Thread: The Walking Dead  ( Private between myself and Traveler)

Fuck it. Fuck this shit all to hell. He shut the house door and slid the lock into place, scanning the suburban house for any sign of walkers. So far there were none. Hell, it didn't even smell like anything had died in there aside from whatever was in the refrigerator, which was mercifully closed. His grey eyes took in everything the fresh mud and dust on the carpet, the spots of blood following the small booted footprints up the stairs... a young boy or a woman had been here, with a dog. It was a big dog, judging from the size of the prints. Daryl knelt to check the blood. His left hand reached down while he continued to look and listen for sounds of trouble. Calloused fingertips dug into the thick pile carpet and touched wetness at the base of the droplet. It wasn't 'today' fresh, but it was fresh enough. The blood was not more than two days old, three tops. Whoever had come in here with their dog had been there recently. They might still be there now. He smirked at himself, thinking of Goldilocks and the Three Bears . Someone's been sitting in my chair, and she's still here! Yeah... but who had time for fucking fairy tales? Beth was dead. He still had her blood on the left shoulder of his shirt. After they buried her he needed time to think. He needed time to be alone and to figure out what was going on in his head. Rick didn't want him to go, but Carol, bless her heart, she understood. She always did. Daryl frowned to himself as he cased the bottom half of the house and found no signs of recent activity. That left upstairs to check out. As he carefully walked up the stairs, taking care to stay near the wall to avoid the squeakiest parts of wooden construction, he thought about Carol. She was his closest companion. She knew him like no other did, and she accepted him in his entirety. He loved her - he did. He just loved her like he would have a sister, and that was enough for her. After her husband she didn't want anyone, man or woman, to touch her, and that was okay with him. He understood abuse and torment. Hell, he was weaned on it. At the top of the stairs was a typical suburban layout. At the end of the hall he saw an open door leading to a child's room. The curtains were open, and an out-of-place cheerful beam of sunshine streaked through the still air. To the left, a door stood partially ajar. Inside he could see the partial poster of some boy band that had long ago probably been turned into zombie fare. To the right was a closed door, probably to a bathroom. He eased the partially open door all the way to the wall and looked inside. An unmade bed, some clothes in the hamper, and a dead houseplant were all that revealed that anyone had been there. Whoever had slept in the bed last had done it a long time ago. He could see a thin layer of undisturbed dust on the wrinkles. He'd ceased wondering about previous inhabitants a long time ago whatever lives they had led did not exist any longer. That left the bathroom door. Daryl turned his eyes to the bathroom. He heard a low growl coming from the door. It didn't sound like a walker. No - this had the fierce warning behind it that only a dog could give. He'd always wanted a dog. Daryl wiped the back of his left hand across his face and stepped slowly to the side, to not be directly behind the door in case someone inside that tiny room was happy with the trigger. Hey kid - are you hurt? I saw blood. He knew damn well that it was the dog who was bleeding, but he figured most folk didn't know jack shit about tracking. I'm not gonna hurt you. It's not safe to travel alone. I got people - good people - they'll take you in and keep you safe.