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DARYL WAS STRUGGLING. In the midst of the charred forest, he could find no solace. There were no twittering birds. There were no rustling leaves. All that could be heard in the silent wood was the wheels of his bike lurching through the ash forest floor. That, and his shaky breaths. Blood dripped from the wound on his elbow, but the anguish he felt inside was a pain unparalleled. He, Sasha, and Abraham were split up after a hail of bullets rained upon them from an unknown group of vehicles. There was a new threat at hand, and Daryl couldn't help but wonder if what went on back home was connected.
He pushed the vehicle through the singed shrubbery with what strength he had left. But, soon enough, he couldn't go much further. Daryl's legs gave out from beneath him, and his body and bike tumbled to the ground by a blackened fallen tree. His wet shirt clung to his chest uncomfortably in the sweltering heat, and the leather jacket baked in the sun. Daryl breathlessly pushed himself off of the ground, wiped the hair out of his eyes, and raised the radio that was clipped to his belt to his lips.
"Sasha? Abraham, you there?" he asked, panting. "Rick? Glenn?"
They were questions of hope rather than true belief that they'd be on the other end. He awaited there response, but he wasn't truly expecting an answer. He lowered the radio, hesitating. His thoughts ran wild. He let out a long breath of air before raising the device to one last word of desperation- the name tumbling from his lips like water on a parched tongue.
"Murph?"
Nothing. No answer. He suspired, dropping the radio to his side once more. He didn't know what he was expecting. She was gone, and Daryl prayed to whoever was listening that she was safe. His head fell at the thought. The sound of droplets falling to the ground caught his attention, and his eyes flicked to see red coating his palm. A burnt skull stared at him with hollowed eyes from the ground below. The blood that dripped from his live being fell between the dead one's eyes. Daryl observed his hand and searched for the wound as he pulled off the leather glove.
He winced and tossed the glove to the side, pain running through his shoulder. He carefully slipped the heavy leather jacket from his figure and located the source of the blood. His left arm had been cleaved of its skin around the elbow, presumably from the fall during the attack minutes before. Daryl grimaced as he rotated his arm, realizing the severity of the wound. He breathed, and his heart clenched as he realized who he needed more than ever- in more ways than one. She would have looked at him disapprovingly but worried, with eyes as green as the soft spring clover. She would have taken his arm in her delicate hands and dressed the injury with the intellect she carried.
Daryl shook his head. She was out there- all right. He had to believe so. He couldn't convince himself that the last frantic kiss they shared had been their last. So he crouched beside his bike and unclipped the first aid pack Murphy had put together. He unzipped it carefully, trying not to bloody it up. When he pulled back the top, a slip of paper fluttered to the ground. He froze and slowly picked it up with his uninjured hand.
