A simple supply hunt for a source of water in the middle of Atlanta turns sour quickly for Erin as she come fist to face with a fuming, handless Merle Dixon.
Alone in the middle of the apocalypse with only a racist guy who doesn't know the differen...
"Just look at all that pain..." - Fake Your Death, My Chemical Romance
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Daryl's sleep was plagued throughout the night with stabbing pains from both his side and his forehead, making the inside of the tent spin and waver in his vision. By around two in the morning, he gave up on the whole charade, resorting to sitting up against a mound of blankets and his own rucksack for comfort as the humid night air hung around him.
Movement outside the tent caught his attention, pulling his focus away from sharpening some of his bolts with a large knife he'd stuffed in his bag. It was quiet but consistent, sounding more like a woman from the weight of the steps, though he could have been wrong - there were some pretty scrawny guys around the camp nowadays.
Trying his best not to let out any sound as he shifted towards the entrance, the movement pulling at his injuries and causing him to bite his tongue to remain silent, he heaved his body down beside the door, cautiously peering through the gap in the thin fabric. At first he saw nothing but the darkness of the early morning, the sun not having chance to show its face just yet, before a glimpse of activity over by the tree beside Erin's truck caught his eye, fleeting but still visible to his experienced gaze.
On closer inspection, he could just about see the figure of Erin herself whom he'd assumed had turned in soon after taking the food back to Merle, but evidently he'd been wrong. She was somehow remaining out of sight of Glenn who was keeping watch, though Daryl figured the younger man would hesitate to challenge her anyway. From his current distance, he could only make out that she was doing something with the arsenal of weapons she owned, but beyond that he was clueless. He was more interested in the reason behind her antics than exactly what those antics were - not many people got up at two in the morning to sort out their guns.
He watched her from afar for a few minutes until she finally turned in and appeared to drift off in the bed of her truck, the air turning silent once again. Daryl was puzzled, but figured it was best to let her sleep; charging over there and asking questions after what had happened earlier between them would be more than a little bewildering at this time in the morning...
Letting out a low groan as he rolled back to where he was originally lay, he resigned himself to mull it over in his next few hours of sleeplessness. He would ask her when it grew lighter, when the darkness and gloomy confusion passed. Then, perhaps, he could also tell her the truth...
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Daryl forced himself to leave the tent the next morning, refusing to remain a prisoner to the agony and pain which had shackled him inside of it. Around the camp, the others were doing similar things, heaving themselves out of peaceful slumbers, reluctantly returning to the warzone of reality their dreams helped them escape from.
With some difficulty, he managed to get up onto his knees, wincing as he leant down to grab his rucksack and pull out a new shirt since his torn one was God knows where and he didn't particularly want to walk around shirtless, despite the heat.
