Chasing Amy (Daryl Dixon/The Walking Dead)

Chapter 21 - Better Angels

It was the news nobody wanted to hear at that time of the day.

Randall had escaped, and he was armed.

It hit the group like a ton of bricks, most noticeably Rick. He stood beside his son, in some way comforted by the fact that they had time. There had to be a solution to this. After all, the kid was injured, he couldn't have gone that far.

"Are you okay?" Carl asked shakily, noticing the blood on Shane's face, just as he approached them.

"I'm fine. Little bastard just snuck up on me." Shane assured the boy. He was speaking quickly, clearly in a rush to get the words out. "He clocked me in the face."

Rick was ready for this, immidiately springing into action. He had to protect his group, even if that did mean hunting this boy down like an animal. Of course, he'd be locked up again, and sent out like planned.

"All right, Hershel, T-Dog, get everybody back in the house." He pointed to the two men, putting them in charge of the many men and women of the group. "Glenn, Daryl, come with us."

Daryl's fists were involuntarily clenched, his eyes darting from Shane's grave face to Rick's worried one. With furiously fast and experienced hands, he loaded his crossbow.

He could never be too ready.

Hell, if that kid brought back his group, they wouldn't stand a chance. He'd heard the story straight from Randall's mouth, just days ago. Those thirty men would arrive, guns drawn, and take this farm.

As the hunter of the group, he knew it was going to be up to him to find and take down this kid, if the situation called for it. It was always Daryl who managed to handle all of the dirty work, and he had a feeling this was another calling for his tough approach.

T-Dog and Hershel began ushering the group members back inside, many staying where they stood to see the rest of the conversation, including a pale-faced Amy.

From the corner of Daryl's eye, he saw that same tiny figure that had been hovering around him all day.

Daryl had always been the watcher, the observer. He was always lurking silently in the corner of the room, being overlooked by the majority of the group. He was used to that. He would even go as far to say that he liked it, the solitude that came with hunting by himself, being by himself, without the unnecessary drama that seemed to waft around the camp like a bad smell.

And still, he always seemed to be affected by it in some way or another, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

It was thanks to many years of hunting and tracking as to why he had the keenest sense of sight and hearing in the group, something that aided him in his endeavour to survive.

Lately the only subject of his attention was that one girl, that one annoyingly conversational ex-prisoner, and it exasperated him to no end.

No matter where he was, she would always follow. And even then, he would often find his eyes glued to hers when she wasn't looking.

It was a curse, and many times Daryl would have to remind himself that there were more important things to be looking at than her face.

To him, she was obvious, readable, even. The spoilt brat from Philadelphia, who probably lived her life in some huge house, with someone by her side to aid her with her every need. She could barely do a thing by herself, barely stand for herself, and Daryl hated that.

But still, Daryl couldn't keep his eyes off of her.

There was something about her stubborn, yet strangely talkative attitude, the way she'd look down at the ground every so often, the flush that would draw the soft redness from her cheeks whenever Daryl would say something cutting, and her dimpled smile, that kept him somehow oblivious.