𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟑

My eyes peel open slowly, and a groan slips from my lips. As warm as my body feels on this dirty mattress, I'm shaking with chills that encapsulate me like a blanket. My baby hairs cling to my forehead from the sweat, and the aches pulsate every so often to remind me that I definitely have a fever.

Sunlight peeks through the windows, which confirms that Daryl isn't back yet. I'd been waiting on this mattress all night, but still nothing. Now, dawn is breaking through the woods at the sign of a new day, and I'm only getting worse.

With my luck, he's probably dead.

That's how it would work out for me. My assailant, who left to fetch me some meds, would end up dying, leaving me here to succumb to this infection. In a world full of decaying cannibal freaks, this is how I go out. A rusty fucking arrow in the ass.

Stupid redneck.

A cool rag touches my forehead, and I flinch, breaking free from my haze as I look over to see Hershel looking down at me with those big, sympathetic eyes.

"We have to break this fever."

"I know," I mumble weakly.

Saving me from having to endure the pity look any longer—the young, blonde girl who stands in the back of the group most of the time, gawking at me, enters the room with a blanket draped in her arms. Her hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and dark circles rest underneath her blue eyes. She's tiny, just like the rest of them, but her face is kind. Just like Hershel's.

"Here, Daddy," she says to him. "I found this upstairs. Thought she could use it."

Daddy.

I try ineptly hard to swallow down the pang of jealousy that pulses through me at the fact that nearly everyone here is related to one another. The rest of the world either died or lost someone they loved, and these people...it's like they were untouched. My brows knit as I wonder if this group even knows just how lucky they are to be together.

She hands him the blanket, and he doesn't hesitate to drape it over me. His gentle hands tuck the blanket beneath me as the girl leaves, and I finally heave a sigh.

"Is everyone here related to each other?"

He smiles faintly. "Almost. But it doesn't matter. We're a family, regardless."

My teeth chatter quietly as I wrap my arms around myself under the warmth of the scratchy blanket. Every muscle in my body aches, but the searing pain radiating from my wound is the real bitch. The infection could easily kill me, and the thought makes my stomach churn. I mean, what are the odds that no matter what we do, we still turn when we die? What kind of shit is that?

I refuse to become one of those cannibalistic freaks.

"What kind of doctor were you, anyway?" I ask Hershel, attempting to distract myself.

"A vet."

"A vet," I repeat.

"Veterinarian."

Twisting my head, I gape up at him. "Jeez. I really am going to die here."

No wonder the pregnant woman seemed desperate to know what kind of nurse I was. With something as delicate as having a baby, I don't think I'd be entirely keen on an animal doctor getting me through labor, either. In no way was I doubting his abilities, but a dog spitting out a litter of puppies wasn't exactly in the same realm of things.

"Daryl will be back."

I raise a brow. "You seem so confident about that."

He blinks a few times, and I swear I see a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "Because I am."

With a few light pats on my shoulder, he leaves me alone on this crusty bed with the image of him looking sorry for me plastered in my mind. I must look as terrible as I feel. Maybe he's not so bad a doctor after all because I believed what he said for a moment. There's always a sincerity to his voice when he speaks, but his eyes told another story.

One that said I'm sorry.

Checking to make sure that I'm alone, I twist my body slightly with a grunt until I'm perched on my side. A tear slides down my cheek as I shut my eyes.

They can't know my weaknesses. They can't see me like this because then they'll know that I'm not as strong as I like to seem. Letting my guard down in front of them just means they can use it against me later. So, while I have a moment to myself, I cry. Because I'm in pain. Because I don't want to be a walker. Because I wonder if my parents worried about me every second until the end.

Stop it, Josie.

I wipe my nose and the salty liquid on my cheeks as I sniffle one last time. The urge to break out into tears again passes as I hold my breath, waiting for my chin to stop trembling before I snuggle down into the blanket for just an ounce of comfort.

Time passes slowly. I don't know if it's been minutes, hours, or maybe just seconds. All I know is that I'm shivering in a cold sweat, and the blanket has stopped bringing me warmth.

"Well, don't you look like shit."

I'm relieved to hear that hick voice, but I don't let it show on my face as I glance over with the biggest grimace I can manage at Daryl, perched in the doorway. His crossbow is slung across his back, and he's got a bag in his dirty hands.

"Says you," I counter weakly.

He stares at me for a second before walking over, plopping down on the ground next to the mattress and emptying the contents of his bag.

"You allergic to any meds?" he asks gruffly.

"What—are you a doctor now, too?" I try to insult him, but it just sounds pathetic as I struggle to sit up without groaning.

"You done bein' a brat?"

If I weren't fixing to croak, I'd punch him.

Clamping my mouth shut, I glare up at him through my lashes before letting out a huff. "No. I'm not allergic to any medicines."

"Doc said to take two of these and one of these," he instructs, throwing two pill bottles on my blanket as he speaks. "He'll be in here later to redress your bandages."

Wincing, I try to sit up again, but I'm so weak. I hear a grunt, and I look up at see him leaning forward with his hand stretched out to help me. My death look doesn't deter him—his hand stays steady in the air between us until I take it with a grumble under my breath.

"Do you have any water?" I mutter.

"Nope."

"Perfect."

As much as I want to flip him off for staring at me, I push the urge back down as I swallow the pills dry. He doesn't move until I'm bundled down in the blanket again, burying my face into the fabric before shooting him a glare that says go away. Pushing up from the ground, he leaves the room without another word. He was probably expecting a thank you, but I never got an apology.

If he thought I was a brat now, he hasn't seen anything yet.