Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 6 - When the Dead Come Knocking

Nelly

The closer we get to the prison, the louder the groans of the dead become, each one a low, guttural sound. The overgrown grass beneath our feet swishes with every step, and the distant clang of metal against decaying hands makes my pulse quicken. The looming structure of the prison, with its high fences and towering watchtowers, becomes more ominous with each passing moment.

The undead are packed tightly against the fence, their fingers clawing at the chain links, desperate to get in. The fence groans under the pressure of their weight, but it holds. For now. There must be at least fifty of those things, maybe more, pressing up against the barriers. I

I didn't think about what would happen if Carl mentioned anything about me to his group. A cold sweat breaks out on my skin as I realize how badly I've underestimated this.

I stop in my tracks, waiting for Michonne to catch up. My mind races, trying to formulate a new plan, knowing this one was poorly thought out from the start. When she finally reaches my side, her eyes stay locked on the heavily gated prison.

"What do we do next?" she asks, her voice a mix of exhaustion and determination.

I switch the basket over to my left hand and reach out, tugging Michonne closer to me. My arm slips around her waist, and I bear more of her weight, feeling her lean heavily on me. Her breath hitches in pain, and I can feel the tremble in her body.

"We try to get someone to open the gate," I say flatly, my tone betraying the doubt I feel. The words come out dry, barely believable even to me.

"And if that doesn't work?" she mutters, irritation and doubt lacing her voice.

"Then we go through the back," I glare at her, the sharpness in my voice cutting through the tension as I start leading us down the gravel path. I would've taken us to the back first, but I have a feeling she wouldn't make it with her wound.

As we pass rotter after rotter, I can't help but cringe at the sight of them. Their skin hangs in tatters, bloody and raw, as they growl and snarl. Most of them are too preoccupied with the fence to notice us, their dead eyes glazed over as they claw at the barrier. But a few of them glance our way, before returning to their futile attempts to breach the fence. The stench of decay is overpowering, but I silently thank whatever higher power is out there that Michonne is covered in gore, allowing us to blend in.

I squint up at the watchtowers, scanning from one to the next. No one is on watch, and the courtyard looks deserted. I can't help but feel a pang of unease—this place should be more secure. Something's off.

I quicken my pace, trying to put some distance between us and the dead while heading toward the fence. As we approach, I spot a figure walking down the field. When he gets closer, I see it's the cowboy.

I tighten my grip on Michonne, pulling her closer as we near the fence and the growing horde of undead. The man stops right in front of us, his pistol hanging by his side. The rotters' snarls get louder, more frantic, as they sense fresh prey just beyond their reach. I side-eye the dead, feeling them getting closer, dragging us nearer with every step. Michonne's hand clutches the fence for stability, her knuckles white, while my grip tightens on the basket, my weapons, and the weight of Michonne leaning on me all taking a toll.

The man's eyes meet mine, and they travel down my body to the red basket in my hand. His gaze flickers with confusion before landing on the baby formula. A flash of recognition crosses his face, followed by worry as he looks over at Michonne. His eyes trace the bloodstains and the way she favors her injured leg before returning to me.