FALLEN ANGEL ➵ DARYL DIXON [1] ✓

Chapter Fifty-Nine: A Life Worth Saving

Chapter 59

Daryl didn't know what to do. But he knew he had to get home, one way or the other. When he thought of home, the first thing that crinkled his way into his mind and folded out was Kendra and the group: not the prison. Home was more than four walls and windows and doors. Sometimes home has a heartbeat.

"I see the prick," Daryl whispers roughly, crouching down beside a broken and gnarly tree with Ember. He places an arrow in smoothly into his black crossbow, grunting to clear his blocked throat. His forehead is sticky with sweat like he has a fever, his breathing crisp. He doesn't feel well in general. I think I'm comin' down with somethin'. Goddamit.

Brad appears in his range. He hasn't changed one bit. Still small, still looked like an asshole. His colourful bird squaks, bobbing it's head up and down as Brad feeds him pieces of green apples.

The only thing that's changed is his eye, it covered up with a white eye patch. Imprinted in the centre, is an image of a bear's footprint. Daryl has to admit, it suits him. But Brad being dead also suits him.

Daryl examines his camp, it oddly resembling the camp back in Atlanta where he first met Fava and found Kendra and his brother. The campfire in the middle, logs to sit on, tents around the area, washing lines. It sparks memories, but he quickly extinguishes. Now is not the time.

"Over there," Ember points, seeing the colour mint out of the corner of her forest eyes.

Daryl follows her finger, seeing the jeep beside a washed out yellow tent with chairs guarding it. If he were to get the jeep back, there's no doubt that he would first cause a scene, running and banging the chairs compelling noise.

Suddenly, a well built Turkish man with a frightfully long black beard stands in front of the jeep, almost watching over it. He stands with his arms crossed, a tattoo of a black rose on his forearm as he flexes his muscles.

This is a guy you don't want to mess with. He looks like a bouncer.

"That's Mufasa," Ember speaks up, gulping at the end like it was painful to say. "He's Brad's top guy, trusts him like a brother."

Like Daryl didn't hear one word, he gets up, sneaking around the outside of the camp, being careful not to be seen. Once he gets close to the closest he can be, he raises his hand up, signifying to Ember to stop where she is.

Ember doesn't like this, breathing heavy and counting to five over and over again. She sometimes even went backwards. Five to zero. Zero to five.

"We have to distract him," Ember mentions, looking in different directions. "There's no way."

"Quiet," Daryl scolds, his eyes squinting, locked on Mufasa. He hides behind his crossbow, finger placed over the trigger. Ember holds her heart.

"Long live the king."

With that, Daryl's arrow releases into the world, shooting through the air and into the side of Mufasa's neck.

Blood trickles and gushes down his side, immediately pulling out the arrow and snapping it in half with both paws. He doesn't even fall to the ground, but he does roar, calling out to his men.

Daryl's face hardens in disgust that his plan didn't work. He looks back at Ember, expecting to see the colour red. But...

She's gone?

Daryl dashes up in disbelief, not thinking. Next, he feels a strong hand on his shoulder, gripping on so tight that he's sure will leave marks.

He looks up, seeing the mammoth of a man that he shot. Mufasa roars out yet again, a blood thirsty roar that reminds Daryl of some sort of tribal cry.