Chapter 9: The Brothers Dixon
POV: Daryl Dixon
Daryl spits tobacco juice and checks his crossbow string for the third time this morning. The EMT city boy volunteers for hunting, which means either Scott's got balls or he's stupid. Probably both.
"Ain't gonna be no picnic out there," Daryl grunts, shouldering his pack. "You sure you can keep up?"
Scott nods, hefting his crowbar. Kid's got decent gear—hunting knife, sturdy boots, knows enough to wear earth tones. Might not be completely hopeless.
Merle snorts from behind them. "Look at teacher's pet, all eager to play outdoorsman. Bet he's never seen blood that didn't come from some candy-ass accident."
"Shut up, Merle," Daryl mutters, but his brother's already warming to the theme.
"What d'you think, little brother? City boy gonna cry first time he gets deer guts on his pretty hands?"
Scott stays quiet, which is smart. Merle's looking for a reaction, and backing down won't satisfy him, but neither will fighting. Kid seems to understand the game.
They move into the woods, Daryl taking point automatically. Behind him, Scott follows without complaint, keeping noise to minimum. That's something, at least. Most of these camp folks stomp through the forest like they're announcing themselves to every walker in Georgia.
The trail's three hours old, white-tail doe by the size of the tracks. Daryl reads the signs like words on a page—broken twig here, disturbed leaves there, the faint musk scent leading deeper into the forest.
"How d'you know it went this way?" Scott asks quietly.
Daryl pauses, surprised by the genuine interest. Most people don't want to learn, just want him to provide meat and shut up about it.
"Track's pressed deep here," Daryl explains, pointing to an indentation in the soft earth. "Front hooves dug in, means it was moving fast. Probably spooked by something. And see this?" He indicates a broken branch at shoulder height. "Deer trail, they use the same paths over and over."
Scott nods, studying the sign. "Makes sense. Animals are creatures of habit."
"Just like people," Daryl agrees. The boy actually listens, doesn't act like he already knows everything. That's rare.
Merle crashes through the underbrush behind them. "Y'all gonna stand around jawin' all day, or we gonna kill something?"
POV: Scott
They track the deer for two more miles, Daryl teaching and Scott learning. The hunter knows these woods like a man knows his own living room, reading stories in bent grass and scratched bark.
[SKILL PROGRESSION: TRACKING +15%]
[DARYL DIXON: TRUST +10]
Scott ignores the System notifications, focusing on Daryl's instruction. This is real skill, earned knowledge that doesn't come from interface upgrades. The kind of competence that matters when technology fails.
"There," Daryl whispers, raising his crossbow.
The doe stands fifty yards ahead, head down, grazing in a small clearing. Beautiful animal, alert but unaware. Daryl's breathing slows, steadies. His finger finds the trigger.
The bolt takes the deer clean through the heart. It drops without suffering, Daryl's shot precise and merciful. Professional work.
"Nice shooting," Scott says, and means it.
Daryl just grunts, but Scott catches the flash of satisfaction. Compliments are rare for the prickly hunter.
POV: Merle Dixon
Merle watches his little brother skin the deer, noting how the EMT boy doesn't flinch from blood and bone. Kid's got steady hands, knows his way around a blade. Military maybe, or just grew up rough.
"You done this before," Merle observes, not making it a question.
Scott looks up from the carcass. "Some. EMT work, you see plenty of trauma. And my dad hunted when I was young."
Truth and lies mixed together, Merle thinks. Kid's hiding something, but then again, everyone's hiding something these days. Question is whether it matters.
"Where'd you grow up?" Merle presses.
"Rural Alabama. Small town, nothing special."
Could be true. Could be bullshit. Scott's hands work efficiently, sectioning meat with practiced skill. Merle's spent enough time around con men and liars to recognize the signs, but this boy's different. Not trying to sell anything, just trying to fit in.
"Alabama, huh? What part?"
Scott pauses just a fraction too long. "Near Birmingham. Like I said, nothing special."
Definitely hiding something, but Merle finds he doesn't much care. Boy saved Daryl from those walkers in the pharmacy, risked his own neck for someone he barely knew. That counts for more than whatever secrets he's carrying.
"Well, city boy," Merle says, offering a rare grin without menace, "you ain't completely useless."
POV: Daryl Dixon
On the way back, Scott suggests they take the long way around a ridge instead of cutting straight across.
"Looks unstable," he explains, pointing to loose scree and recent erosion.
Merle bristles immediately. "I been hunting these woods since before you could wipe your own ass, boy. Don't need some city EMT telling me—"
"Merle," Daryl cuts him off. "Kid's got a point. That slope's been washing out since the heavy rains."
But his brother's already worked up, the familiar anger that comes when anyone questions his judgment. Merle shoves Scott hard enough to stagger him.
"Know-it-all pussy," Merle snarls. "Think you're better than us, with your fancy medical training and—"
Daryl steps between them before it escalates. "Enough."
"He's making you soft," Merle accuses. "Whole damn camp's making you soft. We don't belong with these people, little brother."
"Scott's alright," Daryl says firmly. "He listens. Shows respect."
Merle's face goes ugly. "Since when you care about respect from city folks? They look down on us, Daryl. Always have, always will."
"Not him," Daryl insists, and realizes he means it. Scott treats him like his opinions matter, asks real questions instead of just tolerating him until he provides meat for the pot.
"You're pussy-whipped by the whole lot of 'em," Merle spits.
"And you're being an ass."
The words hang in the air between them. Merle's eyes narrow dangerously, but something in Daryl's stance—protective, determined—makes him back down.
"Fine," Merle says finally. "But when they turn on us—and they will—don't come crying to me."
He stalks off ahead, leaving Daryl and Scott alone on the trail.
"Sorry about that," Daryl mutters. "Merle's... complicated."
"Family usually is," Scott says quietly.
Daryl glances at him, noting the understanding in the younger man's voice. Maybe Scott knows something about complicated families too.
They walk in comfortable silence until camp comes into view, the smell of woodsmoke and the sound of voices carrying through the trees. Home, such as it is.
POV: Scott
That night, Daryl settles beside Scott at the fire, accepting his portion of venison with a grunt of satisfaction.
"You're alright," Daryl says quietly. "For a city boy."
High praise from the taciturn hunter. Scott feels the weight of genuine friendship forming, something that transcends System mechanics and relationship counters.
[DARYL DIXON: RESPECTED FRIEND - 65/100]
[NEW QUEST UNLOCKED: THE DIXON SITUATION]
[MERLE DIXON: HOSTILE TOLERANCE - 15/100]
Across the fire, Shane watches their interaction with calculating eyes. Every ally Scott makes is another perceived threat to Shane's authority, another complication in the delicate balance of camp politics.
The game's getting more complex. But for the first time since arriving at camp, Scott has a real friend watching his back.
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