Chapter One- D

Daryl stood at the threshold of the old trailer, staring into it as though ghosts resided within its thin, smoke-stained walls. Although the funeral had been three months ago, everything in the place was still pretty much how his father had left it. Newspaper, beer cans, wrappers, cigarette butts, and other assorted trash littered the floor. Broken shards of glass lay in one corner by the TV, which had three bullet holes in it. Daryl can still remember his da' shooting stuff off of the TV for target practice. His da' had done shit like that since Daryl was old enough to retain memories.

Daryl had slept on the couch most of his life. Never had a room of his own; not since his mom had passed out and burned their house down with her inside of it. He'd been six or seven at the time. His dad moved them into the outskirts of town, in this shithole of a trailer secluded in the woods. It had one bedroom, so he just crashed on that ugly, flat orange couch with a pillow and a sheet. Merle was hardly ever home, anyway. Daryl had hated sleeping out there when his dad was home, though. His da' would get lit and start shooting random shit he placed on top of the TV. Bottles, lamps, picture frames… whatever he had on hand. The loud pop of the gun and the shattering of glass always had Daryl's nerves on edge, and he could never go back to sleep after it was all over. Once, when Daryl was the ripe old age of 10, he asked his da' to stop so he could sleep. The next morning, Daryl was so sore that it took him twice as long to get ready for school, and he got licked a second time for missing the bus. His da', Lonnie Dixon, had been one mean sonovabitch.

He stood there, unsure of what to do. The whole place was overwhelming to him. Every time he walked through the door, the skeletons in his closet rattled, and all he could think about were the beatings, or the screaming, or Merle and da' punching it out, throwing each other into walls. The first thing he did when he got there after his dad died was open all the windows to air the place out. It still smelled like smoke in there, though. He doubted that would ever go away. The furniture was the same shit his da' had for the last 30 years of his life; hell, it was old and worn out when Daryl was a kid, and it'd never been replaced. There were burn holes in everything from dropped cigarettes, and even the ash trays still had heaps of butts and ashes in them.

Daryl didn't want to stay there. He wanted nothing better than to walk away and never set eyes on this hellhole ever again. But with Merle in the pen, Daryl couldn't afford the rent in their last apartment, and he was evicted. He'd slept in his truck for a couple of weeks, trying to decide where to go from there, when he got a call that his da' had suffered a heart attack and died sitting in his lounger. Daryl's eyes shifted over to the olive-green monstrosity, and he wished, not for the first time, that his da' had been smoking when he died, and just lit the whole goddamn place on fire and been done with it. Hell, it'd be like an old Dixon family tradition.

With nowhere else to go, though, Daryl had crashed in the old trailer, haunted or not, and hoped for the best. Getting the job at the mechanic's shop in the next town was pure luck; he was thankful that the owner of the shop had relocated from out-of-town and didn't know this-or-that about the Dixons. With Merle in jail and all of Merle's buddies off his back for the time being, Daryl just took to working his ass off at the shop. For now, there was no way he'd ever make enough to get his own place. Without Merle around to help blow all of his cash, though, Daryl had a real chance at saving up his money for an apartment, and maybe even a few pieces of furniture. In all his 28 years, Daryl Dixon had never actually had his own bed. Not a real one, anyway. Normally, he and Merle could only rent from the seediest of apartment managers, and they ended up sleeping on second-hand mattresses on the floor. In the other corner would be a futon and a TV. The rest of the place was usually loaded with weapons and drugs. Merle loved his weapons and drugs.

Back in the present, Daryl knew he needed to clear out his da's shit. Not only did the sight of how his da' had lived his final days unnerve Daryl, but he couldn't stand the mess or the bugs. But where to start? His eyes took everything in one last time before he made his decision.

"Fuck this," he grumbled.

He pulled off his greasy work shirt and tossed it into a pile of laundry near the kitchen that he needed to take to the laundry mat, and then dug through his duffel bag near the door for a clean shirt. He hadn't unpacked any of his stuff in the months that he'd been there; hardly any of his property had made it past the front entry. He pulled a plaid sleeveless shirt on over his wife-beater, buttoning up the front. Then he strapped on a few knives, grabbed his crossbow from the coffee table and stepped out, letting the door slam behind him, but not bothering to lock anything. Only a damned fool would rob a Dixon, anyhow.

