SURVIVE.
❝ Let the end of the world be
inside you, then you don't
need to fear the end
of the world out there. ❞
THE WALKING DEAD.
DARYL DIXON.
BOOK ONE of the LANCASTER SAGA.
[ SEASONS 1 - 3 ]
******
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[ xlix. the one walking away ]
july 3rd, 2011
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DARYL DIXON'S BLOOD SIMMERED like molten steel as he bulldozed through the thinning thicket of trees, clutching his crossbow in one hand while his unruly older brother trailed in his wake. The hunter did not give a damn about his current bearings, all he knew was he had to put some serious distance between himself, and Merle—and that godforsaken prison. Thoughts of that place clawed at him, but he could not afford to let it chew away at him. It was a torment that would eat him alive.
But Astrid—missing her was a fire burning Daryl from the inside out. He hurt like he had never hurt before. Each memory of her sent his mind into a reckless tailspin, a one-way ticket to insanity. He had to stop himself thinking of her, or else she would be the death of him.
But what about her? Was he the reason for her misery, too? How the hell was she holding up?
Did his leaving break her spirit? Or was it a twisted kind of relief? Back when he had left the prison with Rick and the others, she could not even muster a look in his direction. At the time, Daryl could not look her way either, but now her ghost was etched into every crevice of his brain. Her intense green eyes haunted the very forest he walked in, and her scent lingered on his clothes, and sometimes, it was as if he could hear her laughter carried faintly on the wind, mocking him.
Astrid Lancaster was a damn force to be reckoned with.
"The shit were you doin' pointing that thing at me?" Merle barked, slicing through the hunter's thoughts like broken glass. Daryl snapped his head up, shook it like a man possessed, and slapped the side of his skull, as if that would knock the memories loose.
Just ten minutes ago, the two brothers had stumbled upon a group of survivors getting overrun by a pack of walkers. Merle, the heartless bastard, wanted to cut and run, but Daryl could not stomach the thought of leaving those poor people behind. Astrid would not have done it, so neither would he. After they had finally lent a hand, Merle had tried to rob the defenseless bunch blind. It was a low-blow, dirty move, and Daryl had to bring out the crossbow to hold him in check. Now Merle was fit to burst in his irritation and anger, and the little brother was about to catch the full brunt of his wrath.
"They were scared, man," Daryl growled back through gritted teeth.
"They were rude is what they were," Merle grumbled with a dark edge. "Rude, and they owed us a token of gratitude."
Daryl could hear Merle's footsteps closing in behind him, and with each step, his own stride grew heavier, each footfall resonating with mounting anger. "They didn't owe us nothin'," He chuffed.
"Oh, you helpin' people out of the goodness of your heart? Even though you might die doin' it?" Merle snarled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that somethin' your pal, Sheriff Rick, taught you?"
