Don't Get Dead | TWD | Volume 1

[4] It's Complicated

The week dragged on slowly—painfully slow, I might add. I kept myself busy with chores and activities with the kids, but I always ran out of things to do. The boredom was the worst of it. I had to keep busy, or else I'd start thinking about him.

There was still no information on my dad.

Everyone in the group was okay, for the most part. There was this blonde girl named Amy, she was nice. I thought we were closer in age until she mentioned being in college. I didn't like her older sister, Andrea. She was a bit condescending and was constantly hovering over Amy any chance she got. That's not to say that she was mean or anything.

You know the people you meet, and you just don't like them for some reason? There's not even a reason; you just can't get on with them? That's how I felt about Carl's mother, Lori. She was friendly yet overbearing, causing me to wonder if that was a bad thing or not. I heard about how her husband died, so I tried to keep that into account.

Walking up the hill towards camp, I gripped a bucket of water in each hand. There wasn't a lot to do, so I found myself collecting some water to boil. Going down was the easy part, carrying two full buckets of water up one of the steepest hills I've seen; that was something else. I had to stop a few times, sit down or put the buckets on the ground.

Almost there, my brain coaxed, when I made it to the top of the hill.

No less than ten meters from the campfire, Glenn appeared beside me, taking one of the buckets from my hand. I opened my mouth to make a comment, even considered taking the bucket back. Instead, I just let it go. Glenn was too nice for me to be mean.

"Thank you."

"No problem," he smiled.

We walked together. I dropped my bucket next to the fire, shaking my hand up and down to get rid of the ache. The palm of my hand had a red stripe across the middle, which turned white when I pressed my thumb to the skin. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, letting out a sigh.

Glenn copied my action, putting the bucket down beside my own. "I'm heading to Atlanta soon, is there anything you need before I go?"

I shook my head, "I don't know, maybe just something to do."

He nodded and rubbed his chin. "Maybe—"

"—SHIT!"

Glenn spun around, and I stepped to the side to see past him. The source of the outburst—Merle Dixon—had just kicked the ground, causing dirt to fly up at his ankles.

"What's his problem?" Glenn muttered rhetorically. We both knew the answer, so I didn't reply.

Merle's voice dropped lower as he continued swearing. I caught a few fun curses, along with some entertaining comments on his bike. He was standing over a partly dismantled Triumph Chopper and a box of tools that I knew belonged to Dale.

Guess it's still broken, I thought to myself. It wasn't the first time I saw him messing with it. I could see him getting more and more agitated any time he worked, which didn't bode well for the bike, considering that he ended up taking his anger out on it. He would never get it fixed that way, and I had to keep telling myself it wasn't my problem.

Glenn scoffed and shook his head, turning back to me. "I should get going. I'll keep an eye out for something in Atlanta. See you later."

I smiled and waved a hand at him as he turned to walk to the motorhome, grabbing his bag that was leaning against the tyre. He started walking to where Shane was standing, talking to some other members in camp.

Looking back at the motorcycle, I started thinking about what might have been wrong with it. It couldn't be the spark plug. When he tried starting the bike, the engine did actually ignite. The problem was keeping the engine running, which could mean the problem was in the battery or the alternator. There was no way of knowing for sure unless I actually had the chance to look at it.