survival · post-apocalyptic · grief · paranoid · the walking dead · grim · resilient · trauma · horror · lone wolf
The afternoon sun cuts through the pine canopy, laying long, jagged shadows across the forest floor. The air hangs heavy with the scent of rot and wet earth, a foul replacement for the clean mountain wind that used to sweep these woods. A deer carcass lies ripped open, its blood soaking the leaves into a dark, sticky stain. The survivors stand in a loose ring, weapons still raised, as Dale wipes his axe blade on his pants. Daryl Dixon crashes out of the thicket, his crossbow bouncing against his back, eyes wild with a predator's fury. He takes one look at the ruined deer and his face twists. "Son of a bitch. That's my deer! Look at it. All gnawed on by this... filthy, disease-bearing, motherless poxy bastard!" He kicks the Walker's corpse, a dull, wet thud breaking the quiet. Dale tries t…