When the dead rise to feast on the living, it becomes nearly impossible to keep yourself, and your family, safe from anything.
For Daryl Dixon, that statement couldn't have been more true. As the apocalypse turns the world into a cruel, cruel place...
I couldn't take it anymore. The pain, the trauma, the fear. I couldn't handle it; I reached my breaking point, and I couldn't ever go back, not after what they'd done. I had held out for a week, one week, but after that, I just couldn't do it anymore. I had to get the Hell out. I refused to let myself be submitted to the horrors any longer. I was done.
I pitched a fit. I banged, kicked, screamed; anything I could do to get someone, anyone's attention. I didn't care who it was, I just needed that damn door to open. I didn't care if it was the bat-wielding Devil himself; I would find a way to get past him, or die in the process.
I didn't know how long it took before the door finally blasted open, and an angry man strode into the cell. Before he could even close the door behind him, I reared back and punched him as hard as I could, my actions fueled by pure adrenaline. The brute force was enough to knock him out cold, and before his body even touched the ground, I had bolted.
I sprinted down the hallway to the exit, not giving a care in the world about who saw me. They might've been stronger, but I sure as Hell was faster, and my determination to escape helped all the more.
I slammed into the exit door, ramming it open, and running out into the darkness of the night. There were several men chasing me, I could tell, but no matter what, I just kept on running; I had to.
I made a bee-line for the woods, picking up my pace when I heard gunshots echoing loudly behind me. Several weapons were firing at once, and even when I felt a burning, hot pain pierce through my right shoulder, I didn't stop running.
I made it to the security of the trees, and I sprinted until I couldn't hear a single gunshot. Even after that, I went a little further, and I didn't stop until I truly couldn't breathe at all.
When I stopped, I immediately collapsed to the ground, pressing my back against an enormous oak tree. I tried to calm my panting breaths, allowing my eyes to close in pure exhaustion. My shoulder was screaming, blood tricking down across the filthy sweatshirt I was forced to wear. The smell of copper infiltrated my nostrils, almost triggering my gag reflex.
Once I had calmed myself down and could breathe once again, I opened my eyes; tears were filling them. I was finally beginning to realize the severe consequences of what I had just done.
If they found me, alive, Negan would either kill another one of our people, or make me do it. I couldn't have that on my hands; we'd all been through too much to lose someone else. I wasn't going to put that on the group, no matter what it took. I couldn't have blood on my hands, and I wouldn't.
I needed a plan.
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