Lost ; Daryl Dixon

Chapter 39

Daryl was vaguely aware of being moved. It wasn't the sensation of movement as such, he was too far gone to register that, but the agony that spasmed through his body at every bump and jolt in the journey. He could feel his shirt sticking to him, itching where the fabric clung to the downy hair that trailed over his stomach, and at first he thought it was sweat. He was hot, burning up, and he could feel sunlight dancing over his face. But it was too thick for sweat, too sticky. Blood. Was he bleeding? Why was he bleeding? Was he hurt? He remembered coming off his bike, skidding off the road and scraping up his arm, smacking his head against the ground. He remembered laying there as the rain soaked through his clothing, and the way the world had spun when he'd eventually clambered to his feet and turned for home. But this wasn't that. He knew it somehow yet he couldn't figure out how or why. Everything in his head was fuzzy and vague. Had he made it home? Had something happened to Alexandria? But there were no screams, no shouts. Just hushed whispers that he couldn't make out, and the rustle of leaf litter underfoot. As his awareness began to grow, he felt fingers biting into his biceps, hauling him along, and felt his legs scraping along the ground, bouncing over roots and rocks, a bruising ache in his lower back as though he'd been carried this way for a while.

Y/N.

She was his first fully conscious thought and his eyes flew open, staring wildly round for her, desperate to ensure her safety, before he remembered that he'd been alone. She'd left him. Instead of finding her eyes on him, instead he was looking at the barrel of a rifle, trained steadily on his already weak and broken body, as its wielder followed close behind those supporting his weight. He saw the gunman's eyes widen, before his finger flinched on the trigger, but instead of letting loose another shot, he shouted.

'He's awake!'

In the time it took for Daryl to blink woozily, another figure had appeared at the gunman's side, an older man who squinted down at the archer, assessing him before giving a small nod. 'Just about. No matter, we'll be back at the camp soon.'

Despite his blurry vision and confusion at the situation he found himself in, Daryl's thoughts were coherent now, and he knew that he did not want to go to their camp, wherever it was. It could only mean bad things for him so he kicked out, trying to fight his way free of the grasp that held him firmly, propelling him along, hooking his foot under a raised tree root in an effort to halt their progression. If they'd just stop, maybe he could find purchase on the ground beneath him and take off. He knew it wasn't likely he'd get far - he was now painfully aware of the wound still oozing blood just above his waistband - but he had to try. Even if he could hide, it would be better than nothing. He'd just have to bide his time until he could sneak away.

The hands under his arms gave a harsh tug, a loud grunt of frustration sounding when the archer didn't shift, and then more fingers grasped a hold, and he was yanked sharply backwards, his ankle giving way with a loud crack as he came free of the root, sending yet more pain shooting through him. Shit. He'd felt the bones shift sickeningly. Broken. Good going, Daryl.

'We've got a tough one here, boys,' the older man announced, looking down at the him with a mix of admiration and disdain. 'Keep a tight hold. Not much further.'

The next movement pulled on his wound and sent his broken ankle glancing off an exposed rock in the forest floor, and it didn't matter how much further it was after that, as everything went black.

*****

Stillness.

Coarse rope coiled around his wrists.