Daryl stayed in the forest well passed the daylight, having walked his hunting path and checked all of his snares. He had two squirrels to show for the evening, so after he gutted and skinned them, he made himself a fire and settled down in the dirt to watch the darkness fall. The forest was alive around him, having accepted him as part of the natural order of things in the past few months. Birds continued chirping in his presence and everything kind of just got used to him being around. He liked it better in the forest, anyway. The air was clean and fresh, and he felt more comfortable surrounded by trees than walls. The trailer was oppressive, and he wished, not for the first time, that he could just get the hell out and be on his way.

He spent the night on the forest floor, spread out next to the dying fire. He hadn't slept so well in weeks, he realized as he got up, feeling invigorated and refreshed. It wasn't quite dawn yet, judging by the faint lightening sky peeking through the canopy above. He held his face up and closed his eyes to listen to the forest noises as he relieved himself on a tree. Once he kicked dirt over his old campfire, he grabbed his weapons and struck back out onto his hunting trail, intending to go deeper and bag a deer before the sun brought the heat out.

Daryl walked silently through the forest, careful to watch his steps and keep his eyes peeled for signs of prey. For as large as he was, he'd always had quiet footsteps. He'd like to think it was the hunter in him, through-and-through, but he'd be lying to himself. No, he learned to silence his footsteps at a much younger age. Moving across the trailer silently as a kid, too hungry to pretend to be asleep any longer, but afraid to make the wrong noise and wake his da' who was passed out on the recliner in the middle of the living room. His footfalls had been practiced and quieted through years of fear and avoidance. When he took to the forest with his soft steps, he was relieved to finally be the predator instead of the prey.

A couple of twigs were snapped along his trail, but the footprints were a raccoon's, and days old, too. He could faintly hear the river water as it rushed over the rocky banks about a quarter of a mile away. Deer usually slip down there for a drink in the early morning hours when the day is new and the water is still cold and refreshing. The sound of something large crashing through the thicket had him slowing his step and pausing to listen. A couple of footfalls and some thrashing, then silence. More rustling, and then a strange yelp sounded.

Wha' the fuck was that?

Daryl proceeded slowly, stepping off his worn path and into the underbrush beneath the trees, placing his footsteps very strategically to avoid crunching dead leaves or snapping any twigs to alert the animal of his presence. The sounds of struggling continued as he got deeper into the woods, and he realized that the animal must be caught in a large patch of bramble bushes. The thorns would make it hard for the thing to pull free very quietly, and it sounded pretty tangled up in there. Daryl was surprised that a larger animal would be dumb enough to wander into a bramble bush, though. They're native to that area, and grow in wild patches all over the place. Most creatures were smart enough to steer clear of the damned things.

He got close enough to see the brambles shivering; whatever it was, it was headed his direction. He brought his crossbow out in front of him and lined it up with where the animal would be breaking through, exhaling slowly.

Suddenly, the edge of the brambles was pushed back and he barely registered two blue eyes framed in dark lashes before his finger squeezed the trigger. The second he had was enough to flinch to the side, and the arrow embedded itself in the trunk of the tree not three inches left of the girl gaping at him from the bushes.

For a moment, the two just stood and stared at one another. The girl's eyes were as blue as the open sky, and wide in shock. She had a splattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and a fine sheen of sweat stuck the tendrils of blonde that had escaped her ponytail to her neck and cheeks. As Daryl wordlessly took in her appearance, he also noted the fine cuts all over her exposed skin, and snags in her clothing.

Finally, she turned her face to look at the arrow sticking out of the tree, then looked back at Daryl, her eyebrows pulled down into a scowl. "Are you crazy?! You almost killed me!" she screeched.

Pulled out of his shock at seeing her, Daryl's temper flared. "Hell yeah I damn near killed ya! What the hell are you doin' wanderin' around in the woods by yourself anyway? I thought you were a deer!"

"Obviously, not," she responded heatedly. "Are you even allowed to be wandering around with weapons killing things this close to town?" She began pulling on her pant leg impatiently, trying to disentangle herself from the thorny vines. She still looked visibly shaken.

"Ain't close to town at all," Daryl responded, watching her without bothering to offer her his assistance. He didn't trust himself not to throttle her for being an idiot.

"We're not?" she asked, pausing to look up at him. "How… how far out am I?"

