Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 7 - Made to Suffer

Nelly

It's dark by the time we reach the gates. The night sky is a deep, inky black, with only a sliver of the moon barely visible behind thick clouds. The dim lights of the Woodbury community cast eerie shadows on the abandoned street we hide out on, the faint glow barely illuminating the surrounding area. The stillness of the night is unnerving, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves in the cold wind.

The five of us crouch behind an abandoned car on the side of the road, hidden from view but with a clear line of sight to the front gates. The vehicle's rusted frame offers some cover, though the rough texture of the metal is cold against my back. Two men patrol the wall, their silhouettes outlined against the faint light from inside the gates. One of them holds a large rifle, lazily resting it on his shoulder, while the other sweeps a powerful spotlight across the street, its beam cutting through the darkness like a knife.

My eyes scan the guarded wall, taking in the routine of the sentries, then shift to the empty street. I wait, my muscles tensed, for Rick or Michonne to signal a plan. But as the minutes drag on, the others remain still, looking to Rick for guidance. Daryl, Oscar, and Michonne all have their eyes on him, waiting for his move.

I roll my eyes, annoyance bubbling up inside me.

I always have to do everything. 

With one last glance at the wall and then at the group, I silently back away, melting further into the shadows.

Rick lets out a small "psst," trying to get my attention, but I ignore him and continue to circle around Woodbury. The night is my ally, the darkness wrapping around me like a cloak as I make my way to a familiar spot.

I reach the empty townhouse, its windows dark and lifeless. The window I've used before is still slightly cracked open, just as I left it. Quickly, I head back to where the others are, keeping low to avoid the spotlight that occasionally sweeps over the street.

As I approach, I notice tension in the air. Rick is holding a gun, his aim steady on Michonne, who has her hands raised, her expression calm but her eyes sharp.

I come around the corner, and the three men immediately swing their guns towards me, their eyes wide with surprise. I click my tongue softly, just loud enough to gain their attention without drawing the sentries' notice.

Their guns remain trained on me, but I give a slight nod to the left, gesturing for them to follow. 

I hear their footsteps behind me as I move swiftly. Jumping onto the abandoned car, I reach for the ledge, swinging one leg over before hoisting myself up and being the first to silently enter the room. The others slip in quietly after me, and once Oscar shuts the window behind us, Michonne takes the lead deeper inside. She opens a wooden slab door that creaks loudly, revealing a simple, dimly lit room with a wooden table and two chairs. The setup is stark, almost like an interrogation room, and I can't help but notice the tension in Michonne's posture as she steps inside.

I follow her, peering around to see her face, anger and something deeper etched into her expression.

"Is this where you were held?" I ask quietly, curiosity lacing my voice.

I feel Rick's strong presence behind me, and it makes me stiffen with discomfort. He nudges me, subtly urging me to step away from Michonne so he can position himself between us.

"I was questioned," she snaps, her voice carrying a weight of bitterness, lost in thought.

My attention drifts to a shelf nearby, cluttered with mason jars filled with various preserved foods. One jar catches my eye—red jam, perhaps—and I pick it up, examining it briefly before setting it back down. My hands move almost on their own, like a curious kid in a store, touching everything within reach. I grab another jar, this one filled with pickles, and shove it into my bag without a second thought.