Who We Are | TWD

.027

    I don't mention that I've learned well enough that things like that don't just "go away" in this world.

    "If only that's how things like that worked," Daryl scoffs, clearly annoyed, and moves forward.

    I don't know where we're going for a long time, but Daryl is always good enough at leading the way. All I knew when I agreed to go with Daryl was that I wanted to be in the woods. I wasn't in the mood for searching cars and pretending like we struck gold when we found a half-used water bottle in a cup holder. The air in the woods is still just as thick as anywhere else, but it's sweeter.

    Once I see Daryl walking a certain way, his footsteps accurate and precise with a sort of skill that's been born over years of practice and corrections, I know that we're hunting. I match his light, steady steps.

    "I wanted things to get better for so long. Now, I know they won't," I mumble. Daryl doesn't reply. He keeps his eyes scanning the ground, probably for tracks or any source of life. I think about how we're probably the few warm-blooded things in a twenty-mile radius, but then correct myself.

    There's probably more distance than that.

    I don't know if I was hoping for a response from Daryl with the claim of my soft comment. If I was, I don't know what I was expecting he'd say to me.

    Daryl stops for a minute, looking around. I stop, too, not dropping my hand from his arm. Ahead of us, on the ground, is a dead deer. From where I'm standing, it's easy to see it's bony spine, arched high in the air since every piece of skin and muscle has been picked away. I can tell it's far from fresh by the way the blood has mostly disappeared besides the gummy stuff stuck in the coarse fur.

    Daryl drops to his knees in front of the creature. When looking closer, I can see that the ribcages have been eaten around, too. "It could've been ours," I whisper. I wish nothing more than seeing this deer in front of us this very second, waiting for Daryl to stick it with his bow and offer us dinner.

    I glance over to a tree where a decaying walker is leaning. His back is set against the trunk, his red blood splattering the bark. "We'll find something else," Daryl blinks before standing back up and heading the long way back to the others.

    When we meet back up with the asphalt road, we see the entire group splayed on the cement. Rick startles when he first hears us, but calms down when he sees our faces. I walk over to Carl and sit down beside him, feeling bad that I had snapped at him earlier. I think about apologizing, but there's no point.

    It's an unspoken thing between us.

    Across from us, Abraham pulls a bottle of alcohol from his bag.

    "So all we found was booze?" Tara inquires as Abraham removes the cap and smells the brown liquid.

    "Yeah," Rosita sighs.

    "It's not gonna help."

    "He knows that."

    "It's gonna make it worse."

    "Yes, it is."

    "He's a grown man," Eugene argues. "And I truly do not know if things can get worse."

    I don't know either because how I'm feeling right now is not good at all.

    "They can," Rosita mumbles. With my head feeling heavy again, I rest it on Carl's shoulder. I feel like I could fall asleep right here.

    A rustling from across the road causes everyone to turn. My heart races as I'm convinced it's a group of walkers ready to finish our weakened bodies off. Instead, a pack of four dogs emerge from the brush. Their matted coats are sticky with blood and grime from, most likely, a variety of sources over weeks and weeks. Their aggressive barking and growling starts up, echoing through the hollows of the trees around us. Everyone reaches for their knives, planning on taking them down. It's our only choice. They're feral now.