in a dark meadow | daryl dixon

prison break

word count: 6633

Hunger found them all.

Eight months on the road, not knowing when their next meal would come, undernourishment hit them like a slow-spreading illness. Most days they'd relied on rubbery game meat and creek water, their humanity hanging on its last delicate thread. 

On the bad days, a single can of beans was shared between the eleven of them - one spoonful each. A few mushroom sprigs. A handful of bugs. On the worst days, they went to bed with nothing in their stomachs.

Misery was in their eyes when they realized the can Carl had found in the abandoned kitchen was actually a can of dog food. 

Dreams of finding their new haven had crumpled, buried beneath the ash of winter. It was their second temporary shelter that week. Herds of walkers were cutting them off, forcing them to hide away in houses with decayed walls and crumbling foundations. Wildlife in the winter was scarce. Clothes hung a little looser. Eye circles were darker. 

Everyone suffered - but none more than Lori and Rick, who could do nothing but watch their own son starve.

Avery watched as Carl (who seemed to have evolved into a teenager overnight) wrestled the tin open with a busted can opener, seemingly excited about his find. 

They huddled in the dirtied living room in an unbearable silence. How did it come to this? They'd been reduced to eating dog food to survive? Avery leaned into the body next to her, her guardian angel, anchored by exhaustion. 

Daryl paused to look down at her before resuming feather plucking from his latest kill - a skinny owl he'd shot in the upstairs bedroom. She didn't even stir when a couple of feathers landed on her lap. She didn't say anything, not even when she thought of a hilarious feather pun. She was bone-tired.

Rick stalked into the room, his expression shadowed, his gaze falling over each member of the group, taking in their despair. Finally it settled on Carl, and Rick reached down to scoop the half-opened can out of his hands. 

He examined the label, a vein in his neck pulsing, before he hurled the can into the fireplace, the impact sounding like a gunshot. Avery jumped in her seat, her fight or flight nearly firing off. The tension was a pin prick away from exploding.

They sat there uneasily, patiently waiting for Daryl to prepare their sad meal.

"Psst!"

T-dog signaled to the group with a hiss through his teeth, and Avery's stomach dropped. It wasn't safe. They couldn't stay here. 

Daryl sat up and reached for Avery's hand, pulling her to her feet. She caught a glance of stumbling bodies through the front window. 

Walkers.

They filed out of the backdoor as they had a dozen times before, setting their evacuation plan in motion. Daryl handed Avery his crossbow as he swung his leg over his motorcycle, kicking the start pedal hard. 

Throwing the weapon over her shoulder, she settled behind him, her anxieties about riding with him long gone. The bike's engine throttled as Daryl weaved past the mass of biters, leading the two-car convoy back out onto the road.

The two-wheeled vehicle passed trees and flat marshes, the leaves a chatterbox of green as springtime emerged. They were thankful to leave a brutish winter behind them. Wild herbs and plants would regrow and wildlife would reemerge. The thought alone gently lifted Avery's spirits.

As she clung to him, she could feel one of his hands fall from the handlebars and squeeze hers, sending her a telepathic message.

'Ya OK?