Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 35 - JSS

"Yeah, you best believe , boy, there's hell to pay"

Bartholomew

By The Silent Comedy

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Nelly

The sun glares harshly as I squint through the binoculars from my post in the guard tower, the itch under my skin is unbearable as I scan the streets for any sign of Daryl. Every part of me wants to run out there and find him, drag him back, but I know my place is here—for now. The fear that something could happen to him gnaws at my insides, but there's nothing I can do. Not yet.

"I can take over," Holly's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I lower the binoculars and hand them over, feeling her presence heavy beside me as she takes the rifle propped against the wall. Without a word, I head down the ladder, gritting my teeth as my feet hit the concrete hard, sending a sharp, familiar sting up my injured leg.

I suck it up, not letting the pain slow me down, and take the back way toward the house. My feet move soundlessly through the grass lining the walls, my mind elsewhere—until a gut-wrenching scream cuts through the air. My body freezes, every nerve on fire, and in one swift motion, I have my machete out and run toward the sound.

I round the corner and see her—an unfamiliar woman, her face twisted into a grotesque grin as she stabs Richard over and over again, her blade sinking into his already lifeless body. The "W" carved into her forehead catches the light, and that's when I see them—my swords, gleaming in her blood-soaked hands.

Without thinking, I run forward, my machete slicing straight through her skull. The wet crunch of bone gives way, and she crumples to the ground, her grip loosening on the bloodied hilts of my swords. My machete is slick with gore as I sheath it, barely acknowledging the crimson spray before I kneel to pick up my swords. 

The weight of them settles in my hands, familiar, comforting. I tighten my grip, feeling them become part of me again, like extensions of my own arms. Blood drips down the blades, each drop reminding me of the damage they've already done—and the damage yet to come.

I glance at Richard's body, lying in a pool of his own blood. The woman didn't stab him in the head—she wanted him to turn, to rise as one of them. Without hesitation, I drive my sword into his skull, the sharp crack of bone signaling the end. It's cleaner than he deserved, but there's no time to think about mercy now.

More screams pierce the air, and suddenly, thick smoke billows through the town, choking out the sunlight. I cough, my lungs burning, each breath feeling like I'm inhaling fire. The smoke burns my eyes, but I force myself to stay focused, squinting through the haze. One last glance at Richard, and then I'm sprinting into the chaos.

The streets are swarming with them—ten, maybe more, all wielding knives like animals set loose from a cage. Their faces are wild, manic, and each one bears the same "W" carved into their foreheads. More of them pour over the walls, rabid dogs with bloodlust in their eyes.

Rage surges through me, hotter than the smoke around me. I feel it in my bones, shaking me from the inside out. My breath comes out heavy, seething, my vision narrowing until all I can see is red. These monsters want to take everything from me again—my family, my home. They think they can just come in here and rip it all apart like they did last time.