#eeee!!

Actually, there was something much worse than hunger, you’d come to realize: thirst.

Desperate, dry, cracked thirst that clawed at your insides, begging for even the faintest relief. It drained you of tears, left you dizzy from the slightest movement, and even your sweat seemed to dry up in the relentless Georgia heat. Walking along these endless roads didn’t help, the sun baking on the blacktop, scorching at your feet.

Georgia summers had always beaten you down, even in the best of times. As a kid, you’d sought refuge wherever you could—slipping into the cool lake near your house, wandering big department stores you never bought anything from just to stand in the AC, or sitting in front of the small fan that whirred beside you at night. But now, with the world reduced to dust and ashes, the only relief from the sun was the faint, hot shade that barely offered shelter.

You missed the cellblock of the prison, all those months ago, the thick cement walls of that fortress somehow holding a coolness, a small escape from the harsh world outside. You’d had ample water back then, clear and clean. The memory of it gnawed at you now, mocking you in the angry heat.

It had been weeks since the group had first set out on the road, every drop of water long gone, every crumb of food a distant memory. You could feel it weighing on everyone, the slow descent into desperation, the quiet resignation in each step. You knew the odds were against you; surviving in this heat with no water was a long shot. You needed something, anything, to keep going. Because out here, survival wasn’t just a choice. It was a battle, fought with each burning step forward. 

And every step reminds you of what you've lost, of the people you've lost. It’s as though each ghost leaves its mark, piling on the heaviness of each weary, hungry step. And all that time spent running, fighting, searching for somewhere that could be home, only to have it torn away. It feels like you're trapped in a cycle, finding sanctuary only to have it ripped from your grip. Finding your people again, only to then have them torn from you too, bits of your hardened heart going with them.

And now, you’re thrown back to these endless woods with only the small handful of your family left. Hunger gnaws at you, but the thirst, that’s a different kind of pain—a desperate ache, a chapped reminder that even something as simple as water can’t be taken for granted anymore. The sun beats down, unrelenting, your cracked lips and dry throat proof of just how merciless the world has become. The weight of it—the hunger, the thirst, the heat—pushes you right to the edge, but you push back, one step at a time, holding on to some distant hope that another place, another refuge might be out there somewhere.

A distant snarl pulls you from your thoughts, your gaze lifting from the gray asphalt under your feet. You twist around to see a few walkers stumbling their way onto the road. Rick and Daryl are beside you, turning to look at the creatures.

“We’re not at our strongest,” Rick says, his voice rough and cracked, “We’ll get ’em when it’s best. High ground—somethin’ like that.”

You nod, taking in his appearance. His beard has grown thick, curling at the edges, his hair long and matted, clinging to the nape of his neck with sweat and grime from months without a proper wash. Judith rests in his arms, her small, tired eyes closed in sleep. She’s been so quiet—too quiet, really. Maybe she’s already used to the life of uncertainty, but you’re grateful for it. Each peaceful breath feels like a small miracle, her silence potentially saving you all from the detection of the undead.

You glance over at Daryl, who walks with slow, measured steps, his gaze turning back to the road without a word. There’s something unspoken weighing on him—something more than exhaustion, more than thirst or hunger. Rick notices it too, his voice low and careful when he speaks.

“It’s been three weeks since Atlanta.” Rick’s tone is gentle, “I know you lost somethin’ back there.”

Daryl doesn’t respond, and silence stretches between you all, thick and heavy. Judith finally breaks it with a soft, fussy whimper, a sound that pulls your attention immediately.

“She’s hungry,” Daryl mutters, sounding almost relieved to shift the focus.

“She’s alright. She’ll be alright,” Rick assures, almost more to himself and readjusting her slightly, a flicker of fatherly protectiveness in his eyes.

But you can’t ignore the truth any longer. “We need to find water,” you say, voice firmer. “And food.”

Rick looks up at the sky, squinting at the clouds gathering in thick clusters. “We’ll come across somethin’ along the road,” he says, his tone laced with hope. “And it’s gonna rain sooner or later.”

Without another word, Daryl hands you his gun. “I’m gonna head out,” he says, barely meeting your gaze. “See what I can find.”

