Walking With the Dead

“Hey, Princess, still want to learn how to shoot a bow?”

Emma’s turned her attention from her knitting – she was already halfway done with her second hat – and looked up, hardly believing her ears. But sure enough standing in front of her was none other than Daryl Dixon, his crossbow slung over his shoulder.

“Uh…” Emma was at a loss for words. What game is he playing? Emma last spoke to Daryl three days ago, shortly after Sophia’s death. He yelled at her, told her to get lost. Since that moment Emma has avoided Daryl like the plague. But now, here he was, offering to teach her how to shoot a crossbow. Why? Why the sudden change in attitude?

Part of Emma suspected that maybe Daryl wanted to isolate Emma somewhere in the woods and shoot her. It would be easy enough to call it an accident. Emma could see it play out in her head. Daryl would talk about how he and Emma were separated in the forest, and he thought she was a walker. He would shoot her, his arrow landing right between her eyes.

“I thought you wanted to learn,” Daryl said, pulling Emma from her terrifying daydream.

“I did. I mean, I do…”

“Then what’s the problem?”

The problem is that I think you’re trying to kill me. Emma gulped but found her mouth had gone dry. “Nothing.”

“Well then hurry up. I haven’t got all day.” Daryl started to walk away and, after a moment of hesitation Emma packed her knitting in the basket and followed Daryl.

They walked to the far side of Hershel’s property, to the same place she had taken gun safety training from Shane. Daryl had already set up a number of aluminum cans on the far post.

“You ever shoot one of these?”

Emma shook her head. “Never.”

“Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

Emma took this insult and had to bite on her lip to keep from making a remark that might anger Daryl and make him change his mind about teaching her how to shoot.

“Alright. Now listen carefully.”

Daryl went on to list off the different parts of the crossbow. He pointed out to her where the safety was, showed her how to pull back the bowstring and secure it, and finally how to load the bolt. Daryl hefted the crossbow into his arms, showing Emma how to support it against the front of the shoulder and hold it with the opposite arm.

“All you have to do is aim and pull the trigger. Simple as that.” Daryl lowered the crossbow and released the bolt from the trap. He handed the weapon over to Emma.

Emma followed the motions Daryl had shown her. They seemed easy enough. But the moment Emma tried to pull back the bowstring she knew Daryl had been showing off. That thing took a lot of work! The string cut into the pads of her fingers and it took every ounce of upper body strength for her to secure the bowstring in the device.

A relieved grunt escaped her lips and she shook her fingers, burning from the exertion, in the air. Emma was surprised to find she was already breathing heavily and there were beads of sweat on her forehead. Actually, Emma wasn’t too surprised about the sweat part. Even though she had been in Atlanta for months she had never acclimated to the heat and humidity.

Daryl examined the crossbow and gave a seemingly satisfied nod. “Not bad. Now for the hard part.”

“You mean that was easy?”

Was it Emma’s imagination, or did Daryl just smirk? No, Emma didn’t imagine it. The look was fleeting, but the corner of Daryl’s lip definitely sneaked into a smile. The sick pig was actually enjoying seeing her struggle. Emma felt her jaw tighten and the resolve to keep complaints to a minimum bubbled within.

Emma positioned the crossbow in her arms just as Daryl had shown her. It felt awkward and heavy in her hands. Emma could tell that by the pressure placed on her supporting shoulders that by the end of this lesson her muscles were going to ache. Emma reached her hand to the trigger and aimed. But for some reason, she just couldn’t shoot.

“Pull the trigger already,” Daryl growled.

“I can’t! Something doesn’t feel right.” Emma couldn’t identify what was wrong, but she just knew something was off.

Daryl was silent for a moment, then, “Jesus. What hand do you write with?”

“What? What does that have to do with…?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Left. I’m left-handed.”

Daryl shook his head and muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath. “You’re holding it the wrong way. Switch sides.”

“What?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you? You write with your left hand. You shoot pool with your left hand. What hand do you think you ought to aim with when using a cross bow?”

Humiliation burned on Emma’s cheeks and she switched the position of her arms, resting the crossbow against the opposite shoulder. The weapon fit much more naturally. “It’s not my fault. You didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t think I’d have to. College-educated princess like yourself should know by now how to use your own hands.”

Emma had to bite her lip to keep from lashing back at his remark. Any harder and Emma would have drawn blood. Instead, Emma focused her fury into her aim. She concentrated only on the position of the crossbow in her hands, looking only at the target. She exhaled slowly, just like when she used her gun, and pulled the trigger.

First, she heard the THZZZZ as the bolt shot through the air, and then a clear metallic ring as it hit her target. A can fell to the ground.

Emma couldn’t help but smile, feeling pleased with herself. She looked over to Daryl, almost expecting him to compliment her on her first try. Instead, she saw him standing there, arms crossed over his body and head tilted slightly to the right.

“Not bad,” he said.

Emma wanted to bash him over the head with the crossbow. Not bad? Not bad?! I hit the target at twenty yards on my first try! How is that ‘not bad’? But then Emma realized that, for Daryl, “not bad” was the equivalent of “good job, kiddo” for anyone else. So she gave a twisted smiled.

“My aim gets better when I’m angry.”

Daryl, seemingly unfazed by her comment, nodded. “Good to know. Now go get that bolt.”

Daryl made Emma practice her shot at least twenty more times. She had to shoot from differing distances and angles. Sometimes Daryl would be right behind her, yelling insults in her ear (Emma was certain Daryl thoroughly enjoyed that part). If Emma was ever too slow at pulling back the drawstring, which was the part she struggled most with, Daryl would be right beside her, heckling her. But, more often than not, Emma would succeed in hitting the can, and for that she was proud.

Emma was relieved when Daryl said she’d had enough practice for the day. Her arms felt like jelly and her shoulders and biceps were already burning from fatigue. Daryl took the crossbow from Emma, slung it over his shoulder and went to the other side of the field where the bolt had landed. He picked it up, stuck it in his quiver, and started walking to the forest.

Unexpectedly, Daryl turned around. “What’s with the lag?”

What? Was Daryl expecting her to go with him? Emma didn’t understand what was going on. “You said I was done.”

“Yeah, with practice. Now it’s time for the real stuff. Hunting.”

Emma’s heart sank. So she wasn’t done for the day. But she couldn’t back out now. Even though there was a great possibility she won’t be able to move her arms in the morning, Emma had to follow Daryl. She knew enough about Daryl to know that he wasn’t the type to offer things often. This crossbow training was a one-time offer. If she stopped now, that would be the end of it.

Emma let out a heavy sigh and gave her shoulders a long stretch before following Daryl into the forest.