Eternally Yours || Daryl Dixon

|6|

The silence was deafening, making Lucy feel like she was losing her mind. She was prepared to be alone, a beautiful lie she told herself, but now that it was happening, she felt like she was going crazy. Since leaving, she'd been paranoid that Merle would track her down and drag her back to Woodbury, but so far, the coast had been clear. Merle was a fantastic tracker, and he would easily be able to find her, but still, she made sure to wrap her boots in pieces of clothing that she'd taken off truly dead deadites along the way. It made her tracks faint but didn't erase them completely.

That night, she found herself unable to relax and get some much-needed rest. Every bristle of the wind brushing past the trees, every scamper of animals near her put her on edge. Her fingers were unwavering as she tightly gripped her hatchet, her eyes continuously scanning the wilderness beyond her little fire. At that moment, she mentally scolded herself for not taking Merle, Martinez, and Shumpert's offers to go on overnight hunting trips. A whole year without spending a single night in the woods has really hindered her, and it's showing.

The main question buzzing around in her sleep-deprived brain was also a major cause for concern: Where was she going, and what was her goal? She didn't have a plan other than getting as far away from Woodbury as possible when she set out. So far, she was only three miles away from the nearest town, about a good six miles away from Woodbury. But as she was getting closer to accomplishing her goal of putting distance between her and the Governor, what was next? Could she really hop from town to town? She knew first-hand how hard it is to survive without a permanent home, but could she do this alone? What happens if she were to run into a group that's worse than the Governor?

A shiver tore through her as the thought crossed her mind. It was entirely possible to encounter people that were far worse than Philip! Despite thinking that Philip was the worst of the worst, her logical side knew that there were people far more evil; Philip was just the tip of the iceberg. What would he do to her if he managed to bring her back home? Would he punish her by forcing her to do undesirable jobs around the community? Hurt her? Or, would he force someone to kill her for deserting him and the community? All bets were on the latter.

The night soon transformed into the day, sleep never finding the lone woman once. Her mind kept reeling with scenarios – specifically those pertaining to what would happen to her if Philip got his hands on her; each thought was worse than the next. When the sun finally started peaking through the dark sky, illuminating it in shades of orange, reds, pinks, and various blues, Lucy wasted no time gathering her stuff. She made sure the rifle slung around her torso had the safety on and secured with the silencer she stole from the armory. At this point, the weapon was more for people than the dead. The distance between her and Woodbury was substantial, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. As the sun steadily rose, the heat came with it, causing beads of sweat to dribble down Lucy's light brown skin.

Her legs felt like jelly as the morning turned into a blisteringly hot afternoon, and her mouth was as dry as the Sahara desert. As if things couldn't get any worse for the quickly fatiguing woman, a group of ten deadites shambled forward. The wind blew, wafting her sweaty, fresh-meat scent their way and catching their undead attention. She swore under her breath and reached for her sheathed hatchet, her sweaty palm clutching the rubber grip. Making no attempt to move, Lucy kept her ground and studied the group of ten, trying to figure out the smartest plan of attack.

The first of the deadites reached her, its arms outstretched and teeth snapping, hellbent on tasting flesh. Lucy quickly moved out of the way and shot her leg out, her foot kicking the undead's knee out from under it. A nasty snap hit her ears, making her groan in disgust as the bone poked through the decaying skin. With a swift swing of her hatchet, the first of ten went down – truly dead. Lucy spun as another deadite reached for her, her hatchet immediately sinking in its skull and getting stuck. A swear escaped her cracked lips, and her fingers quickly reached for the knives she always kept tucked away in her boots. The first knife went flying through the air, deeply embedding in the head of another deadite while Lucy swung at the ones closest to her. Five, six, seven down like flies, quickly taken down by the woman.