Before The Walking Dead

Daryl knelt at the doorway, blood dripping from a split lip to splash on the plain pine floor. His shoulders rose and fell with measured breaths as he tried to get himself under control. "So much for spending the Fourth of July with Dad," he thought. "I walk in the door and he's throwing punches."

"Had enough, Daryl?" the senior Dixon asked. "Or should I get the bat and beat sense into that thick skull of yours?"

Daryl clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. He wanted nothing more than to bash his father's head in with the aforementioned bat, but he knew he wasn't strong enough to best the man in a straight-up fight. His old man was one of those tough sumbitches who seemed to populate the woods and hills of Jasper County. He appeared soft from a distance, but up close and personal, he could throw those ham-sized fists with surprising speed.

But if the old man got drunk, Daryl knew he could raid the house for supplies and head out to the lean-to he and his brother used for hunting. Maybe Merle would be there and the two of them could find somewhere else to go for the holiday. Somewhere far away from their father and his fists.

"You answer when I talk to you, boy."

Daryl stood, wiped the blood from his face and spat a mouthful of blood into the corner. "I've had enough," he said.

"Good. Go out to the still and pull off a quart for me before I change my mind about being generous."

Daryl headed out to the shed where his father kept the moonshine still, debating leaving now or waiting until the old man got drunk. Leaving now might fend off the violence he saw brewing in his father's eyes for the day, but when he came back, the old man would make him pay for running out on him before catering to his every whim. Daryl knew his father wouldn't give up any supplies to his sons. He would wait until the old man blacked out or leave empty handed. Once his father passed out, Daryl could even take some 'shine to sell to the couple of guys he knew in town. That would give him some cash before he got on the road again.

The heat in the 'shine shed hit him like a blast out of hell. The propane burner under the still poured heat into the closed space and the heavy Georgia summer air clashed with the dry heat, causing sweat to roll down his face as he bent to get a quart mason jar under the tap at the bottom of the catch kettle. He lifted the jar to his lips and swallowed several gulps before refilling the jar to take back to his father. He might be a jackass, but the man made a hell of a good batch of 'shine.

Daryl made the trip out to the shed several more times as the night wore on. It wasn't until the fifth quart lay empty between him, his father, and the latest whore his father had picked up in town, that Daryl felt safe to raid the cabinets, stock up on some jars, and rifle through his father's pockets for money. The old man snored as Daryl moved around the house, almost jerking himself out of sleep with the volume of his own snoring. Daryl eyed the bat by the doorway, but left it behind.

Daryl parked the truck at the end of the trail leading up to the lean-to and shut off the engine. The sudden silence of the woods pressed against him with a physical weight and a chill ran over his shoulders. He'd spent most of his life in these woods and yet tonight, there was something ominous in them. He searched the shadows, looking for something concrete to rest his fears on, but nothing moved into the light cast down by the full moon. It was a rustling step farther up the trail which grabbed his attention and sent his heart thudding in his chest.

"Merle?" Daryl called.

"Little brother? What the hell are you doin' up here with that loud-assed truck?"

"Stopped by the house for the Fourth and figured being in the woods would be better."

Merle stepped off the path into the clearing, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "The old man do that?" he asked, nodding toward Daryl.