Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 11 - Clear

Nelly

The car ride has been silent for the past thirty minutes, the kind of silence that's deafening and heavy, weighted with unsaid tension. Michonne drives, her expression bored, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel while the other props up her head. Rick sits in the passenger seat, his eyes locked on the road ahead, but I catch him occasionally glancing at Michonne or me. I'm in the back with Carl, the two of us lost in our own thoughts. The tension palpable, a reminder of the looming war we've started.

We're heading to a nearby town I haven't cleared out yet, hoping to find more guns. But it's hard to shake the feeling that no matter how many weapons we gather, it won't be enough. We don't have enough people. We don't stand a chance.

My brows knit together as I stare out the window, the grim reality of our situation weighing heavily on me. The faint sound of a scream pulls me back. I look up to see a man on the side of the road, jumping up and down, waving his arms to get our attention. His backpack clanks with the sound of pots and pans, a desperate plea in the middle of nowhere.

Without a word, Michonne drives right past him. None of us even consider stopping. In the rearview mirror, I watch as the man sprints after us, his figure growing smaller and smaller until he collapses on the road, out of sight, out of mind. We crest a hill, leaving him and his screams far behind.

It's not long before we approach a wreck on the road, a chaotic tangle of cars spread out, blocking part of the road. Vehicles lie upside down, their windshields shattered, and clothes and valuables scattered across the asphalt. Car parts are strewn everywhere, and doors hang open, revealing a few of the dead still strapped into their seats, heads lolling lifelessly. The scene is a snapshot of destruction, frozen in time.

Michonne slows the car, steering us around the wreckage, the tires crunching over debris as she veers onto the dirt shoulder. My dull eyes fix on a walker nearby, struggling to reach us, its leg trapped beneath an overturned car. Its arms stretch out, groaning with all the mindless determination of the dead, but it's going nowhere.

The tires sputter as Michonne presses on the gas, but we don't move. I close my eyes in irritation at the inconvenience, the side of my head resting against the cold window. I glance at Rick, his gaze intense as he watches Michonne work the wheel. Carl sits beside me, his face a mix of frustration and irritation. I can see he really dislikes Michonne, though I can't quite figure out why.

After a few more futile attempts, Michonne gives up, the tires spinning uselessly in the mud.

The silence inside the car is broken by a sudden bang on the windshield. A walker slams into the glass, snarling at us with feral hunger. Then another, and another, until they're surrounding the car, their hands smacking against the windows, teeth gnashing.

The one at my window, a woman in a tattered blue dress with hair still braided in a French braid, catches my attention. My mind drifts for a moment, recalling how my mother used to braid my hair like that before church. The walker growls, its yellowed, rotten teeth snapping at the glass. Its filthy fingers, still caked with the remnants of decaying flesh, scrape the window with a manic energy.

It's ironic, really—these dead things outside have more life in them than anyone in this car.

My face shifts, intrigued by the walker, and I catch Carl's eyes on me. He frowns, clearly wondering what I find so interesting. I offer no explanation, my expression remaining stoic as I turn back to the snarls outside.

None of us are particularly worried about the dead trapping us. It's more of an annoyance than anything. Rick pulls out his gun, his voice cutting through the tension as he speaks to us, but especially to Carl, "Cover your ears."