Trees. More stumbling than running. Walkers staggering in his path. Breaths coming painfully.

Daryl has to stop, but he knows if he does, he's dead. If he doesn't, he knows he'll black out any moment. He glances back. At least five creatures are still in pursuit, and they are speeding up.

No, he's slowing down. He fires his last bolt at the nearest one, and misses. The blood pounds through his chest, throbs in his head. There's the riverbed he remembers from tracking in this area, and beyond, he also remembers, lies a paddock. With a fence all around it.

Daryl takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain from his ribs. He lowers his head, blinks away the stars dancing in front of his eyes and focuses all his remaining strength. He wills his legs to move faster, splashing into the icy stream. He gasps at the cold, knees buckling as another arrow of pain shoots through his side from the busted ribs. He can't help collapsing into the freezing water, can just about catch himself with his right arm, his bad arm. He cries out in agony, and for one moment, an insane moment, he thinks about just staying there, in the middle of the stream. Let the walkers come, let them do their thing with him. He's spent, more exhausted than he can recall ever being.

But then he remembers the people he's come out here for. He doesn't much care what happens to himself, now, but he knows, if he doesn't come back tonight, they will worry. They will go out looking for him, and they will be in danger. More danger than they know. He can't let that happen, he has to get back, has to warn them.

With an effort he pushes himself up off his knees, and he doesn't even care that his grunts of pain now sound more like whimpers. In his moments of weakness the walkers have all made it into the stream, and the nearest one is only a few feet away. Daryl pushes on.

Clambering up the opposite bank, dragging his left leg painfully. He isn't sure, but he thinks the gash on his thigh is bleeding again, and his hip just doesn't feel right. He pulls himself the rest of the way, pushing away from the embankment and inelegantly comes to rest on his front, panting.

Looking up, he can see the wooden fence around the paddock. Looking back, he can see the walkers trying to clamber after him, but finally something is going right for Daryl. The embankment here is steep, and the mindless creatures will have a hard time following him now.

Daryl pushes himself up, limping the remaining yards to the fence and leaning against it for a moment, breathing hard. His blood is loud in his ears, and he is certain that if he doesn't move immediately he will pass out then and there. He pushes his crossbow, which seems to weigh a ton, up and over the fence, letting it fall into the high grass beyond.

Then he steels himself against the new bout of agony he is certain this maneuver will trigger, and lifts his right leg onto the lower rung of the fence, pulling himself with his good left arm. He swings his stiff, bleeding left leg over awkwardly when he hears the walkers snarling behind him. Startled, he puts the bad leg down on the inner side of the lower rung without thinking. His knee gives way, and with a yell of pain he falls, landing hard in the high grass. A jolt of hot white pain shoots through his ribcage, then he knows nothing.

He comes to slowly. At first his mind is blank and all he can do is stare at the crimson sky above him. Only slowly does the world return to focus, and with his vision clearing his memory returns. He can hear more growling, and something is tugging on his foot. He sits up with a jolt and a gasp.

The world is suddenly in freefall, his insides are churning, his stomach turns over. Leaning to the left Daryl throws up his meagre lunch, and a surprising amount of bile. The nausea only abates slowly, and he continues to retch for several minutes, each spasm aggravating his ribcage. When the retching finally stops he's sobbing with the pain.

Wiping away the tears and focusing on the walkers in front of him he can't help but feel relief. There are only two now, and they are straining to squeeze through the slats, but clearly failing. They were close enough to tug on his foot, but that's about it.

Still, Daryl knows not to be complacent. Judging by the sun that has now almost disappeared behind the horizon he reckons he was out cold for at least thirty minutes, and he's still a long way from home. Groping for his crossbow in the grass, briefly considering leaving it behind since he has no bolts left anyway but quickly deciding against it, he gingerly gets to his feet.

Within a few short steps, however, Daryl realizes that he will not make it back to the prison this evening. His left hip and leg are on fire, every movement is pure agony. Putting any pressure on it at all makes more stars appear before his eyes. Within ten feet the nausea is so overpowering he has to stop. Leaning over, awkwardly supporting himself on his crossbow, he contemplates his options. He only sees one, and he doesn't like it at all: About 50 yards away a wooden, half rotted animal shelter stands on the paddock.

Daryl isn't even sure he can make it that far, his vision is narrowing steadily and he knows he'll black out soon. Slowly, in tiny increments, leaning on the crossbow, he inches toward the inadequate shelter. His breath comes in short, labored gasps.

Twenty yards, ten. Finally, he can touch the wooden hut, and supporting himself against the flimsy back wall he creeps around to the front. The structure only has three walls, and is completely empty. Which is a relief in a way, but Daryl had harbored a small hope that at least some dried grass might have been left over from when it was used by whatever animals grazed on this field. The only thing they have left behind, however, is a faint odor of dung, which makes Daryl gag again.

Either way, he has not many options left. None, really. Limping to the back corner he lowers himself as carefully to the ground as possible, trying to put no more pressure on his left leg. This makes his descent awkward and he lands with a jolt. Grinding his teeth to keep from blacking out Daryl tries to take a few careful breaths, attempting to slow his racing heart. Gradually, the cottony feeling in his ears subsides and his vision returns to normal.

Looking at his left leg, however, makes the sick feeling return to his stomach. The gash in his outer thigh, which he had hardly noticed when he had stumbled from the wreck of his car, is bleeding profusely now. It's about seven inches long, ending just above the knee. The blood has soaked through the entire lower part of his jeans leg and his sock, and is still running down his leg.

Daryl is no stranger to accidents while out in the wilderness, and he knows what to do. He pulls out the small knife which he always keeps sheathed in his back pocket, and half cuts, half rips the bloody pant leg off. He quickly rips it into strips and knots these together into a rope. Looking around on the ground he is again in luck: a fairly sturdy stick lies just outside the shelter. Retrieving this brings on fresh agony, but he manages, biting down on his lip.

Panting heavily, he returns to his corner and props himself against the wall. He fashions a tourniquet just above the injury and cuts another hole in his jeans higher up his thigh. He will use this to secure the stick. Breathing as normally as he can, but biting his lower lip again hard he slots the stick into the makeshift tourniquet and quickly turns it until the strip of jeans fabric is taut against his leg. The pain is so excruciating, his vision narrows again and he just about manages to secure the stick before he faints.

Daryl wakes up because his teeth chatter so hard he bites his tongue. Night has properly fallen now, he can only see vague outlines in the light from a sliver moon. He isn't wearing a jacket, just a T-Shirt and his leather vest. The day was still quite warm even though it's already October. What is left of his pants is still wet from kneeling in the stream, and he's shaking so hard from the cold it is causing his bruised body renewed agony.

He shrugs off his vest, wincing when he forgets momentarily about his busted up right shoulder and arm. He wraps the vest around himself back to front, hoping to at least warm up his exposed arms a little. A glance at his leg calms one worry: the bleeding has stopped. He briefly considers moving out into the open and onto the grass. It might be slightly warmer, and it certainly would be softer than the hard ground and shelter wall against which he lies slumped. If he wasn't so beat up he cut rip up some grass and fashion himself a bed. But then, if he wasn't so beat up he wouldn't have to spend the night in this wretched place in the first case.

Trying to ignore his thirst and parched tongue, and trying not to think about walkers staggering through the field looking for warm meat he leans his head back against the hut and closes his eyes.