Walking With the Dead

“Well that sure took you long enough,” Dale mentioned when Emma and Glenn emerged from the forest some two hours after they left to do their fake chore. Dale was eyeing them suspiciously, but Emma shrugged it off.

“We got a teensy bit lost,” she covered before Glenn could get a word in. Emma loved Glenn as a friend, but the boy couldn’t lie to save his life.

“Got lost, huh?” Dale looked over their shoulders and into the sparse beginnings of the forest. His clear eyes read that he didn’t believe them, but Emma knew he wouldn’t say anything. Emma had the feeling that Dale knew secrets about everyone, and while Emma wanted to believe Dale would keep them to himself, sometimes she wasn’t so sure.

There was a girl Emma went to high school with who would compile as much gossip and secrets as possible. She would then use those secrets as blackmail in order to get people to do what she wanted. It was dirty, and Emma hated herself for thinking Dale would be capable of blackmail, but at the same time she had to understand that these were times of hardship, and people didn’t always act altruistically. Emma had a black eye to prove that point.

“Well I am glad the two of you made it back safely,” Dale said with a slow grin. “We were starting to get worried. Anyways, Hershel’s been asking for you, Emma. He wants to take another look at your eye.”

“Oh, right.” Emma had completely forgotten that she was supposed to meet with Hershel around noon. Judging from the position of the sun, she was late. “Here, can you take these?” Emma asked Glenn, not waiting for an answer before dumping her small pile of kindling into Glenn’s arms. Then she rushed off to the farmhouse. She barged in the door without knocking.

“You’re late,” Hershel commented the moment she walked into his study. Normally Emma would meet with Hershel in the kitchen, but Lori and Carol were already in there. Apparently they were going to be making dinner tonight, and everyone was invited to share.

“Sorry. I was caught up in some chores.”

“Never mind excuses. Take a seat and let’s get started.”

Hershel shined a flashlight in Emma’s eyes and made her follow his finger as he moved it around. He pressed his hands against her face, causing her to wince in pain as she was still swollen.

“Well, everything seems to be healing up quite nicely. Just keep applying ointment twice a day and—“

CRAAAAAAAACK.

The sound echoed through the air and seemed to shake Emma’s bones. Suddenly she was on high alert. “What was that?” Emma asked weakly, even though she knew exactly what the sound was. A gunshot.

Hershel was immediately standing at the front door, looking out. Lori and Carol had joined him, looking out the window. Suddenly Carol gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. “It’s Daryl.”

What? That caught Emma’s attention. She hurried to the front porch where everyone was standing. It was hard to see from a distance, but Rick and Shane were both dragging a humanoid figure between them, coming towards the farmhouse. Is that really Daryl? Emma asked. It sure didn’t look like him. The figure was limp, covered in dirt and blood. What happened?

Hershel didn’t waste any time before charging into action. “Emma, I want you to start boiling a pot of water and strip the upstairs bed.”

Hershel’s orders shot through her just like the sound of the gunshot did. Emma looked to Hershel with wide eyes, her body trembling. “Me?”

“You wanted to learn first aid, am I correct?”

“Well, yes, b-but…”

“Consider this your first test,” he said, and then disappeared into his study to fetch his medical kit.

Emma wasted all of two seconds, standing on the porch in complete shock before her body allowed her to follow the instructions Hershel had given. She ran into the kitchen, put a pot of water on the stove and then ran upstairs where she cleared the quilts off the bed, exposing clean sheets. Moments later Rick and Shane were in the room, helping an unconscious Daryl into the room. Hershel was right behind them.

“Andrea shot him. Thought he was a walker,” Rick explained. “Just grazed him though. Here, just above his ear.” Rick pointed out the mess of gore along Daryl’s left temple.

“What happened there?” Emma asked, pointing to Daryl’s side which was also damp with blood.

“Hell if I know. The guy was out in the forest, looking for Sophia. Looks like he fell or something. Got pretty banged up,” Shane responded.

“Thank you. Emma and I can take it from here,” Hershel said, and the pair left. Hershel bent over Daryl and looked at the wounds. “Looks like he is going to need some stitches. Ah, Patricia. Thank you. You can place those over there,” Hershel said, motioning to the bedside table.

Patricia had just walked in with a bowl of steaming water and a stack of neatly folded towels. She placed them on the table.

“I am going to go wash up and prepare my sutures. In the meantime, Emma, can you strip Mr. Dixon and clean his wounds?”

Emma was blown away by Hershel’s request. “S-s-strip?”

