They had run into Negan's clan, very unexpectedly.
Beforehand....Daryl had just experienced a nasty run-in with a lank outcast and his lady, who'd stolen his motorcycle, crossbow and biker jacket, after helping them locate their sickly friend Tina, who'd then gotten attacked unexpectedly by random walkers, after foolishly returning to the battered remains of their former homestead.
Daryl had tried to warn those damned kids. But they wouldn't listen. He'd assumed he'd was doing a good deed. After all, the sick girl Tina, was a hidden diabetic; gone into shock, after witnessing walkers attack what was left of their old caravan. The place littered with only sad remains of what formerly were clan and actual family.
The old Daryl would have told them all "To hell with you. Figure it out yourselves!" But this older, mature Daryl had come to accept family, and had long developed some level of humanity for others. Even those who turned out to be stupid pricks.
And....well to hell with that situation too! He'd tried helping them and Tina. But the damned girl had died. Her own fuckin' foolishness. Her friend had administered her some insulin, after the girl had gone into shock. But upon recovering, Tina just had to nose around the homestead remains.
After being on the road for so long, one would rightly assume that the damned kids knew about the random walkers and what they were capable of. One just didn't let their guard down anymore. Any apocalyptic fool knew that.
But she'd lost her life. And then, her friends suddenly blindsided him.
The young prick, Eric, had pulled a pistol and cocked it. Right at Daryl's head. Normally the redneck hero would have knocked the weapon from the young prick's hand easily. But he was too stunned, after helping them, to react.
At first Daryl thought Eric was kidding around. Young prick had waved that stupid pistol around several times. But this time was no joke. With Tina now gone, it was just he and the girlfriend. They'd reached the open road, and Daryl was mounting his bike, wishing them both well.
Then the young prick had ordered Daryl to hand over his crossbow, and then the bike. Daryl's blood had boiled, but no way was he going to chance it with the kid. He was too smart to pull that play. What one pulls off as being a lousy shot or a rookie, usually is a facade. Carol had succeed that with the Alexandrians.
The final straw was the young prick near yanking the biker jacket right from Daryl's body. The redneck hero had seethed and cursed under his breath, during the process, but did not defend himself. Not with the girlfriend now aiming the pistol at his forehead.
Right then, he would easily have beat the kid's pathetic ass into the ground. But Daryl was far too smart to gamble with a loaded weapon aimed mere feet from his face.
The girlfriend then proudly mounted the back of the bike, as young prick boldly aimed the crossbow at Daryl, almost rather insultingly.
"Don't bother trying to follow us. And don't bother trying to track us down. We know people. We're not alone. And you'll be dead."
Then just as they pulled away, Eric gave Daryl a grisly smile and said, "Sorry 'bout this, man."
"You will be." Daryl uttered back, in his low-tone gravel, his eyes literally piercing vengeance at his new enemies' eyes.
The pricks pulled off down the road, as Eric proudly waved the stolen crossbow in the air, like a trophy. Daryl watched them ride away, wishing to god he'd had a militant rifle airblaster at his disposal. How happily he'd blow those two to Jesus, with absolutely no repentance warranted.
Luckily, he'd been standing mere yards from a huge brush, that he'd noticed from earlier, when leaving the woods with the two kids.
Clearing away the large branches and debris, he'd soon uncovered a 1976 Chevy C60 S/A fuel truck. Presumably loaded with military stile weapons, Daryl's fortune had landed. Climbing inside, the keys happily were still in the ignition. Daryl peeled out of there, and off down the road.
No time to think about those young pricks who'd falsely befriended him and then blindsided him for dry. He had to pick up Abe and Sasha, and then get all of their butts back to Alexandria. They'd been gone for nearly three days now, with little to no radio contact with Rick.
Fuck knows that was the very last thing they'd needed; a search party, out looking for them.
Reaching the dry-post, abandoned Army station, where Abe was waiting inside with Sasha, Daryl yanked the truck up along the side, wasting no time. In a flash, Abe and Sasha were on board, and the Chevy was now flying down the road again. No words spoken among them, nor needed.
Hours, it seemed, instead of only minutes, traveling that long, desolate road, back to Alexandria. Abe finally spoke up. "Think we did pretty well. We make a good team." Sasha and Daryl said nothing in return. Daryl was never one for talk. Much less small talk. And right now, he simply wasn't in the mood.
His human dignity had been stolen from him. The young, smug pricks had stolen his bike, his crossbow, and his prized jacket. Somehow, some way, somewhere, he would find the little bastards, and retrieve his property: dead or alive.
And he was also thinking of Alexandria. Someone he needed to get back to; to get home to. Someone he'd been meaning to talk to, about things. Someone who was now his entire universe.
Someone whom had long, patiently taught the stubborn redneck hero about Love.