Daryl craned his face upward, breathing deeper than he had in a long time. It was shaping up to be a beautiful Virgina autumn... the colors of the trees reflected in his eyes as he opened them, now attentive to the sound of snarling. Daryl focused in on the sound. A walker, snarling softly, approached from his right. In one fluid motion, Daryl swung his beloved crossbow from his shoulder, took aim, and let the bolt fly from it. With a satisfying thunk, the bolt found its home in the deadie's eye socket, stilling it mid-stride before collapsing forward bodily. Daryl checked quickly for others before retrieving the precious bolt, using his foot to keep the creature's head still as he yanked it away.
After fall comes winter, which would bring lower temperatures and slower walkers, but also harder times and tense evenings spent by the campfire, surrounded by the people he loved and needed to provide for. In the meantime, the woods crawled with the dead and deer, and that's why he was out here.
Daryl returned his attention to the tracks he had been following all morning. A buck, a large one, had come through here recently. Daryl figured he was only a day or so away from Alexandria; he reckoned the butcher would be thankful for such a prize, to be butchered and preserved for the winter ahead, most likely. He also reckoned that he could stand to eat soon as well. Daryl was used to intermittent hunger, but knew better than to overestimate his own hardiness. To eat is to be strong enough to endure, after all. He continued his chase, setting off Eastward. After an hour, he felt a familiar exhilarating skip in his heartbeat as he realized he was even closer than he had thought.
He slowed his pace and crouched, blue eyes never leaving the sight before him. A healthy stag with an enormous rack grazed in a clearing a little to Daryl's right. The beast seemed relaxed, unaware of the deadly presence now circling the clearing, drawing breath through his nostrils to focus his aim, eyes unwavering, unblinking, and unremorseful as he brought the animal down.
...
Daryl licked his fingers of grease and fat. The deer had been mercifully easy to kill and prepare for transport back home. For this, Daryl experienced a rare moment of thankfulness. It's about time somethin' went right for us. Dog sat at his feet, panting happily. The dog had been exploring without Daryl when he found the deer tracks, yet the scoundrel still enjoyed a full belly and a warm fire. Daryl scoffed playfully at Dog, ruffling his soft ears and muttering faint praise. He gazed off into the encroaching darkness. Twilight had come, and soon, so would night. Daryl made camp just in time; he anticipated he could sleep in relative peace tonight, assuming no dead ones set off the low-hung tin can alarms or traps surrounding the makeshift camp.
Daryl brushed his hands against each other to remove the debris of his meal, then stopped abruptly, keen eyes catching...something moving between the trees. He glanced at Dog, whose ears pricked toward the direction Daryl was looking in and whose tongue had stopped lolling out of his mouth and nose began twitching at the air.
Daryl quickly unsheathed one of the knives laying on the log he sat on and stealthily began his approach from the left. He wove between the trees, dipping his head this way and that, trying to get a better view of the thing he saw without alerting it. His brow furrowed and his lips parted slightly, confused. Hadn't he cleared this area?
Behind him, Dog watched intently, guarding the camp. The canine's ears twitched backwards, and he whirled around, growling softly. After a moment, he heard it again; a thump, in the opposite direction Daryl now walked. He leapt towards it, nose sniffing the ground and leaving the camp...leaving it perfectly unguarded.
As soon as the dog cleared the camp, a figure dropped down from the trees, suspended upside down by rope. Above, a makeshift pulley system kept them aloft by the waist and in prime positioning over the camp via the tight network of sturdy branches. A blaze of hair redder than the leaves of the trees, fingers peeping from shredded gloves, and their eyes were the only parts not covered with dark clothing. The warm green eyes took in the sight before them; a treasure trove of things to steal. The figure took it all in for a moment before beginning to swiftly inspect each item. A set of keys... the name "Dennis" emblazoned on the gift shop key ring. Nope. No bike around here. No gas to get it going with if there were anyways. A crossbow. More trouble than it's worth. A rather attractive and durable hunting knife. Hellooooo gorgeous. The thief turned the blade in their hands, admiring the beauty, simplicity, and function and already imagining all the useful things they could use it for. The thief motioned to put the knife in the bag strapped to their thigh when, with a whistling whoosh, its twin spun through the air and lodged itself in the tree behind the thief. The thief cried out in alarm as they fell to the ground. Daryl's knife had cut the rope clean through.
"OOF," said the thief as they hit the forest floor helter-skelter, one leg hanging over Daryl's sitting log and the opposite hand coming dangerously close to the fire. Daryl jogged back and snatched up the loaded crossbow, hoisting it to his shoulder and glaring down its sights at the thief, who merely groaned.
"Ahhhhh..."
"Get up" snarled Daryl.