Hershel showed no sign of acknowledging Emma’s immense discomfort. “In the medical field one must be comfortable with the human body. There is no gender on the operating table, only wounds.” And then, without offering any additional words of advice, he left.

Emma couldn’t believe what was going on. She was in a mild state of shock. Everything was happening so fast she couldn’t make sense of it. It was only three days ago when Daryl had almost killed her, and now it was her responsibility to strip and clean him? What would happen if Daryl woke up to find her pulling down his drawers? There wasn’t a doubt in Emma’s mind that that would be the last thing she did.

Come on, Em. You can do this. You need to do this. Besides, Daryl’s unconscious. If you work quick enough you can finish everything and be out of here before he knows what happens. Just be quick. With that silent pep-talk, Emma got to work.

Emma started by carefully dabbing around Daryl’s temple, exposing a gash about three inches long but, thankfully, not deep enough to have harmed any bone. Daryl would have a gnarly scar once all this was done, but that was better than the alternative. Emma used a pair of clippers and carefully trimmed the hair around the wound to make it easier to suture. Once that was done, Emma started to wash away the dirt and grime from his face. She paused as she exposed three thin pink lines on his cheek, the only evidence on Daryl’s body that they had been in a fight.

The scratches are healing nicely, she commented mentally. That made her glad. She would have felt bad if she had scarred his face. Daryl’s ugly enough as it is, she thought, even though she knew it wasn’t true.

Actually… Emma looked at Daryl’s face. When he’s not scowling or cursing under his breath, he actually doesn’t look that bad. Emma felt the back of her neck burn hot when she felt her mind slipping into dangerous territory. She quickly returned to her work.

Thankfully, Daryl wore a button-up shirt, so that was easy to remove. She was able to pull off his jeans – which were about two sizes too big for him – without problem. As for his drawers, Emma pulled those off with one eye closed, and she made sure to cover him up with a towel before she saw anything. Even though she didn’t see anything, her face was still beet red.

After that it was easy for Emma to slip into a professional mindset. She no longer had any problems as she switched towels and started wiping away the dirt from Daryl’s chest. Which, Emma noted, isn’t bad at all. Emma switched towels and gently dabbed at the thick blood coating Daryl’s side. The wound pierced entirely through his body. Daryl sure is lucky. If that hole were an inch to the right it would’ve pierced his liver. Emma looked down at Daryl with a frown, a sense of unease pulling at her consciousness. Something very bad must have happened for Daryl to get into this shape.

Without warning, a firm hand reached out and grasped around her wrist. Fear shot through her like a bullet, and she was paralyzed, too scared to even speak. She dared to move her eyes and she saw Daryl looking at her, bleary-eyed. A confused scowl grew on his face.

“What d’ ya think yer doin’, Princess?” he slurred.

“You’ve been shot. I’m just cleaning you before Hershel stitches you up.”

Emma could see it took Daryl a moment to comprehend what she said. Emma tried to pull her hand away, but Daryl’s grip tightened. She had to hand it to the guy: even though he’d almost died today, he still had a great deal of strength.

“Why you?” he rasped.

Emma finally shook her hand free. “Think of it this way: who would you rather have washing your junk? An old white guy, or me?”

There was a flicker of light in Daryl’s eyes that Emma couldn’t understand. Respect? Intrigue? Or was it simply another look of rage, and Emma just gave Daryl another reason to put her in a headlock? Emma set her face with hard determination, not wanting Daryl to see through her façade and see she was actually trembling. Emma resumed cleaning around Daryl’s wound.

Thankfully Hershel returned just moments later, and Daryl was reduced to a cursing heap as his flesh was tied together. Once finished, Hershel gave Daryl a couple pain pills and a drink of cough syrup to knock him out for a couple hours. Hershel left shortly after that, and Emma collected Daryl’s dirty clothes so she could take them downstairs to be washed. Emma was about to leave Daryl to rest when she heard his voice call out.

“Princess…”

Emma turned around. His voice was so soft she almost thought she’d imagined it. But, as she turned around she saw he was looking right at her. There was something in his face Emma had never seen before. It was a look of sadness, and of vulnerability. The look paralyzed Emma. She had no idea what to do or what to say. Why is he looking at me like that?

Thankfully, Emma never had to find the answer to that question, because at that moment Daryl fell into a drug-induced sleep. When she heard his soft snores Emma let out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding. What was that all about?

Emma didn’t wait around long enough to find out. She ducked out of the room and tossed Daryl’s clothes into the communal laundry pile, and immediately went to sit out on the porch. For some reason, her heart was pounding against her chest.