Chapter Three – Mr. Dixon's Humble Home
"Daryl." They had stopped in front of a run-down pinkish single wide, removed from the road about fifty yards, with machine parts strewed about the yard. "We have stood here a solid ten minutes, we have hit every house on this strip but this one…"
"I lived here." His voice was low. "I… my father…" He fell silent again.
"Daryl, I can clear it myself – if you…" The look he shot her made her quiet down. He stepped forward, she followed behind him, scanning the yards. The door was closed, he fished his pockets angrily for his small knife muttering under his breath. "Here." She handed him a pocket knife.
He slipped the knife into the door, and jingled it a little bit. It creaked open. No walkers emerged. In a dusty faded recliner a man and a shotgun laid, long ago used. She looked at Daryl carefully, she saw what was coming, closed the door behind her. He let out a blood thirsty scream and lunged at the corpse. "SORRY SON OF A BITCH, ASSHOLE, BASTERD, RAPEST, PRICK, LOSER, PIECE OF SHIT…" Every syllable etched out by Daryl bringing the knife down into the lifeless form. Riley watched, her back hard against the door, cross bow at the ready should any walkers attempt to join them. He stopped just as abruptly as he started. Dropped to the floor his chest heaving. She grabbed a small table and wedged it in front of the door. She dropped to her knees next to Daryl.
She had intended to hold him, but he shoved her away violently, enough that she thumped on her butt hard as she fell. Not deterred she changed her approach. She rounded behind him, looked down on him, his head between his knees, shaking. She dropped to her knees behind him, flung her arms around him, and dug through his arms, pressing herself against him, again and again she whispered "Shhh. It's ok." He passed out either from relief or exhaustion and she lowered him to the floor. She cleared the rest of the single wide, all windows and the back door were boarded up. In the back room she found two dead hounds. Coughing, she backed from the room and shut the door.
Not the best place to stay the night, but it would work. She nudged him with her shoe, remembering his reaction earlier with the knife. No response but his even labored breathing. He was covered in blood, and grime from the rotting corpse of his father. Unsure what to do, she carefully drug the chair with his father's body to the back room with the hounds. As she got closer she covered her nose and mouth with her shirt, careful to try not to breath in the stench.
She plopped down beside Daryl once more. Nudging him again, the same response. She removed her pack, and began to set herself up. From her pack she pulled a basin, washcloth and two bottles of water. She emptied the water into the basin, and carefully removed Daryl's crossbow from his sleeping form, and his vest. He was heavy in a way she would have never imagined, he weighed at least twice what she did. She laid him back down, slowly. And breathed in deeply. He was sleeping soundly. Maybe he had lost consciousness. Or had been awake too long. Every time something had made a noise the previous night he had startled awake. She signed, pushing stay hairs from her face, and removed her jacket, she bunched it up and created a pillow. She carefully pulled his shirt up his chest, and then over his head. She saw slight marks on his chest, as she rolled him on his side she found blood that did not come from the beating he awarded his overly dead father.
It was a gash, from the night before she imagined. It was what slowed him down. She dipped a rag in the water basin, and carefully wiped the gash which ran from the bottom of his right rib cage, up to his shoulder. She was quiet as she dug a first aid kit from her pack. He needed stitches. And a lot of them. She looked him over once again, he was warmer than he ought to be, a fever maybe.
"How stupid of me…" she whispered, "he was injured and I didn't notice…" She growled to herself. He twitched as she sank the needle into his flesh, they were neat stitches how her mother had taught her to embroider. He tensed in his sleep, and looked almost like a teenager when he was peaceful. She cleaned his face and his shoulders off, careful not to get him too wet. Long old raised scars ran up and down his back, some dipped below his belt line. She rubbed one that ran from his left shoulder blade to his spine, six inches long. She rolled him back to his back, propping his head on her sweater.
She sighed, and began rummaging the house for supplies and food. Daryl's father had remained stocked for what suited him. Beer and moonshine. Belts, whips, and canes littered a small room next to the bathroom. There were two small beds, on one side posters of naked girls, on the other blankness. She sighed, understanding somewhat that had happened to him, and closed the door. As she closed the door, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
She found an assortment of rubber bands in the fridge, bound around rotten meat. She cleaned them best she could, and quickly braided her hair into two long French braids. She kicked off her boots, and slid her pants off in the front room. Daryl was fast asleep. She peeled her shirt over her head, and started using the bloodstained washrag to clean the dirt and grime from her body. Reaching into the pack she dug out her last pieces of clean clothing. Thick black leggings, and a long sleeve short summer dress, dark blue with small green spirals here and there. One last pair of socks, and only one last pair of clean underwear. She laughed a little to herself, then she peeled off her underwear. The bra would have to last until she could find another one. She slid the clean pair up her hips, followed by the leggings, and her socks. She pulled the long sleeve dress over her head. She sank down once more next to Daryl, pushing hair from his face. She drug her boots close to her and sighed, tears once more stinging her eyes as she laced up the combat boots.
She pushed her back against the door, the only unsealed entrance to the house, and rested her head on the coffee table. She stayed awake as long as she could.
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