You take the gun instinctively, but the moment he moves to step away alone, your jaw tightens. “I’m comin’,”

“No.” he says with firmness, not meeting your eye, a flicker of irritation crossing his face, but Rick interrupts before you can protest. “Either way,” he says, “don’t be too long.”

You fall in line with Daryl, determination in every step, but he stops short at the edge of the road where the brush begins to thicken. He turns, his expression stubborn.

“What?” you ask, squinting up at him. “You gonna stop me?”

He scoffs, shaking his head in frustration. But he knows better than to argue when you’re like this, so he turns and continues on, letting you follow him into the woods, your silent defiance matching his reluctance step for step.

You trail quietly behind him for a while, moving carefully through the tall, dry grass, each step releasing a faint crackle underfoot. The earth beneath you feels as parched as your own throat, the air heavy and stifling.

“Anything?” you ask, though the answer’s obvious. By now, you both know the signs of any water source, any traces of life.

“Nah, too dry,” he murmurs, his voice barely carrying above the brittle sounds of the grass.

A sense of defeat tightens in your chest. “We should head back,” you whisper, but he doesn’t turn, just mutters over his shoulder for you to go.

You hesitate, his reluctance tugging at something deep inside you. “Dare,” you say softly. He stands still, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, somewhere that isn’t here.

Stepping closer, you pull out the knife in its leather holster, the one Carol had given you from Beth. You hold it out, the weight of it a reminder of her kindness, of the bond between them. “This was hers… Carol gave it to me. I thought… ya know,” the words falter, hanging between you both.

He doesn’t speak, but his hand reaches out, fingers curling around the smooth leather. When his eyes finally lift to meet yours, you catch a glimpse of the pain he tries so hard to hide—the sorrow swirling in his stormy blue gaze, raw and exposed and it breaks your heart.

“I didn’t know her like you did,” you say, voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, struggling to find the right words. “Whatever happened with you two before—” He looks away, the flicker of his jaw tensing, but you press on, “Whatever it is, I understand. She was someone special to you, Dare. I know you.”

Your hand lifts, gently pushing back the hair that clings to his damp forehead. You let your knuckles rest against his cheekbone, feeling the rough texture of his skin, the warmth beneath. “You don’t have to carry this alone, my love,” you whisper, voice tender. “Let yourself feel it.”

He doesn’t look away this time, his blue eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity, like he’s looking for something he’s afraid he’s already lost. You stay there, fingers lightly tracing the rough lines of his face, a wordless promise that whatever weight he carries, you’ll bear it with him.

For a moment, he just stares at you, the hurt and exhaustion written in every line of his expression. You can feel the heaviness between you, thick with memories and losses too big to name, a shared grief that binds you closer than words could ever manage.

Slowly, your hand drops from his face, the warmth of his skin lingering on your palm. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but there’s something between you—a silent understanding, a kind of acceptance of the broken pieces you both carry. And in that silence, you know he understands. You step back, beckoning him with your hand to follow you back to the road.

➳

Later that day, after the group finally managed to shake off the walkers trailing behind them. Maggie falls into step beside you, recounting the scene at the bridge—how they’d let the dead stumble forward, only to sidestep at the last moment and send them tumbling into the dried ravine below.

“It was a good idea,” you say, glancing up ahead at Rick, who’s leading the way. "Gotta hand it to him."

You share a quick grin, both of you settling into a comfortable silence for a few steps. As you walk beside Maggie, a sense of relief warms you. You know the grief she’s carrying, the quiet weight she doesn’t want to talk about, and you’re grateful for this small, almost normal moment between you both.

Carl calls out to his dad, spotting something up ahead on the road. As the group crests a small hill, you see it—a scattering of cars, some tilted at odd angles, the remnants of an abandoned pile-up baking under the sun.

Daryl grunts beside you. “I’m gon’ head into the woods and circle back,” he mutters, glancing toward the tree line.

Without a second thought, you step in line to follow him, but he stops, turning back with a look that holds you in place. “Alone. And I mean it.”

The words sting, but you know he isn’t pushing you away to hurt you; he just needs to be alone for now. Reluctantly, you give a slow nod, reaching out to brush your fingers against his, holding on for a brief moment before letting go. It’s a silent connection, a wordless be safe that you both feel without needing to say it.

