Daryl's Angel (10th Anniversary Edition)

Chapter 63: Missing You

I smell smoke. I look towards the horizon, past the trees, and there's a giant pillar of thick black smoke rising into the air. Something big is burning.

Old Dan trots back to me and I usher him inside even as I keep my eyes on the smoke. I want to follow it, see what's going on, but maybe I'm just searching for direction. Something belching out that much smoke can't be safe.

I pack up what little belongings I have, along with the quilts and the pillow I borrowed from upstairs. There are some plastic bottles in the recycling bin under the sink and I fill those with water. Old Dan watches me while I work and, when the time comes, he follows me into the garage. I put everything inside the trailer and leave a space just big enough for an elderly Beagle.

"Want to ride? Or run?" I ask.

Old Dan stares at me.

"I'll...just let you choose, I guess."

I haul the garage door open, mount the bike, and then I'm off again. Old Dan trots along beside me as we leave the cul-de-sac and, though I know I shouldn't, I turn towards where I saw the pillar of smoke. I may not go right to the sight of the fire, but I'll head in its direction. A fire like that could mean other survivors.

I keep an eye on Old Dan, half-expecting him to just duck off into the woods and leave me behind. He wanders ahead of me, sometimes onto the grass by the road, sniffing at trees. I keep a steady pace and, each time I look back, he's following.

I make a few pit stops, raiding some houses as we pass them. I take out a few walkers and look for supplies, but many of the houses have been picked clean or are too overrun with dead to even think about taking it on alone.

By midday, my stomach is growling, my legs burn from pedalling, and I need to eat something before my exhaustion gets worse. I pull the bike off the road, parking it just inside the trees. I'm not sure how much luck I'll have hunting, but I have to try.

I grab my rifle from the trailer and swing my backpack straps onto my shoulders. When I check how many bullets I have, there are only two left. I have two chances to get myself food.

"Wish me luck, Old Dan," I call.

Old Dan lingers behind me, sniffing the air, and I take a deep breath as I head into the woods. The moment I enter the woods, Old Dan runs ahead of me, moving through the scrubby brush, a little flash of brown and white among the green and grey.

Daryl showed me a little bit about hunting back at the farm, but I was too nervous back then to even hold a gun for more than a few seconds. I did better with skinning and cleaning, although my handiwork was shoddy at best. At least I got practice.

I creep through the trees and look for any sign of wildlife—droppings, mostly. I go slow, eyes open and alert. I hope the animals can't hear my stomach growling. Old Dan keeps a steady pace.

Until he stops dead, head low, ears pulled back. I freeze, gripping my rifle, and follow Old Dan's eye. For a good few seconds, I don't see a thing.

Then, there, camouflaged against the trees and bushes, sits a round brown rabbit. It stays stock still, like it's carved from the tree at its side, and Old Dan starts to lower himself as I aim my shotgun.

I squeeze the trigger.

The rabbit bursts into a sprint in a flash of brown and a glimpse of a white fluffy tail, a spray of blood leaving it even as it runs away, but that doesn't stop Old Dan. He's off in a flash, chasing down the rabbit with everything he has, and I lose sight of him in seconds. I hear barking, snarling, and then the sound fades.

I don't dare call for him. He doesn't really answer to Old Dan anyway and I shouldn't bring more attention to myself. I sigh and shift the rifle. One bullet now.