Daryl's Angel: Saviour (Book Two)

Chapter 11: Road to Washington

Rick decides that our next course of action is to go on to Washington. There's no cure, but maybe there's something.

Things just keep getting worse.

We run out of food and water, and scavenging doesn't yield much else. We've gone a day and a half without food when our last vehicle runs out of gas, tapped right out, and we're left to walk. Days on end, just walking. The sun is far too hot, my stomach aches with hunger and thirst, and my heart stays heavy.

I no longer have dreams about heaven. When I do dream, I see Tyreese standing over me, holding out his arm, blood dripping endlessly from the bite. Why? he asks me. Over and over again. Sometimes, all he does is stare with lifeless, dead eyes, haunting me.

 Sasha doesn't look at me. I tried to speak to her at Tyreese's funeral, to apologize and tell her I tried everything I could, but it didn't go over well. I was honest with everyone about what happened to Tyreese. They wanted to know. I told them about the walker that we knew was in the other room, that we both ignored, and how I made the mistake of letting my guard down when I heard approaching footsteps.

"If you want somebody to blame, just blame me," I told Sasha.

She gave me the coldest stare I've ever received, and even without a word spoken, I could tell she already does. I accept it no matter how much it hurts. My pain doesn't come near to hers, and if hating me helps her at all, I'll take it.

We walk down the highway. There's a small herd building behind us, far enough away that so long as we keep walking, they won't catch up. That's the one good thing about walkers; they're slow.

Keep walking, I tell myself, even though my legs feel like jello and my stomach is eating itself and the nausea won't go away. Keep walking, I tell myself, even though Daryl won't look at me, and the grief hanging over our heads feels like it gets heavier every day. Keep walking because if you don't, you die.

I just want Daryl to talk to me, even if all he says is my name. I want him to hold my hand as we walk because then at least I'll have my anchor and, maybe, he'd find comfort in me too.

I'm desperate for food, for touch, for something other than sorrow. It won't go away. Every feeling I have stays long past its welcome, refusing to leave.

Carol walks beside me, a foot or so between us, and Rick and Daryl walk side by side just ahead. I listen to their conversation to try and find a distraction from the gnawing ache in my gut. I feel like I might pass out, my every step getting more and more unstable.

"We'll get 'em when it's best," Rick is saying, probably about the walkers trailing hundreds of feet behind us. "High ground, something like that. They're not going anywhere."

Judith fusses in Rick's arms, just as hungry as the rest of us. Daryl stays silent.

"It's been three weeks since Atlanta," Rick says. "I know you lost something back there."

Daryl looks at him, then at Judith, and then back at the road. "She's hungry."

"She's okay." Rick adjusts her. "She's gonna be okay."

"We need to find water. Food."

"We'll get some on the road."

Rick glances at the sky, at the measly clouds above us, and I don't hold out that they've got any water to offer us. Still, I stare up at them too, willing them to grow big and fat and dump all that life-giving moisture on our tired, dried-up bodies.

Then, I trip over my own stupid feet. I catch myself, palms scraping against the asphalt, and I hear more than a few people gasp. Carol stoops to help me up, and I weakly bat my hands as if to brush her away.