THINK ABOUT LIVING | Daryl Dixon

013 | Turning In Their Graves

━━━━━━ CHAPTER THIRTEEN ━━━━━━
Turning In Their Graves
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          A DIFFUSED TAP ON THE WINDOW joined in the efforts of the bright morning light and successfully managed to finally scrunch up the bridge of Daryl's nose, eliciting thus his awakening groan. It takes a moment for the eyes to adjust to seeing once they've opened after a much needed sleep and Daryl has been putting off this rest for so long that his blurred sight tried to make him understand at once that he'd sooner need a hibernation, than to wake up so soon.

Very little makes sense in those seconds or minutes right after one has ended their blissful sleep.

Though he could tell the tapping sound came from the window he kept his back at, Daryl found no hurry within himself yet active enough to turn around and find what was causing the noise. In fact, why should he? Between his blinks, he still saw glinting glimpses of the dream he was leaving behind. It was a memory wrapped up in a wish, taking the shape of Mallory, looking at him as any man wants to be looked at. And she was an echo of Heaven before his sleepy eyes, with the sun halo behind her relaxed curls; he's always been so mesmerized about how in the sun, her hair lit itself into the sort of auburun shade that reminded people of real beauty and of those crisp autumn nights, spent cuddled by the fire.

His blinks were slow, because he didn't want the dream to leave him just yet. Of course, he was hopeful enough fresh off a good rest to not realize it was not up to him anymore whether the heavenly image left him or not. Each blink faded away the luminescence of her presence, until at last, the colors dulled and he realized the driver's seat was empty. He was alone.

It was only then that the intermittent tap became a call of 'danger' and Daryl truly woke up.

From the corner of his widening eyes, he distinguished the figure outside the car looked nothing like Mallory. A masculine build was all he had to glimpse at before shouldering the door open and stepping out with crossbow at the ready, finger sliding across the safety, tugging it off. He striaghtened up his posture and narrowed his gaze on the man that has been knocking on his window. Though holding a shotgun, the man's hands flung up and he took a step back, defensively.

"Where's the woman I was with?" Daryl barked his inquiry, trigger finger itching to fire a bolt through pretty much any part of that man's body until he shed some light on what was happening. In a quick assessment from the top of his head wearing a heavy winter hat, down to his mud filled boots, with quick stops along the way to notice the white streaks in his beard and the badge at his belt, Daryl had to admit to himself that in no way could this man be approaching him with innocent thoughts. He was too well cleaned up to be someone roaming the roads: this guy had to have had an outpost.

"It is her who I am here for right now. She sent me to get you, son," the man nodded, his plump cheeks red as he smiled, awfully friendly. "She went looking for help with the car, you see. Came across our town this morning. She's a nice lady, and we've got resources to spare so—"

"I ain't fucking buying it," Daryl cut him off. Mals wouldn't trust no strangers, his mind chanted his reasoning to him, strengthening thus his taken stance into an immovable force. She wouldn't leave on her own like that either. "Quit the yapping about resources that ain't never worth sparing in these times and drop that gun. You're gonna tell me what the fuck you've done with her and where she's at, before I start poking holes through your body."

"Now," the old man sighed, lowering his gun slowly to the ground, "no need to get all vulgar. She did warn me ahead you might be a bit jumpy about new people and I get it. It's one crazy world we live in, but I believe there's still good people left..."