Daryl's Angel (10th Anniversary Edition)

Chapter 66: Claiming Rules

We keep our distance from the rest of the group. They aren't subtle, though, and I catch them stealing glances at us. Some of them still look hungry, or pissed, like I blue-balled them. I try not to dwell too much on what exactly Daryl interrupted and what could've been.

Daryl stays just ahead of me. He doesn't hold my hand, doesn't make conversation. It feels like torture, not being able to cling to him, to ask him about what happened after he left the prison, but I know we'll have time for that as soon as we escape from these men (the Claimers, as Daryl told me).

So, I put on my own act. I keep my head down and stay quiet. None of the men get close enough for me to have to react to them, but I avoid eye contact all the same. I'll be the scared, weak woman they must think I am.

I listen, though. They don't talk much at all aside from brief comments, but I catch their names as we walk. Joe, Colonel Sanders's evil twin, is obviously the leader. The dark-haired guy who claimed Old Dan's body is Len and, judging by the way he glares at Daryl and Daryl glares back, they aren't too fond of each other. He's limping a little from the effects of Old Dan's last stand, which brings me at least a modicum of joy.

And speaking of, the heavyset balding guy who wanted to "go first" with me is also named Dan and, although I know they were all thinking it, I avoid him the most. Just the fact that he shares a name with my former canine companion is enough for me to dislike him, however petty that is.

There's Billy, a skinny white guy with a beanie and brown hair. He's one of the only guys in the group who doesn't have any kind of facial hair. Then there's Tony, a man with dark brown skin, a scruffy goatee, and a bandana around his head. I think he's the second-in-command, judging by how he's the only one who approaches Joe to talk one-on-one.

Harley is a greying blond with a moustache-beard combo, like if Colonel Custer got a little more scuffed up. I don't know why these guys keep making me think of famous colonels, but here we are. Last is Jack, a stocky Hispanic guy with a black combover and a grown-out pencil moustache.

All of them carry some kind of bow or crossbow, although a few have hunting rifles too. They're armed to the teeth, just another reason for them to make me nervous.

I want to ask Daryl how he ended up with them and how long he's been with them. The prison fell...four days ago? Five? It feels like it's been so long, like every day spent surviving out here lasts twice as long.

I just want to talk to Daryl, but I keep my mouth shut. The Claimers seem to be following a trail. They move with purpose from one spot to the next.

Daryl and I follow and search for our window of opportunity.

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It's starting to get dark when Joe calls it.

"We'll set up camp here, boys," he says.

There isn't anything notably special about the clearing, but the men get to work setting it up with practiced grace. They unload coils of barbed wire and old cans from their bags, stringing them up between the trees until there's a good section of space that's "protected."

Daryl nudges me towards the outskirts of the group, setting us up against a tree. Sitting on the ground, I wish I had my quilts or my canvas. It doesn't look like Daryl has anything more than what he's wearing and a garbage bag, but he settles down and I sit beside him, hugging my knees to my chest, backpack at my side. There's a part of me that doesn't want to go to sleep, worried that I'll wake up with someone on top of me, hands roaming.

"Just lay down," Daryl murmurs as he shifts, getting comfortable among the leaves. He lays on his side, his arm spread towards me as he pats his bicep. "Use me as a pillow."