Chapter Text
Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of the characters. All I own here is the plot :)
He didn't even have time to process what was happening.
A moment earlier, he had taken to standing stalk still, lining up the crosshairs of the crossbow scope on a big buck, and a moment later, he was spinning around and crashing to the ground with the force of something slamming into his side, the buck long gone.
"Vengeance is mine!" an old man yelled as he tackled Daryl, brandishing a wicked-looking knife as Daryl tried desperately to fight him off. "I shall have my revenge!!"
Daryl somehow managed to get a knee brought up enough to shove the man off, grabbing for his own knife when the older man got back up and charged at him again.
The hunter rolled to the side, tripping the deranged man, and with a burst of speed brought on by the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he stabbed the old man in the chest, falling backward, landing on his back and pushing himself up on his elbows slightly as the old man drew his final breath.
The strange man was built like a tank for as old as he had appeared to be, a ratty, tangled mess of a salt and pepper beard decorating his chin, with long stringy grayish-white hair hanging in knotted clumps, and framing his withered, sunken face.
Daryl huffed out a breath or two, the shock wearing off and the pain suddenly setting in, blossoming down his side in intense little waves of agony.
Looking down, he gasped softly, still panting as blood spread across the fabric of his shirt, running down his side at a sickeningly fast rate.
Awkwardly, Daryl dragged himself over to the nearest tree, leaning against it for support as he tried to get a look at his wounded side.
It wasn't too bad. -Could be worse, he thought- The bullet had pierced cleanly through his flesh, exiting through his lower back, much like the arrow wound had on the oposite side.
Lucky. That was all he could think. It could have easily pierced through his liver if it had been a few inches higher. And who was he to say that it hadn't. He was just going by how he was feeling, the angle of the holes through his flesh. He had been extremely lucky with the arrow. It had narrowly missed his spleen, and Hershel couldn't seem to let him forget it.
With a little gasp of pain, Daryl removed his coat, ripping his shirt sleeves off as he had that day in the ravine looking for Sophia, knotting them together and tying the makeshift bandage around his waist, hoping it would staunch the blood flow.
Staggering to his feet, Daryl picked up his crossbow, bending awkwardly and yanking his knife from the dead man's chest, only to drive it through his eye a second later, preventing the psycho from turning on him.
He stumbled a few steps backward, trying to regain his balance as a sudden bout of vertigo blurred his vision, causing the world to tilt dangerously to one side, making him feel sick.
Shaking his head slightly, he puffed out a soft breath, biting his lip against the pain radiating from his side and pushed forward. He couldn't stay here. Not with the gunshots and the yelling the old man had went through.
He was surprised that he hadn't made a sound. He hadn't even cried out when he was shot.
"Gotta get back..." he murmured to himself, leaning against a tree and pressing a hand to his bleeding side. "Gotta get home..."
As he pushed through the underbrush and tall weeds, Daryl barely even noticed the sound of hissing as five walkers staggered into the clearing behind him, falling down beside the dead man and feasting on his cooling flesh.
Lucky. That was an understatement.