Outlive | Daryl Dixon ²

𝐢𝐯. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐧

Daryl bit his lip, nodded, and began to walk away, but he did not get far before he stopped again. They stood there, two souls locked in a silent farewell. Then her hunter spun on his heel, and disappeared around a corner, leaving Astrid to lean against the wall, alone, where her tears finally flowed freely.

Fear and heartache converged into a feeling almost unbearable. Astrid knew that she might never see Daryl again. She knew she might die in these tombs. She bit her lip until it bled and finally turned toward the daunting entrance to A Block. With a trembling hand, she gripped the doorknob, her knuckles turning as white as death itself.

Pausing for a moment to gather her courage, Astrid pushed open the door, and the sound of suffering immediately enveloped her senses—agonized coughs, mournful moans, and distressed cries. She swallowed hard, knowing that her own would soon join the haunting chorus. This was it. With a hesitant step, she crossed the threshold, and the heavy door closed behind her with a dull, inexorable thud.

There was no turning back now.

The cell block was dark, with only faint slivers of light filtering in through high, narrow windows. The air was humid and thick with the coughs of the afflicted, and the floor was covered in blood from those who could no longer contain their stomachs. Astrid's hand clung tightly to her knife as she moved carefully through the dismal chamber, searching for a cell to call her own.

Then, a flash of white hair caught the Lancaster woman's eye, and her heart skipped a beat. "Hershel?" She gasped.

Hershel Greene, of all people, emerged from a dark cell, a tray of meager supplies in his hands. His expression fell as he looked upon Astrid. "You're sick," He stated. It was not a question.

Astrid's anger flared. "What the hell are you doing here?" She demanded.

"Doctor S has come down sick, too, and now can barely move, so I've come to help," Hershel explained. Astrid's protests were ready to spill forth, but he raised a wrinkled hand, silencing her objections. "I understand the risks, Astrid. I can't stand by and do nothing. I'm not afraid."

"You should be," Astrid gritted. "You're not even wearing a bandanna. It's like you're asking to get sick. Do you want to die?"

"No," Hershel answered. "No one does. I know you don't. That's why you've got to be strong for me. Many here have begun to lose hope, and I can't have you going down with them. You have to be their strength. Glenn needs—"

Astrid's eyes widened abruptly. "Glenn is here?" She questioned. Shock coursed coldly through her. The prison's stability had fallen so quickly. Only that afternoon, she, Glenn, and Hershel had stood together outside of that very cell block, and now they were ensnared within its deadly grip.

Hershel nodded gravely. "Yes, Glenn is here. He's not doing well," He disclosed softly. "I still need to see a few others. I'll come back to do a check-up on you in a little while."

"Please be careful," Astrid bid. She watched wearily as he moved toward other cells, his form disappearing into the shadows.

Astrid scanned the rest of the cell block, seeking refuge. Just as she found a suitable option, a cry for help pierced the air. She spun around to see a little girl with straight, dark brown hair racing toward her, desperation etched across her reddened cheeks.

"Help!" The girl pleaded. "Please, help me!"

Astrid instinctively searched the area for Hershel first, but the doctor was nowhere to be found. The urgency in the child's plea tugged at her heartstrings, and without hesitation, she abandoned her own search for shelter and rushed to the girl's side. "What's wrong?" Astrid asked.