I'm With You ➝ Daryl Dixon

dead in the water.

thirteen

"It's 125 miles," Layla said, tracing her finger across the map that was laid out across the bonnet of Shane's truck, "We even got enough gas for that?"

"No," Rick sighed, "But we'll find some." His voice swelled with unfaltering confidence. Rick had this way about him, Layla noticed, that seemed to keep the group calm and focussed. He was a survivor. 

The group had decided Fort Benning was their next best option. Layla was unsure about the journey, and even about the destination. They had barely made it out the CDC alive; were they really about to head to somewhere else that could be just as, or if not, more populated with the dead? After the near escape, Layla didn't know. She did know however that she trusted Rick, and she felt safer having him around. 

They had drove for a while after the CDC, only pulling over when the roads became thinner and the heavy black smoke seemed to sizzle away from the blue skies. They camped out in their cars during the night - nobody really getting any sleep as the groaning of the dead outside continued. Layla thought one day that the groaning would seem like white noise as the wind carried it, if she lived that long.

"You okay?" Rick asked as the group began to collect up any discarded items and fuel for the journey.

Layla just smiled. It was a smile that said she wasn't okay, but she had to be. If she wasn't strong, this world would break her. She had to let herself be shaped by this horrid world to survive. And surviving is what she wanted for herself now.

"If you need anything-" Rick began.

"Hold this." Daryl demanded, shoving a large red canister of gasoline into Layla's arms before scurrying off into the back of his truck. Rick gave her a little look of amusement before turning his attention from Layla to his family.

Layla followed Daryl, confused by his actions. "What? No please?" She said, "You need to learn some manners Dixon."

She followed him around the back of the truck, curiously watching as he prepared the motorcycle on the back. His crossbow clanged against his back as he manouvered the vehicle.

"What are you doing?" Layla inquired, the smell of fuel from the canister she held was so strong that it made her eyes water.

"What does it look like?" Daryl asked, holding out his grease soaked palm, "Give it here."

"You couldn't just hold this yourself?" Layla asked, passing him the gasoline canister with a look of confusion. If anything would have helped him it would have been to hold his crossbow, but he kept a strong hold of that like his life depended on it - which it sort of did.

"Looked like ye needed savin'." Daryl said, squinting his eyes against the sun to look at Layla. 

Her curls framed her face gently. She had on a pair of bootleg cut blue jeans that she found in an overturned car and Daryl thought she looked nice as the golden light hit her face and highlighted her cheekbones. 

Considering the jeans weren't hers, they fitted her perfectly, and they were surprisingly comfortable. Comfortable enough for Layla to brand them her 'ass kicking jeans' and suitablly write it in capitals along the bottom of the left legs seam in biro. As she scribbled away the night before she had a weird feeling that if the world hadn't gone to shit they could have looked quite edgy and fashionable.

Daryl thought she looked the most normal since the moment he had met her in that light, with no blood stains or worry or sadness ingrained in her face. She looked strangely content as she smiled down at him, like he wasn't filling up his motorcycle to escape the city full of the walking dead behind them.