Daryl scratched his chin, looking her up and down. He couldn't imagine someone getting lost this far out in the woods. Only the experienced hunters go out this far, and there weren't any inhabited houses nearby; only his da's trailer and the abandoned cabin that sat a couple of miles east of that, near one of his trails. The place hadn't been lived-in for years. When he was a kid and his da' got a real temper going, Daryl would sneak out and hike to the cabin to hide and give his da' time to cool down. As far as he knew, even townie teenagers hadn't known of its existence. Every time he'd gone there, it had been run-down, but clean. No camp fires, beer bottles, or porno mags at all. It was wholly untouched except for Daryl; his own private sanctuary.

"You're about 7 miles away from the nearest road," he said slowly. He noted she was wearing some sort of an exercise outfit. Her black pants fit snuggly over every inch of her, accentuating long, lean legs, and she was wearing an equally fitted bright pink top with a stretchy grey jacket over it. Every article of clothing had rips or snags in them from the thorns, and she wasn't carrying a backpack of any sort. Her shoes were teal, black, and grey, and looked brand new. They were definitely something meant for the treadmill of a gym or walking around on pavement. She definitely hadn't been hiking or camping around there.

She finished pulling herself free of the brambles and turned in a half circle, taking in her surroundings. "7 miles…?"

"Yeah," he said impatiently. "Now're you gonna tell me what the hell you're doing all the way out here?"

"Well," she said, beginning to look embarrassed. "I was out jogging-"

"Jogging?" he interrupted.

"Yes." She shot him a glare before continuing. "I was out jogging, and I got a little turned around. I was trying to find my bearings when this huge dog came out of nowhere and launched himself at me. He looked insane, and I just… I turned and ran. I didn't know where I was going, and then I saw all of these vines that looked like I could hide from him better, but they ended up being thorny. The only good luck I've had today was that he didn't come in after me."

"Most dogs are smarter thanta run into a bramble patch," Daryl said shortly, narrowing his eyes to show her he meant what was implied.

She looked like she wanted to retaliate, but seemed to think better of it. She pressed her lips together in a stubborn line and let the silence stretch out.

"Well, where am I taking you?" he snapped, irritated with the interruption to his Saturday morning plans.

She looked startled, then, and Daryl wondered if what he'd said came out sounding creepy. After all, he was covered in squirrel blood since he hadn't made it down to the river yet. He almost took out her eye with an arrow, and she was lost and alone in the woods wearing clothing that very plainly showed off how tight her ass was. He didn't blame her for being frightened. Hell, he was glad she looked scared of him finally. Maybe next time she had a stupid idea like going jogging alone in the woods, she'd reconsider.

"I can just… you can point me in the direction I need to go. I'm sure I'll find my way back if I just walk in a straight line…" she said quietly.

"Look, lady, you don' look like you know a whole hell of a lot about…" he looked her over one more time. "Well, frankly, bein' outside. There ain't no 'straight lines' in the woods, an' I can guarantee you don' even know which direction you're supposed to be headed."

She opened her mouth to interrupt, so Daryl held a hand up and continued, "You've already ruined my mornin' hunt. An' if I leave you out here and point you in a direction, you're not gonna make it back to your people. Or that dog'll find you again. He ain't gonna lose your scent that easy if he's hungry enough. Then I'll hafta waste another damn day out here when the sheriff calls a search party to find your lost ass. So just tell me where you came from so I can take ya back and get on with my day."

By the end of his rant, her cheeks were tinged in pink, and she looked indignant. She took a second to collect her composure, so he strode over and began working his arrow out of the tree trunk.

"There's a little cabin… you take the little gravel road off of highway 80- called Walker Way, and the cabin is a few miles down."

Daryl turned to look at her just as the arrow pulled free, and he stumbled a bit. "Wait, what? The cabin with the wrap-around porch?"

"Yeah, that's the one. You know of it?"

"I've seen it," he said shortly, eying her again. He wondered if she had the right cabin. She couldn't be possibly talking about his old cabin. That place had no water, or electricity, and the entire inside was gutted. It probably didn't have any structural damage, but it looked like it'd take a hell of a lot of work before it'd be livable again, and the little blondie standing in front of him didn't look like she'd done an honest day of hard labor in her entire life. She must've had a pretty ambitious husband to move into a place like that.

He grunted at his assessment and spit, which made her nose wrinkle slightly in distaste. Then he began walking in the direction of the cabin, listening as she hesitated before following him, her footsteps crunching every twig and leaf in their path. When he heard her stumble over a tree root, he knew it was going to be an awfully long walk back.