took in his surroundings. The river was still rushing past where he sat, and he couldn't even tell how far downriver he'd actually traveled before he'd been able to pull himself out. Thank God for not releasing his damn crossbow to the bottom of the river; it'd probably saved his life.
He stood up slowly, stiff and sore, with an arm that barely worked, but nothing actually felt broken. Pulling off his bow, he then removed his sleeveless flannel shirt to press it against the gash in his temple. He was pretty damn lucky he hadn't just bled out while he'd lain there, but it did seem to be clotting properly. All he had to worry about now was hypothermia and a concussion. Possibly a dislocated shoulder, too; it hurt like hell and hardly cooperated with getting his shirt off.
Reaching down, he grabbed his bow strap and hoisted it back over his shoulder, then began his long trek back up the river bank.
He'd gone quite a few miles more than he'd originally thought, he realized as the sun went down. It was another 45 minutes before he ran across the spot that he'd fallen. He looked across the river, but could barely make out the shape of the deer still lying prone on the opposite bank.
Finally, he veered off to connect with his trail, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any sign of that hellhound that had made him fall in the first place. He could not believe that fucking dog had managed to sneak up on him like that. He hadn't been caught off guard that bad since he was a fucking kid who didn't know any better.
He stopped along his trail and rested his hands on his knees, trying to settle the nausea that had overtaken him again. Once it passed, he continued on. Finally, he made it to the fork in his path and didn't think too hard about the decision he made as he traveled along to the left of it.
He stepped through the trees and was ridiculously relieved to see that there was a warm, yellow glow shining out of the kitchen window in the back of Beth's cabin. She was home, at least.
Stumbling to her back door, he finally allowed himself to sink to his knees on her top step. He leaned against the railing for support, and knocked on her door.
After a few agonizing minutes, the door opened, and he blinked against the brightness of the light. Warmth from her well-heated home hit him, and he shivered again. He wasn't really sure what to tell her, and his teeth were chattering so bad that he couldn't really get words out.
She was wearing a huge sweatshirt that ended at the tops of her thighs, and her hair was slung over her shoulder in a braid. He wasn't sure how late it was, but judging by the red marks on her face, she'd been asleep.
"Oh my god, Daryl! What happened?" She crouched in front of him, letting the door hit her in the back as it tried to swing closed. He could feel her small hand gripping his shoulder as she put the other one against the hand on his head.
"Hospital…" was all he got out.
She lifted her sweatshirt and pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her tiny shorts, dialing three numbers on it.
"Shit," she mumbled, aiming the phone in different directions. "Shit!" She dialed 911 again, holding the phone to her ear, waiting. She kept one of her hands on his shoulder, stabilizing him. Finally, her face broke and she looked like she was on the verge of panicking.
"I can't get the call to connect!"
"Drive me," he gritted out. "Be faster, anyway…"
"My car," she said, beginning to tremble. "I sold it. I… I don't have a way to drive you..!"
Suddenly, the world tilted, and Daryl felt himself pitch backward. She shrieked his name, and he felt a tug on the front of his shirt. Then the world went black.
Parting Thoughts: Not that I'm so mean that I'm trying to leave you with a cliffhanger, but... I need the rest of it to be from Beth's perspective. I write as a hobby, but I'm an artist by trade, so my timeline for getting Christmas projects finished is threateningly short. So, unfortunately, my next post might not be until after Christmas. I will absolutely try to write in the evenings after family functions and the craziness of the days ahead, but I can't promise posting until after Thursday. I will TRY, but make no promises. [Lots of positive reviews might tip the scales in your favor, though ;) ] I hope this Daryl chapter made up for the lack-of-him in chapter 4, at least. Happy holidays to anyone who is celebrating one this week!