Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 5 - Hounded

Nelly

As I close in on the source of the sound, my grip tightens around the stock of my rifle, the barrel feels solid against my shoulder.

The sound of whimpering cuts through the air, breaking my focus on the rifle. I slide it down my back and switch my attention to the blades sheathed at my sides. I draw them with practiced ease, their sharp edges glinting in the dim light as I advance cautiously.

My steps slow as I approach the source of the crying. There, amidst the scattered debris of battle, is a kid—probably around fifteen or sixteen. His clothes are tattered, and his face is streaked with dirt and tears. Surrounding him are the bodies of fallen men: two decapitated and several others dismembered, their limbs grotesquely sprawled across the ground.

A voice breaks through the scene, filled with impatience. "Let's go. She's hit."

My gaze shifts to the man, who is now adjusting a fresh clip into his weapon with a practiced flick of his hand. He walks towards the boy, who is trembling and hyperventilating.

"...Slowed her down," the Merle mutters, his tone clipped as he prepares to leave.

The boy's panicked whimpers echo through the forest. "Tim and Crowley, they—"

The pirate cuts him off, his voice tinged with urgency. "We're close to the red zone. Those shots just pulled every biter in this area our way. Let's go. Get up."

The boy struggles to catch his breath, clearly overwhelmed by the situation. The man's commanding presence and harsh words seem to push the kid further into a state of fear and disarray.

My eyes narrow at the mention of "she." The pieces of the puzzle begin to click together—they're hunting someone. The urgency in the pirate's voice, the way he's rallying his men.

The kid's fear escalates as Merle kicks him roughly onto his back. "Now you're going to rise to the occasion, son. Some serious shit's going down. I need you here. You read me, amigo? I don't want you to die."

"Y-yes, yes," he manages, his voice barely more than a whisper. He starts to rise to his feet.

The man, satisfied with the response, releases him with a shove. "Get up. Now you know we don't ever let our own turn. Never." He pockets his gun and uses his metal hand blade to clean up the mess of his fallen friends. The blade gleams ominously in the light.

"Atta boy. Come on, let's get going. She ain't running, she's hunting. So are we." He helps the boy to his feet, pushing him along the path they came from, his movements brusque but purposeful.

I wait a full minute, ensuring they are well ahead. Then, I rise from my hiding spot, resolve hardening. I follow their trail, moving silently through the darkened woods.  My grip on the rifle tightens once more, ready for whatever comes next.

I follow the two men with relative ease. Their loud voices and the trail of dead corpses they've left behind make tracking them simple.

"Move!"

The raspy command propels me forward, my steps quickening as grunts and groans guide me to the scene.

The woman with dreadlocks is sprawled on the ground, her back arched in a fierce kick to the redneck's groin. The impact is visceral, and I can almost feel the thud of her foot against his body. The redneck's face contorts in pain as he collapses, groaning. My gaze darts to the boy on the ground, his face smeared with dirt and blood, clutching a slash on his chest. His breathing is ragged, each inhale a struggle.