Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 1 - Walk with Me

Nelly

I hit the fucking jackpot.

A smile creeps across my face as I stare at the cabinet full of canned food. For a moment, the hollow pit in my stomach tightens with anticipation, a primal urge for sustenance clawing at me. I rip open my empty bag, the fabric rough against my fingers, and start shoving cans inside—corn, beans, carrots, chicken noodle soup. Each can feels like a small victory.

My eyes land on a can of alphabet soup, and for a moment, the past comes rushing back—my mom used to make this for me when I was sick. I shake off the thought, but the memory clings to me like a shadow. A dry laugh escapes my lips, the sound foreign in the quiet house. I pull out my hunting knife, now more an extension of myself than just a tool. The blade is as sharp as my instincts, honed by months of survival. I stab it into the lid, peeling the metal back with a flick of my wrist. The edge of the can slices into my palm, but the pain is distant, barely a whisper compared to the gnawing hunger.

I tip the can to my lips, gulping down the cold, metallic-tasting broth. It's disgusting, but it's fuel. The liquid dribbles down my chin, staining my shirt, but I don't care. I needed this. For a brief second, as the soup coats my throat, I'm not just a hunter or a survivor—I'm a human being again. But that moment passes quickly, and the memory fades, swallowed up by the darkness I've tried so hard to bury.

The empty can clatters to the floor as I toss it aside, its hollow echo bouncing off the walls. I move through the house with purpose, searching every nook and cranny. I find a few pots, some pans, and a clean water bottle—small treasures in a world where everything is a fight for survival.

With my pack full of food and supplies, I make my way back to camp. I've kept myself at a considerable distance from the prison. The group of survivors there—they're weak. Out in the open like that, they don't stand a chance. They've got walls and towers, sure, but walls don't mean shit if you don't know how to protect them.

I've been watching them, assessing their weaknesses, calculating how long they'll last before the dead or something worse gets to them. The breach on the west side—it's only a matter of time before it gives. I'll wait them out. There's only so many ways in and out, and when the time comes, I'll be ready.

Mid-day sun filters through the trees as I make my way back, the shadows stretching long and thin across the ground. I know the way by heart, every root and rock committed to memory. I'll reach my camp by sunrise if I keep a steady pace.

Suddenly, a loud crash shakes the earth beneath my feet, the noise sending a flock of birds screeching into the sky. My head snaps up, eyes narrowing at the dark gray smoke curling into the air a mile or two away. Instinctively, I crouch low, senses on high alert, scanning the horizon for any signs of danger.

The smoke rises in the distance, a beacon of chaos in the otherwise still landscape. I tighten my grip on my rifle, the cold metal comforting against my shoulder. The weapon's heavy, but I've gotten used to the weight—like I've gotten used to everything else.

I stay close to the trees as I hear the low rumble of an engine. Two trucks speed past me, kicking up dust as they head straight for the crash site. I watch them disappear into the woods, the sound of their engines fading into the distance.

Once the coast is clear, I sprint across the road, my eyes locked on the trail of smoke. I follow it like a hunter tracking prey, moving silently through the underbrush. A few dead ones stumble into my path, but they're no match for me. I take them down with ease, the familiar dance of blade and bone playing out in seconds.