Daryl Dixon isn't nervous. Nah. Forget that.
His heart's thundering in his chest from a swift pace under blackened woods, not nerves. The result of slinking through trees prayin you bump into the inanimate and not the animated dead. Plus there was all that stoppin' and goin', letting Rick catch up. Barely familiar with this spot and Dixon could still tell a clear path from a shadowed bush. Not Grimes though, who had to brush knee-on with the shrubs to get a feel for where he was going, get tangled with the shit. But choppin through the foliage, Grimes wasn't stalled for long, powered by adrenaline, nerves.
Unlike Daryl, powered by focus and certainly not nerves. Cuz he ain't nervous. Nah. Never.
The sweat's building at his fingertips from all the exertion, his damp fist squeezing the crossbow in a tight embrace as he whips to his feet and strikes 'er across the human-shaped form lurking too close. Thing doesn't know what hit it, hadn't even seen the fresh meat crouched in the dirt at the edge of the overgrown clearing, nor the other one at his back. Too busy dragging towards that cabin like under a spell.
The cabin is just as he remembers. Broad but no less camouflaged in a covering of vines and trees crisscrossing all sides. And now it sits like a walker retreat under all that moonlight. A light they coulda used when they was stumbling through the dark tryin' to get here. Well Daryl can see just fine now, and he sure as hell don't like the sight.
Daryl's sweaty hands tighten on the bow then unfurl across the calves of another walker skulking near his bush. Rising, he puts it out then sinks back into a crouch.
"Damn it, Michonne," he mumbles.
Didn't they discuss comin back here with people? Not wanderin by one's lonesome, getting caught up in all manners of trouble.
"What was that?" Rick's words are just above a breath. He faces the woods but glances back, his eyes gliding over the cabin as if expecting Michonne to waltz out the front door any minute. Not a thing she'd do, if she was smart. Or alive. Both of which Daryl's hoping like hell to be true.
"Nothin." Daryl crops his chin towards the cabin. "Just wondering how the fuck we're getting this done."
Rick sucks in a terse breath.
"Well, nothing new then."
The shadows clutching Rick's face can't hide the frenzied look in his eyes. Can't hide that slight tremble in his muscles either, surely not from a chill in this balmy air. Could be a result of his half-crouch, though, forcing long limbs in an awkward position. Could also be that he's nervous as shit.
Now Daryl himself ain't nervous, but he don't blame Rick. This is a hell of a situation.
How many are there? Daryl's wonders, squinting at the pack that flock the lodging. Twenty, Forty? Too many to take on direct, that's for sure. Another question; why the fuck are they there?
Rick and Daryl had been doing silent kills along the edges, but there isn't much way to slide a chunk out of a brain soundlessly, and for each kill there's another one waiting, too close and too hungry. So instead of breaking down the mob, the men are crouched in this forest, scents masked by dirt and the spewed walker guts encircling their bush entrapment. Hiding and waiting.
Michonne best be damn thankful that she's worth it.
He releases a rough sigh, one that gets him a nudge in the spine from Rick. Daryl mutters his annoyance on faint breath and refocuses.