Daryl had been distracted, but not fooled by the walker the thief had used. In ingenious fashion, they had led the walker to the site with a rope tied to its waist, tied it to a tree just far enough to warrant leaving the camp to investigate. They had then expertly scaled the thickly foliaged East Coast trees, making their way above the camp and readying for a quick hit before slipping away. Daryl, of course, knew to return as soon as he had seen the walker in its miserable state. He wasted no time with dispatching the dead man and instead hurried back to camp immediately.
The thief's eyes were clamped shut against the dizzying effect the tumble had on them.
"I said get UP." Daryl was beyond irritated. He roughly nudged the thief with his foot.
The thief opened their eyes slowly, one hand in front of their face to gesture compliance. They blinked as they looked at Daryl, then narrowed as cheeks pushed them upwards in a smile. Daryl was unsurprised when the small, slender thief spoke in a woman's tone.
"Wow. You're pretty."
Now that sentence DID surprise him. He was ready to kill her without hesitation and THAT'S what she decided to say to him?
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Oh, man, I could write a book." The thief sat up slightly, but not without sucking air between her teeth sharply in pain. "Right now, though? There's a knife in me." She tugged down her black, tattered scarf to breathe better as she inspected her leg. Daryl noticed, for the first time, that the knife she had attempted to steal was, in fact, partially buried in her thigh. His eyes flicked back to her face. It had smudged, black markings breaking up her fair-featured face, a primitive war paint he did not recognize. She gasped as she touched the knife, then met his gaze. She spoke jovially, completely inappropriate for the predicament she found herself in.
"So, do you want your knife back? I don't think—"
Before she could finish, Daryl dropped the crossbow to his side and had yanked out the knife from her thigh. She yelped in pain and fell backwards again. He spoke.
"'S not deep, or in yer vein. Ye'll live."
He began to walk away.
"Wait," she called, painfully sitting up again. "Where are you going?! Isn't this your camp?"
At that moment, Dog came back, unsuccessful at finding the rocks the thief had thrown to distract him. He was carrying a human thumb and forefinger in his mouth instead. He dropped it in the thief's lap. "Ugh." She picked up the ruined body part between her thumb and forefinger and dropped it disdainfully into the dirt.
"Nah" said Daryl, petting Dog while taking down the tarp he had planned on sleeping under. "Figure you need it more, at this point. Good luck, asshole. Don' touch my stuff, an' we ain't got a problem."
Daryl slung the deer carcass over his broad shoulders, retrieved his knife from the tree, and packed his other belongings. The thief watched him, laughing in amusement and disbelief. The thief cursed at him as he walked away, ineffectively tossing a handful of dirt in his direction. Daryl simply flipped her the bird, not looking behind to see her reaction. She scowled and ripped her scarf off, tying it around the wound on her leg tightly.
...
Daryl furrowed his brow and wiped his eyes. He hadn't gotten the sleep he really needed for this bullshit. A small herd had nearly torn through his pitiful excuse for camp last night, and between that and the would-be thief, he had only gotten a few hours of solid sleep. He found a rare moment of sincere longing for the world Before, when he could hit a snooze button several times before Merle finally shouted loud enough to actually wake him. Now he had Dog, and Dog was relentless with wake up kisses. 'Feed me' Daryl could almost hear the mutt begging.
"Alright, alright, get offa me, mangy dog." Dog wagged his tail furiously and barked. Daryl straightened and rose to his feet, stretching himself. He walked out to the clearing he had exhaustedly picked last night. It overlooked a small lake, with one or two walkers deeply embedded in the shallow muck on one side and half of a wooden fishing boat resting on the other. The biters were pitifully wriggling around, bodies too weak to drag themselves out of the silt and faces barely coming above the water. Daryl watched them for a few moments before turning back to his camp, scratching the stubble on his face. He could probably go a few days more out here, but Carol had made him promise to come back...and between the thief and the herd, he had enough. He began packing again, checking his belongings and collecting the deer he had tied up above the forest floor to protect it from scavengers—Wait a minnit. He had taken a small part off the leg for himself and Dog last night, but now, the whole limb was gone, cut haphazardly through with a small knife by an inexpert and hurried hand, not at all like Daryl's own efficient cuts.
"Dammit!" he swore. That girl followed him. She followed him, watched him, maybe even led that little herd to him. "Touched my stuff."
Screw it, he thought. He was going after her. He finished packing his backpack and began searching furiously. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for: small, light footprints around the edges of the camp, heading toward the water.
"Gotcha."
...
Daryl had followed the tracks for a while. The thief had come in from the forest and left circling the lake, then followed a small stream to the river. There, she had crossed, nearly shaking Daryl from her trail. Luckily, Dog had picked it back up on the other side, several hundred yards upstream. Now, Daryl had arrived at a water station of some sort, an industrial, square building with defunct powerlines running to it and high, small windows dotting the concrete walls. A few broken pipes ran from the building to the river. The largest ran into it from the right side, around the corner from Daryl's door.
She had been clever up until now. There were no tracks going out from the ugly building, which meant she was still inside.
