Survive | Daryl Dixon ¹

𝐱𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢. 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

"You'll try and succeed," Hershel encouraged. "Astrid and I will cover you."

Glenn's nervous nod set a chain of events into motion, his movements like a ticking time bomb in the night's relentless warpath. He swung the door open, each creak a baleful note in the dark alley's sinister composition. Glenn slowly ventured out, a lone figure in the inky abyss, his strides calculated. Astrid leaned out of the door to watch Glenn, her weapon an extension of her promise to protect him.

Almost instantly, the world erupted in a storm of violence, bullets biting into the ground like angry hornets. A yelp tore from Glenn's lips, an instinctual cry as he sought shelter behind a dumpster, his refuge from the deadly onslaught. Astrid turned to face the opposite direction of the alley, and her gaze zeroed in on the assailant, the lines of her focus narrowing to a single point. Her finger squeezed the trigger with practiced precision. A single bullet found its mark, burying itself in the intruder's chest, and his body collapsed in a groan of agony.

From the shadows behind Astrid and Hershel, emerged Rick in the doorway. "What the hell happened?" He demanded sharply.

"Someone fired," Hershel's words unraveled slowly, each syllable carrying the weight of an unfolding tragedy. "Astrid shot him . . . but I think he hit Glenn. He's behind the dumpster. But he's not moving."

Rick's entry into the alley was a surge of purpose, a leader at the forefront of a turbulent charge. Hershel and Astrid followed. The man she had wounded lay groaning, a specter of danger that threatened to summon walkers from the surrounding buildings if left unchecked. But they could not go back.

Their advance up the alley was a cautious ballet, each step careful as they moved closer to Glenn's fallen place behind the dumpster. Astrid's voice, barely more than a whisper, called out, "Glenn, are you hit?"

A pregnant pause followed, the very fabric of time held captive by Glenn's response. Then, like a breaking dawn, his words emerged, a fragile confirmation in the darkness. "No," He answered, voice trembling.

Astrid exhaled in relief, and her eyes then shifted to Rick, a silent plea for guidance, for a next course of action to get them the hell out of this town. Rick's touch was a tether as he crouched and gripped the young man's shoulder, appearing to calm Glenn down. "It's alright," He soothed. "The car's right there. We're almost home. You good?"

"Y-Yes," Glenn stammered.

"Good," Rick replied, pulling him back to his feet. "Let's go."

The transition to the street was covered by a blanket of bullets. Astrid's eyes swept upwards, drawn to the rooftop, where a lone figure fired down on them. Astrid hesitated, contemplating her own shot, but she could not get a clear one back unless she remained out in the open. She had to keep moving.

Abruptly, from down the road, a truck suddenly pulled forward beneath the building where the sniper loomed. "Let's get out of here!" Someone in the vehicle shouted up to the man on the roof. "Just jump!"

The rooftop figure nodded his understanding and attempted to lower himself off the edge of the building. Yet a near-fatal descent followed, a fall marked by a large crash and a tragic yelp—a scream of pain that cleaved through Astrid completely. The injured man's shriek resonated in the night. "Help me!"

"I'm sorry!" The driver inside the truck yelled back into the opposing alleyway where his comrade had fallen. "We've got to go! I'm sorry!" The vehicle then vanished into the night, callously abandoning the injured man.

Rick's sigh bore bitter disappointment. "Get Hershel," He commanded, staring directly at Glenn. "Then meet us across the street."

"What the hell are you doing, Rick? Why are we helping him?" Astrid demanded sharply. "He was shooting at us! Let's get out of here while we still have the chance!"