The End Of My World

Chapter 41

Sorry for the wait yall

Chapter 41

It's been a month since we arrived in Alexandria, and I'm going insane. I'm always on edge; I lose my temper way too fast. I have too much energy pent up, and hitting a tree with rocks is not cutting it anymore. I was supposed to be out doing supply runs, not playing guard to these inexperienced people. I sit in the middle of the basement living room. The garage brings in lots of light. I stare at the windows lining the top of the garage door, lost in thought. I was staring off into space when Daryl came trudging down the stairs. He walks over and shakes me. "Ari, Ari, ARI!" His voice gets louder, shaking me harder each time. I spin around and look at him, finally snapping out of it. "Hmm?" I respond, still half-dazed. "We need you outside right now," he says, marching back up the stairs without waiting for an answer. I follow him outside, where Deanna waits with Aaron. "We need you to go on a supply run with Aaron and Daryl," Deanna says as I step closer to her. "You got it," I reply softly, though I can't help feeling that familiar tingle of unease creeping up my neck. My excitement at getting out of this cage of a community is overwhelming, but there's something off that I can't shake. I rub the back of my neck as if I could make the feeling go away. It doesn't. Still, I walk out of the gates with Daryl and Aaron. The sound of my footsteps on the pavement feels too loud, like the clapping of a cymbal monkey—annoying and jarring in the silence. "So, where are we going?" I ask, glancing between the two of them. "We found a shack not too far from here that we couldn't get open last time," Daryl answers gruffly, not making eye contact. "So you figured I could help?" I raise an eyebrow at him. Daryl only nods, his eyes flicking towards Aaron, who looks uneasy. That same prickling feeling in my neck intensifies. Something is definitely wrong. We trek through the woods in silence, the tension thickening with every step. The deeper we go, the more my instincts scream that something is off. The forest is too quiet, the air too still. Finally, we arrive at the shack. It's small, dilapidated—easy to overlook, except for the fact that the door is barred shut from the outside. That's never a good sign. As we approach, Aaron spots it first. "Over there," he whispers, pointing to the side of the shack. I follow his gaze and feel my stomach twist. Half-hidden in the underbrush, a body lies sprawled out on the ground. The man's clothes are torn and bloodied, his skin pale and mottled with decay. But it's not the stench of death that makes my breath catch—it's the large, jagged 'W' carved deep into his forehead, the flesh around it puckered and raw. Daryl kneels beside the body, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the gruesome sight. "Wolves," he mutters under his breath. Aaron shifts nervously behind me. "We've seen a few bodies like this. Always the same symbol." I crouch down next to Daryl, my hand instinctively moving to the hilt of my dagger. The air around us feels heavy, charged with a sense of foreboding. "Whoever did this, they didn't just kill him—they wanted to send a message." Daryl nods grimly. "Yeah. And it ain't a good one." We stand, the three of us exchanging uneasy glances before turning our attention to the shack. The door creaks as we force it open, revealing a narrow, dark entryway that smells of damp rot. I take point, my dagger at the ready, and lead the way inside. The interior is cramped, with dust and cobwebs clinging to every surface. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with rusted tools, empty cans, and random junk. Broken glass crunches underfoot as we move deeper into the space, our flashlights casting long, eerie shadows. In one corner, we find a pile of tattered blankets and clothing, likely used as bedding by whoever had holed up here. I kick through it, searching for anything useful, but it's mostly rags and filth. Aaron inspects a small cabinet, forcing it open with a grunt. Inside, he finds a stash of canned food—most of it expired, but a few cans still look salvageable. He hands them to me, and I shove them into my pack. Daryl's flashlight sweeps across the room, stopping at a worn, wooden crate tucked under a workbench. "Over here," he calls, gesturing for us to join him. We pry the crate open, revealing a small arsenal of weapons—knives, a couple of pistols, and a half-empty box of ammunition. The sight is a welcome one. We each grab what we can, tucking the extra knives into our belts and pocketing the ammo. As we finish loading up, the tension in the shack thickens. I can feel it in the stale air, in the way every creak of the floorboards makes us flinch. Whoever had marked that dead man with the 'W' could be close. Too close. "We got what we came for. Let's move," Daryl says, his voice low and urgent. We leave the shack behind, making our way back to Alexandria with our nerves on edge. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig sets us on high alert. My thoughts keep drifting back to that man—the lifeless body with the 'W' carved into his flesh. Whoever did that, they're not very friendly.