Blood Bourbon

Lava Dogs

Lush green spread out in front of him in all directions, rolling upwards from long stretches of golden sands into rolling hills that reached into the darkening sky. The ocean that separated him from the brilliant greens was a deep indigo, though it glowed purple and red around the boat as the sun set behind him.

The thin grey scrubs were soaked with ocean spray and blood and Daryl was half amazed he was still conscious, with the meagre bandages he had managed to find and wrap himself in while steering the boat north and east.

He had spent a long couple hours, tensed, waiting for the helicopters in the distance to circle out towards him and stop this flight. The closer he got to the trees and sands, the tenser he became. He knew that he would still be running when he landed but being off the water had to be safer than being the only boat for miles in any direction.

Daryl didn't know much about ocean faring, or sailing, or reading currents or waterways. But he could see the waves breaking against something in the middle of the ocean and the calm waters beyond and knew that there was some sort of barrier he couldn't see, whether it be a reef or some underwater shelf.

But he was running out of time and though he couldn't see the tip of the island with his eyes, his GPS told him it was close. And the gas was running low, so he did the only thing he could think of in the situation, he hit the throttle and sped straight forwards, closing his eyes as the waves crashed and lifted him upwards. The boat jerked as the propeller hit something, making a grinding noise and killing the motor, but the boat continued forward until it ran aground ten feet from dry shore, jerking Daryl to smash his face off the dashboard.

"For fucksakes." This close, he could smell the tropical fauna and fruit trees, the cooking food from the houses that lined the beaches on either side of where he had managed to park, or land, his boat.

With a groan, he stumbled up and half fell out of the boat, gasping as cold salt water hit his wounds and tugged at him as the tide brushed against him. Daryl didn't spare the boat another glance, hoping the tide was coming in and would take the thing as far away from him as possible.

Half delirious from exhaustion and blood loss, he laughed at the fact that he had blown up a ship to destroy all traces of his DNA, only to bleed all over a boat that he was leaving behind. One single mission pushed him onwards and he forced himself to his feet, wading through the waist deep water until he reached a beach, only realizing he had bare feet when he stepped onto the hot sand and scrub grass.

Daryl knew he looked like a lunatic, wearing bloody scrubs and soaked with sea water, with several days worth of hair growth on his jaw. It had never occurred to him in the lab that he hadn't shaved since that morning before his presentation. It seemed like a lifetime ago and he found himself closing his eyes against the pain of remembering those last few moments he had spent with Ryker that day.

That had been the day Ryker had died and now that he was in the real world again, that pain threatened to smother him as surely as the wounds in his sides and leg. But Daryl had a mission, one last mission and he focused on that as he forced himself to walk as steadily as he could towards a house he could hear was empty. There was clothing hung out on the line, and slipping through a gate, he made quick work of pulling down the shorts and a t-shirt to pull on himself. The shirt had a band he had never heard of, Douche Cocoon, but it was clean and it fit, though a part of him twinged with guilt over the theft.

Not enough that he didn't also grab the pair of sandals that were left out on the porch, slipping them on and walking out of the yard and onto the side of the road. In the distance, he could see what appeared to be a restaurant and a local store. Despite the fact that the sun had nearly gone, it was still warm making his slow, limping journey a little more uncomfortable.