Catch Fire | Daryl Dixon

survivor

Not having a place to settle and call home was a soul-crushing weight that bore down on me with relentless force. The constant sensation of imminent danger lurked in every shadow, driving me to wander endlessly in search of a haven that no longer existed. Once lively streets now echoed with the whispers of the undead, their hunger for flesh mirroring my desperation for safety. With each passing day, the sense of isolation grew deeper, and the realization that nowhere was truly safe and no one could be trusted consumed me. This profound loneliness gnawed at my spirit, leaving me adrift in a cruel world where survival was my only salvation.

I holed up in what was once a vibrant store in the heart of a small town, now a ghostly reflection of the havoc wrought by the wildfire virus. Shattered glass littered the floor, shelves overturned and stripped bare. The silence was eerie, broken only by the occasional groan of the dead outside, a constant reminder of the danger that lurked beyond.

Every rustle or creak sent shivers down my spine, knowing that one wrong move could mean death. The weight of surviving alone pressed down on my heart, each day a battle not just against the undead but also against the despair that threatened to crush the last remnants of hope. The darkness of night was suffocating, amplifying the sensation of being truly and utterly alone. Despite the overwhelming fear and loneliness, I was determined to stay alive, clinging to the fragile hope that someday, this nightmare might end.

As I sat against the peeling paint of the abandoned store's walls, I relaxed slightly, my fingers digging into a half-crushed bag of stale chips I had scavenged from the rubble. Each salty bite was a battle won against starvation, a small victory in the face of overwhelming odds. Food was a scarce commodity, and I spent most of my time scavenging for scraps, knowing that each meal could be my last. Hunger gnawed at my empty stomach, my body weary from constant vigilance.

The exhaustion coursing through me felt like a heavy anchor, pulling me down as I stared blankly at the empty shelves. Drowsiness washed over me like a gentle wave, and before long, I succumbed to the sweet release of sleep, my mind drifting away from the chaos into a fleeting peace.

But peace was short-lived. A sudden sound jolted me awake—car doors slamming shut, the shuffle of footsteps approaching, followed by the quiet murmur of voices. Panic surged through me as I realized they were heading toward the store. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My grip tightened on the knife at my side. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford in this harsh new reality. Every nerve in my body was on high alert as I braced myself for what was to come.

The door creaked open, and I faced the harsh reality: I would have to reveal myself to these strangers to survive. The thought sent shivers down my spine as I contemplated exposing my vulnerabilities to those who could easily turn on me. But as resources grew scarce, trust became the only currency left in this bleak world.

With a heavy heart and a sense of impending dread, I emerged from my hiding place, arms raised in submission. Their weapons were poised, ready for action.

"Stay where you are!" the man barked, his voice betraying his nerves despite the stoic facade. I could feel the weight of their gazes, stripping away any sense of safety I had left.

Locking eyes with him, I sensed his fear. His hands quivered as he clutched his gun tightly. These weren't enemies; they were people fighting as fiercely as I was to survive.

"I don't want any trouble." My voice cracked. It had been so long since I had spoken that the sound was almost foreign to me. The tension in the air was palpable, each second stretching into an eternity as the couple sized me up.

The woman stepped forward, stopping by the man's side. Their eyes locked in silent communication before they turned back to me.

"How many walkers have you killed?" she asked, her thick Georgian accent carrying an authority that demanded attention.

"Walkers?" I questioned, my mind racing.

"The dead," she clarified, impatience tinging her tone. The weight of their weapons hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over any hope of escape. My heart raced as I struggled to maintain my composure.

"I don't keep count... As many as I've needed to survive." It was the truth; who could possibly keep track?

"How many people have you killed?"

The question hit me like a punch to the gut, and a chilling silence enveloped the store. The memory of that moment flooded back; a desperate struggle, an impossible choice, a life taken in the chaos. His face haunted me, his soul weighing heavy on my conscience.

"One," I whispered.

Every answer I gave was scrutinized, and every movement was watched closely. The world outside seemed to fade away as the couple became the sole focus of my existence. Would I convince them of my innocence, or would their guns remain fixed on me?

"Why?"

The word hung in the air like a challenge.

"He got bit. There was no other choice," I replied, the memory of my fiancé's death sharp and painful. I had watched the infection consume him, leaving me no option but to end his suffering.

Their eyes scanned me, measuring whether I was a threat. I could see the weariness etched into their faces, evidence of the trials they had endured. After a moment of contemplation, they lowered their weapons, offering a tentative smile. At that moment, I realized that despite the chaos, there was still humanity left in them.

"I'm Glenn," the man introduced, extending his hand.

"Maggie," she nodded in greeting.

"Kennedy," I replied, my voice still shaky.

"We have a group; you're welcome to join us," Maggie offered.

Shock and relief washed over me. I had been alone for so long, scavenging, fighting, surviving. The fear and isolation had nearly broken me, but now, standing among fellow survivors, a sense of belonging began to take root in my heart. The weight of loneliness that had burdened my soul began to lift, replaced by a glimmer of hope.

"And where is it y'all good people are calling home?"