Daryl's eyes darted down to that pointed finger and he looked, for a moment, like he wanted to reach out and grab it. Bend it backwards and break it. But he set to his pacing again and used the motion to back away like he wasn't actually backing off. The stare he leveled at Newt remained angry, agitated.

"Ain't dead," he repeated in a low growl. "You only... it only makes you one of 'em if you die and no one takes out the brain. That's how it works."

Even here. Even if the fucking porter did make him crave flesh the way a walker did, made it so everything else was less appealing to eat, and freshly spilled blood was like having the dinner bell rung, he wasn't one of them. And he wasn't going to be one unless he died.