[And geeks closing in fast - or, as fast as a gambolling horde of zombies can, which, when there's no fresh blood in the air, isn't very - on either side of him. Daryl pauses, hefting his unloaded crossbow up to his shoulder but hesitates to mount an arrow onto the shelf. This kid's nothing to him, after all. What does he owe him except maybe a free word of advice?] You best start runnin', son.
Oh, you :3 Thanks! It kinda just came to me.