The Archer and The Airship » 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕕 «

Chapter Forty Five

'If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us..
shall we not revenge?'

-william shakespeare

⤐

  Zeppelin followed the Savior's trail for the better part of two hours, only roughly ten miles out from the clearing in the woods. The trek was relatively easy if she ignored the pulsing ache in her ankle and the way the straps of her weighed down bag cut against her skin. Walkers ambled towards her one at a time now and then, and she sliced them down with ease, growing bored with the way they snarled at her.

  The sky had darkened, thick clouds slowly rolling through the sky. Thankfully the rain hadn't started just yet, but still, she was irritated and on edge, the grumbling thunder above her hindering her ability to listen to her surroundings. She focused on watching the trail, the indents in the packed dirt, the broken grass where the tires smashed through. Every twenty feet, she carved another x into one of the trees.

  'Find a landmark to pin your location. Once you lose your spot, you lose perspective and then the trail won't look the same anymore.'

Daryl pointed his bow to the sycamore tree ahead of them, the lean muscles in his arms tightening as he pulled the trigger. The bright orange fletching of the bolt sticking out of the tree reminded her of the bolt she saw in the woods the day she met him, and she hid her smile. Unsuccessfully. Daryl rapped his fist against her shoulder, his cheeks flushed as he tried to hide his own grin.

  'Come on, Ace, get to it.'

  She was yanked from the memory when she realized she couldn't hear the light chirp of birds anymore, or the hum of insects rustling through the leaves. The forest was quiet, almost eerily so.

  A branch in the distance cracked, once, twice, three times.

A rumbling groan echoed by more.

She side stepped the path and pressed her back against a tree, slowing her breath as she listened. The shuffling footsteps were growing closer, louder. She wouldn't turn to look at them, wouldn't risk them seeing her before she could deduce how many of them were there. Their moans were a chorus now, harmonizing like a fog horn in the woods.

  "Fuck," she breathed. Too many.

She squeezed her eyes shut once, said a quick prayer to whatever was listening, then twisted sharply around the tree with her knife raised.

  So many walkers, too many to even begin to count, stumbled in a mindless direction across from her, headed straight for the dirt path she had been following.

  Too many for the knife. Need to save my bullets. Gonna have to lose them. Can't lose the trail. Think, think, think.

  She grabbed the hatchet from the loop on her belt and flipped it by the handle in her palms a few times as walkers began to notice her, one after the other turning their shuffling feet towards her.