When the dead roam - (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 35 - Out cold

Daryl had returned to the red car quicker than he had intended. No matter how hard they were fighting back home he couldn't afford to add to the masses against them, so instead he stuck to the plan, driving shortly ahead of the horde and urging them to follow the roar of his engine. His gloved hand gripped the throttle, twisting it every so often and looking at the 'walkers', listening to them growl and snarl. It was entertainment at its best.

"Alright" Sasha's voice rang out over the radio on his shoulder, her voice crackling slightly.

"Tha's twenty?" Daryl replied, pulling the plastic box closer to his mouth.

"It will be. 642 is a mile ahead" she stated "We gotta put distance between us and them before we turn off"

"So floor it" Abraham dictated.

Daryl smirked at himself before accelerating at an alarming speed past the red vehicle "Alrigh', try to keep up"

"Really? Have you seen this car?" Sasha laughed before pressing the right pedal to the floor and following the hunter down the abandoned highway. They swiftly passed the road sign marking 642 and took a left, trailing though a deserted little town, void of any human or walker.

They hadn't driven another mile before the bike skidded from undeath Daryl, his concentration breaking upon the rapid spitfire of a colt 1851 revolver. His bare skin raked across the concrete, the leather jacket hugging his body providing minimal protection as a steady steam of warm blood made its way down his forearm. A deep grunt escaped his mouth and it took a few seconds to scramble to his feet and pull the cold, scratched body of his bike towards him. One swift movement and he was back on the road, ducking bullets and attempting to outrun the survivors as he raced though the old, destroyed neighborhood.

The red car crashed ahead of him, wood flying either side of the vehicle as fence broke under its impact. For a second he thought his friends were dead. And for that brief moment he stopped breathing. Until the two survivors emerged from behind the barricade, firing repeatedly at the black civic behind Daryl.

He took a sharp right, narrowly avoiding a small horde and hunching his body over as he ducked their waving arms. The bullets still ricocheted off the bike body, shells continuously bouncing off the concrete. He risked a glance behind him, his dark hair sticking to the blood smears on his face, and contemplated his aim. No chance. His best shot was his motorbike and yet, considering the small amount of fuel left in his tank, he wasn't going to get very far. He needed a new plan.

"Come on" he grumbled, as he turned into the bushes and turned his handles sharply, the bike jolting to a stop. He lay quietly in the mud for a few seconds and waited as the group of survivors passed the tree-line and continued down the 642.

Once satisfied they had left, he flipped his leg over the seat and collapsed onto the floor, finally able to catch his breath. Mud coated his body, lathering itself on top of his leather exterior as he lay on the ground. 

A growl and his head turned sharply. His left arm moved backwards, his hand balled into a fist and he brought it forwards expecting to meet flesh but instead he was met with a shiny black helmet. He wasn't sure if the crunch was his knuckles breaking or the metal caving in but either way, he was thankful it wasn't a sharp pair of teeth sinking into his flesh. The walker lay paralyzed, only able to move its protected head. It's body was dead but her mind was alive and even in death, a helmet protected her from ceasing to exist. 

For a few blissful seconds, Daryl lay his head back down, allowing himself a moment to regain his strength before pushing himself away from the dirt. Slowly he pulled his leather jacket down his arm, wincing as the fabric scraped across his torn skin and dropped it on top of his fallen bike. His arm bare arm was now crimson; black blood coating the skin around his wound. With his unbroken hand he spun the lid off his flask, tipped half the contents onto his arm and downed the rest of liquid. The bottle rang against the metal of his bike as he tossed it aside and pulled on his vest. He was loosing daylight. 

"Sasha? Abraham you there?" he grunted through the small plastic box that was once on his shoulder. He waited a few seconds but no reply rang out through the speaker. Irritated with the device Daryl threw it towards his leathers and retrieved his crossbow. 

As quickly as the crunch echoed he had his weapon drawn, eyes locked. But his weapon never fired. The only sound for miles was his body hitting the ground. 

Sorry it's taken so long to update guys! I had ridiculous writers block and wanted to make sure you had at least a decent chapter 

-Al