Turning back to the road, you join the others, scouring the scattered cars. The heat seems to make everything blur together, and you don’t find much of use, but movement across the way catches your eye—Maggie, struggling with the trunk of a car. You make your way over as she raises her gun to the back of the lock, her jaw tight with determination.

But something about the tension in her hands makes you reach out, your fingers gently coaxing the weapon from her grip. “Hey,” you whisper, eyes soft as you take in her face, streaked with grime and traces of tears that have dried in the dust. “Mags.”

“There’s one… one still in there,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. “I shut it, but it’s still there.”

She doesn’t meet your gaze, but you nod, releasing her hands to try the lock yourself. The key is jammed, but with a little effort, you straighten it out and give it a wiggle until the trunk finally clicks open. The lid creaks up, revealing the walker inside, mouth gagged with a rag, hands and feet bound in fraying rope. You feel a pang of sorrow for who this person once was, left to decay in a metal coffin, forgotten.

Steeling yourself, you draw your knife from your waistband and plunge it into the skull, the walker going still. Maggie’s face tightens as she nods in quiet thanks, her expression crumpling under the weight of something unspoken. You give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, hoping it’s enough.

With the cars yielding little of use, you all settle by the edge of the road, backs to the trees, grateful for the thin line of shade that barely holds off the heat. One by one, you sink into the quiet of exhaustion, your breath slowing, shoulders slackening as the weariness sets in. The sun dips lower, and above, thunder rolls—low, rumbling, and far off but threatening. The sky has started to darken, clouds gathering with a heavy promise of rain that none of you are prepared for.

A flicker of unease settles in your chest. You scan the tree line again, the stillness there almost mocking. No sign of Daryl. He’d slipped away earlier to scout the woods on foot, leaving you with a terse nod and that familiar look—a look that usually means he’ll be back before you can start worrying. But time stretches thin, and the longer he’s gone, the harder it is to push the knot of tension down.

Then, a sharp crack of a branch echoes through the trees. Instantly, the group tenses, hands hovering close to weapons, the air thick with anticipation. You strain your eyes, heart picking up pace, readying yourself for anything. But then the figure breaks through the shadows, and you feel your shoulders relax, the tension easing as Daryl steps out from the woods, moving toward you with a purpose in his stride.

His gaze sweeps over the group, pausing when it lands on you. For a second, you think you see something flicker there—relief, maybe, or just the weariness that matches your own. His face is streaked with sweat and dirt, shoulders rigid beneath the weight of his crossbow. He crosses the clearing, shaking his head to signal Rick, no water out there , but his eyes meet your gaze, a faint flick of his head directing you to shift, and you feel his hand land gently on your shoulder as he steps behind you. Settling against the tree, he tugs you back into him with a weary sigh. The heat clings to both of you, thick and unrelenting, but his presence is a balm, a small comfort in a world full of jagged edges. He’s been distant lately, but this—his hand on your shoulder, his steady breath behind you—makes up for it, even if just for a moment.

Then, a rustling sound across the road pulls your attention, close to where Daryl had emerged. You tense, watching with bewilderment as a pack of dogs steps into view, their fur matted and their eyes feral. Their collars hang loosely from their necks, grim reminders of the lives they once had. They crouch low, barking in short, sharp bursts, muscles tense as they eye you, ready to attack.

Instinctively, you reach for your knife, unsure how to handle this—how to face creatures that, just like you, are desperate, hungry, and barely surviving. They could attract the dead, and you can’t afford another threat right now. Just as Rick leans forward, Sasha’s gun goes off, each shot a soft hiss with her silencer, taking down the dogs before they can make a move.

The barking stops abruptly, replaced by a heavy silence. Rick quickly begins gathering branches and wood, from the side of the road, building a fire around the group as everyone settles down again.

That night, you pick at the food you’ve been given, forcing each bite down as you avoid looking at those collars. It’s sustenance, just enough to keep going, but every mouthful reminds you of what it took. Daryl eats in silence behind you, chewing with a quiet intensity, while you keep your eyes locked on the fire, willing your mind to go anywhere else.