He forks over the batteries, finally lowering his hands in the process. Thankfully it was just batteries— if this Reid guy had been dead, or just gone, Daryl imagines their integration period was about to get a lot more complicated. But now he can just shepherd Reid back, and...
And? He stares at the agent (doctor?), and can't actually imagine himself living at Forty-Eight. The others, sure. No matter how traumatized they are, they were all real people before the turn, living real lives, in real houses. Daryl wasn't. The idea of returning to nothingness and counting down the hours until he's expelled makes him feel sick, makes his head feel tight, like he's going to throw up.
Doesn't matter. He has to suck it up for now, so that his people can stay. He won't jeopardize it for them.
So: just a grunted noise that covers Nice to meet you, I'm fine waiting, no problem. He follows it up with a nod towards the walkers creeping in their direction, drawing by his whistle.
"I'll get those."
And he does. The closer one is old, little more than a desiccated skeleton, bony fingers reaching with slow desperation as he walks past it, luring its attention away from Spencer by clicking his tongue like he's guiding a horse. It trails after him as he meets the second walker, a fresher and stronger one that hisses louder and louder the closer Daryl gets. He leans away from a frantic swipe in his direction before quickly jamming the blade of a hunting knife into its skull via the jaw. It shudders and he shoves it off, turns, sticks the older one through its soft, mostly-decayed head. When the hissing doesn't stop, he looks down, curious, and spies the upper half of a once-was-human creature crawling feebly towards him. It's mostly trapped in overgrown weeds, so Daryl just brings the heel of his boot down onto its skull, crushing it with a sick noise.
All quiet, as he makes his way back to the willow tree and Reid. Must be a good water source nearby, he thinks, to be supporting it. Maybe underground. He shakes gore off his knife, and sheaths it.
no subject
And? He stares at the agent (doctor?), and can't actually imagine himself living at Forty-Eight. The others, sure. No matter how traumatized they are, they were all real people before the turn, living real lives, in real houses. Daryl wasn't. The idea of returning to nothingness and counting down the hours until he's expelled makes him feel sick, makes his head feel tight, like he's going to throw up.
Doesn't matter. He has to suck it up for now, so that his people can stay. He won't jeopardize it for them.
So: just a grunted noise that covers Nice to meet you, I'm fine waiting, no problem. He follows it up with a nod towards the walkers creeping in their direction, drawing by his whistle.
"I'll get those."
And he does. The closer one is old, little more than a desiccated skeleton, bony fingers reaching with slow desperation as he walks past it, luring its attention away from Spencer by clicking his tongue like he's guiding a horse. It trails after him as he meets the second walker, a fresher and stronger one that hisses louder and louder the closer Daryl gets. He leans away from a frantic swipe in his direction before quickly jamming the blade of a hunting knife into its skull via the jaw. It shudders and he shoves it off, turns, sticks the older one through its soft, mostly-decayed head. When the hissing doesn't stop, he looks down, curious, and spies the upper half of a once-was-human creature crawling feebly towards him. It's mostly trapped in overgrown weeds, so Daryl just brings the heel of his boot down onto its skull, crushing it with a sick noise.
All quiet, as he makes his way back to the willow tree and Reid. Must be a good water source nearby, he thinks, to be supporting it. Maybe underground. He shakes gore off his knife, and sheaths it.
"Got a headache?"