Daryl Dixon doesn't particularly like people.
Then again, he don't particularly dislike them either. Just that most folks are like those distant relatives you haven't seen since you were three; met with indifference and best loved far, far away. That way nobody's making things weird, crowding your space.
Daryl isn't fond of crowds. Hates um, actually. But if a year back you told him his dread for crowds would be realized by a buncha dead people, he'd have laughed in your face. Turns out that wasn't a joke he ain't doing no laughing now.
Lucky for him, he hasn't braved a hoard of dead people for a whole twenty four hours. Unlucky for him, no day goes by that don't involve braving a whole bunch of living ones. Like his group. If Daryl had a choice, he'd rather take on the dead ones.
Blasting arrows to skulls is less awkward than talking. You just can't expect a year to turn a man from a shut-lipped squirrel to a chatty chipmunk. Not if that man is Daryl Dixon. He's used to mountain air and solitude, not circle time with a group of familiar strangers.
Dixon doesn't think he'll ever get used to the social thing. People who wanna talk just to talk. Not selling anything, needing anything.
People, he thinks as he hears a telltale crush underground. Nope. Never particularly liked people.
Dead or otherwise.
Daryl aims his crossbow between a close growing bunch of trees, a walker staggering by the next moment. Its milky sockets focus ahead, the mouth gaping with empty cries.
"Hey."
Tottering to a stop, the walker reels around. So happy to see him with her flaky face lit up, the teeth gritted into a smile. The walker lurches, gargling sweet little nothings along the lines of meat and I'm starved.
"Don't try to eat me, darling." Stalking the looming walker through his eyepiece, Dixon lets her get close enough to grab at him. He jerks back at the last moment, releasing the trig as his arrow punctures her clean through the eyes. "I ain't your type."
As the body drops to forest floor, Daryl lowers his crossbow and bends over the walker. He jerks his arrow free, shaking off the blood and grizzle. Another crunch sounds behind him.
Still low, Daryl dives ahead and spins as the walker lurches at him. A male. White-faced and black-tongued, snarling.
"Mad about your girlfriend?" Daryl asks it, stepping behind the fallen body. "She came onto me first. I swear."
The arrow set, Daryl marks the walker and launches. The dead thing drops and joins his girlfriend in the after-after life.
Dixon's got his arrow loosed and set again when he spots a shadow sketched out against the foreground. Languid in its pace, the figure sways between the trees. Shit. Daryl spins, bow set, finger poised and ready.
But unless the dead have learned to move with feline grace and wield a katana, the woman easing into view is definitely alive. Gliding past the trees, Michonne stares at the bow aimed at her face, murmurs "excuse me" and eases past Daryl.
After a beat he lowers the weapon, following after her before she gets too far.
"No tracks, no scents," he says, meeting Michonne's pace. "Looks like there ain't nothin—"
