Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 27 - Them

Nelly

I don't have it in me to tell Rick about Washington. Everyone is out of hope already, clinging to this last thread that we're headed somewhere that might save us. I can't take that away from them, and I have nothing to replace it with. Everyone's riding on Washington being our salvation, our endgame.

So I say nothing.

Since Tyreese died, I haven't spoken to anyone—Rick, Daryl, Michonne... I haven't spoken at all. There's nothing to say, nothing that will make any of this better. The weight of everything feels like it's bearing down on me, suffocating me from the inside.

We're sixty miles outside of Washington when we run out of gas. But we ran out of food long before that, and water has been a distant memory. The humidity in the air clings to our skin, making the heat almost unbearable. The creeks and streams are dried up, the earth cracked and barren, offering us nothing. It feels like the world has given up on us.

After Tyreese died, my shirt was drenched in his blood, a permanent reminder of what happened. Michonne gives me an extra shirt she has, but it's a tank top, leaving my scars exposed to everyone. At first, I'm uncomfortable, self-conscious, but no one pays much attention. They don't care—how could they? We're all dehydrated, starving, too tired to care about scars, about appearances.

We split up into groups to search for water, food—anything that could keep us going. I end up with Sasha, Maggie, and Daryl. Sasha and Maggie are barely holding on, both haunted by the recent loss of their siblings. Daryl hasn't looked at me, hasn't spoken to me, since Beth... since we lost her. There's a silence between us that feels like a wall—solid, unbreakable.

I wander alone as we search, lazily dragging my feet as I scour the dried-up earth for any sign of water. My skin is sticky with sweat and grime, the thin tank top clinging to me like a second skin, making the heat unbearable. My scars, once something I tried so hard to hide, are just another part of me now—no more significant than the dirt covering my skin.

I find a small depression in the dirt where a creek should be. Kneeling, I press my hands into the soil, hoping for something, anything. But the ground is bone dry. Not even a hint of moisture.

I let out a disappointed sigh, sinking to the ground as exhaustion pulls at every muscle in my body. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the relentless sun beating down on me.

Why is it, no matter what I do, I always end up here? Starving, hungry, no real place to go. No matter how hard I try, how much I fight, I always end up on the edge of survival, scraping by with nothing. Only this time, I'm not alone. This time, I have a group of people relying on me, whether they know it or not. And the weight of that responsibility sits heavy on my shoulders, gnawing at my already fragile resolve.

Every day we get closer to Washington, and I can't help but hope that if he's still alive, he'll take us in. That maybe, just maybe, he'll grant me some kind of mercy. After everything I've done—after everyone I've lost—I cling to that hope, as fragile and fleeting as it is.

I let out an angry breath, pushing myself to my feet. As I make my way back to the road, I spot Daryl crouched on the ground, digging through the dirt. His focus is intense, his silence heavier than usual. I drag my feet over to him, and though he doesn't look up, I know he sees me.

He keeps digging until he uncovers a small family of worms writhing in the dirt. I watch as he picks one up, casually drops it into his mouth, and chews. His eyes flick up to meet mine briefly, and I crouch next to him. Without hesitation, I pick up a worm and drop it into my mouth, the slimy texture sliding over my tongue. I don't flinch. I don't feel anything. It tastes worse than the crickets I've eaten, but it's food.