"Marcus, you know you gotta check that expiration date, sweetie? Otherwise you'll end up sicker than Uncle Paul at his birthday when he snuck some extra rum in the cake batter."
She snickers quietly at herself, as though she knows the only response she'll get is from the rustling of the leaves high up on the trees. The leaves are all she hears, besides her own mind. She stays close to the sound, seeking refuge from the sweltering heat coming from the midday sun as she walks along the cracked pavement. Her thin scarf is wrapped around her head and shoulders, a risky move blocking off her peripheral vision, but the slight cooling effect is enough to make up for that.
"Marcus, why'd you have to use that water to wipe off that stain? You know your Mama's not gonna give a damn, 'specially not when she's got the same problem."
Her bottle has been long emptied. The exact time when is a mystery, but she'd give a rough estimate of more than half a day.
Sweat droplets tumble down her skin. She licks them off when they fall close enough to her mouth. The salty taste provides momentary relief on her dry tongue.
"Marcus, I think I gotta sit down, sweetie. Can you hold up for a few?"
She breathes heavily, slowing her already leisurely pace.
"Marcus, slow down, don't leave my eyesight."
She stops, letting her bag slip off her shoulders, bending over to rest her hands on her knees.
"Marcus?" she calls.
A quiet and gruff voice from behind responds. "Who the hell is Marcus?"
"She may be seeing things. Let's just give her a few moments." Another voice, still gruff, more commanding.
"Hey, are you okay? You need some help?"
She gets up and turns slowly, seeing two men and a younger boy about her age standing less than ten feet from her. One has a crossbow, the other two have revolvers, pointed towards the ground, but fingers still only inches from the triggers.
"You need some help, don't you, sweetheart?" She gave in, no longer willing to fight because she thought she was dead already. The knives and whips cut into her skin until she looked like a painting of the beaten Jesus Christ. He never fought back either.
"Hey, did you hear me? Do you need help?" The boy repeats.
"You're looking a little pale there," says the man with the revolver.
No. Last time she should have said no. She won't make the same mistake. She shakes her head slightly. "I'm fine. It's okay, I'm fine."
"You got any others with you?" inquires revolver man.
In response, she picks up her backpack, blinking back the dark spots threatening to cloud over her vision. "I'm fine," she repeats soundly, walking at a brisker pace, off the pavement and through the trees, not bothering to look behind her and see if they're following. Too much head movement could cause her to topple over, she knows.
She walks until her shadow elongates, and her heaving breaths are so loud they could attract something. Her sweating has increased, her headache is worsening, and she's sure her skin makes it look as though she's already dead. She holds herself up against a tree trunk.
"Marcus, didn't we learn in Ms. Kramer's class that some bark can be eaten? Have you ever eaten bark before, Marcus?"
She hears a rushing sound and makes her way to a small creek a few yards away. Before she"s able to dip her head in she catches sight of a lone biter in the water, which slowly makes its way over to her, growling and fighting against the current that"s going in the opposite direction.
She sits on a log and laughs, removing her backpack from her shoulders and plopping it on the ground beside her. "I remember once when I was so hungry, and the only thing in the car to eat was a piece of paper, and so I ate the paper, Marcus! Closest I ever got to eating some bark."
She continues to laugh quietly as the biter eases out of the creek and up onto the bank. She takes out her small knife attached to her belt and glances at it for less than a second before tossing it into the creek, letting it get slowly taken away by the current.
The sun is in her eyes, and removes any sight of the oncoming biter. Her breaths quicken, and her head feels heavy. "Marcus, did you know that girl Lucy wanted to ask you out to that Halloween dance? I told her you were gay to keep her from doing that. She really liked you though. You should meet up with her sometime."
She dips back over the log, no longer able to hold herself up. Her head gets knocked on a stone as she hits the ground, and before her eyes close, she sees the biter tumbling down on top of her, with a long, straight stick through its skull.
The walker that Daryl has just killed is now lying on top of the girl, who may or may not still be alive. After pushing the decaying corpse to the side, he and Rick check her pulse and breathing, and after determining she's still dragging along, they begin to inspect her for bites or scratches, as Carl keeps a lookout for any oncoming danger.
"Nothing jumping out yet, but she's got an insane amount of marks," notices Rick. Daryl nods and hums in agreement, having also noticed the several cuts on the girl's arms and legs, undoubtedly from a knife or stick of some sort. Rick lifts her shirt slightly, checking her torso.
"God dammit," he softly curses, and Daryl looks to what Rick has seen.
"The hell?" Daryl whispers, seeing the scar tissue Rick is referring to on the girl's left hip.
"Should we put her down here or wait a bit?" Carl, hearing his dad's inquiry, steps over to see the mark.
"Rick… this is old. Gotta be at least 6 months or something. Way too old to be a walker bite," responds Daryl.
"What else could it be then? She's delirious, definitely seems like she's got a fever-"
"I don't think it's a fever. Think it could be sunstroke, something like that."
"What do we do with her?" Carl speaks up.
"Take her back. Denise and Howie can figure something out from there," says Daryl.
Rick settles the matter. "We'll start back now then. You're carrying her, Daryl."