Chapter Two

A short, painful moan escaped the man's lips. It was muffled underneath the damp, dirty ground.

"Oh shit," I gasped, staring in disbelief. Did I really just do that? "Um... Daryl? Daryl?"

The man moaned again, whispering a few obscenities underneath his breath as he lay awkwardly on the ground. His limbs were spread out in a reckless manner, flimsy and weak. As he staggered to turn his head to the side, he said, in a deep, rugged voice: "Let go."

"What?" I said, a look of confusion crossing my face. "What do you mean?"

"Your hand... dipshit," he said, anger flooding his vocal chords. That's when I realized that I was still holding onto his palm. I had been holding on so tightly, half of the man's side was suspended and dangling from my arm, while the rest of him was covered in the earthy grime. It looked terrible. Not that it made any difference when it came to his appearance — which, as I'm sure I've mentioned several times before, was very unpleasant. All the sweat and filth.

At least he didn't land on his crossbow. Then blood would've been thrown into the mix.

"I'm not letting go," I affirmed.

"Fine," he said snottily, but then the look in his eyes softened. He wasn't trying purposely to be bitter; he was just hurt.

I scrambled to pull him back up, using every ounce of strength still remaining in my semi-small, delicate frame. He tried, too; pushing his legs against the ground, fighting to get back into shape. "I'm so sorry," I suddenly blurted out, guilt overcoming me. "Jesus... I try to do something right for once..." As I pulled him back up, I noticed that his face was twisted up, like he was trying to cry but couldn't summon the tears.

"It's fine," he said, eyes squeezed shut. As he spoke, his mouth crinkled. "It wasn't you... I tripped..."

I turned around and looked at the ground; sure enough, a long, winding groove ran across the floor. A root. He tripped on a goddamn root. Shaking my head in a bewildered manner, I fought the urge to sigh. "Well, that's a relief," I muttered, a smile creeping onto my lips as I watched the man straighten himself up again. It hurt to watch him in such agony, but I was glad that the fall wasn't fatal. And it wasn't my fault. "I thought I... well, knocked you over. When I patted your back."

"That's not possible," he joked, which sounded and looked out of place, mostly because his face was still distorted and his body was thriving with inescapable irritation. "The only person who can hurt me is myself," he added. He attempted to smile back, but it came out like a half-deflated grin. I mentally gave him two thumbs up for trying.

A part of me wondered if that was why he was here in the first place, overheated and thirsty — because of his own carelessness, his own lack of sense. I didn't want to ask him, so I continued to help him up. This was not a time for emotional conversations. The man needed fluids, or else the next trip would surely be his last.

Looking away from Daryl, my eyes darted towards the opening again; it wasn't any much closer than before, but I still had a sense of ambition. The beaming light continuously flowing through the gap made me anxious to get moving. My mind was set on it, my thoughts clouding up into one distinct intention.

He was going to get this water. He just had to.

"We can do this," I told him, my voice full of certainty. I just didn't have time to self-doubt — all I could angle towards was the possibility of a lake, or river, or something behind that damn split in the trees.

He grunted in reply, which I naturally translated into okay. He was on his feet now, still looking extremely weak, but very much alive. I wiped some of the grease from his forehead; it was gross and sticky, but hey, at least he was still sweating.

Wait. Was that a good thing? Or was it a bad thing? I didn't know anymore.

"Are you ready?" I asked. He nodded tiredly.

Side-by-side, fists braced in one, we started to shuffle towards the light once more. We fell into a pattern of sorts, taking turns watching the ground and the forest, making sure that both of us would be free from harm. In a way, I felt somewhat optimistic... which was strange, especially considering the conditions. Me and a fragile, near-dehydrated stranger walking towards a hidden opening, both of us completely unaware if there was anything worth finding inside it.

But when I looked over at Daryl, I saw the same hope reflected in his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like things were going to be alright.

When we finally stumbled past the long, never-ending trees and scattered shrubs, I bit my lip. My eyes fixated in the gap, I squinted through the brightness of the light.

I couldn't believe my luck. I'm pretty sure Daryl couldn't believe it, either, the way his drying mouth was gaping open, his eyes growing wide with anticipation... or maybe that was just him in general, his craving for thirst becoming stronger and stronger by the second.

Through the blaze of the sun, I could make out a field of greenish grass. It wasn't the prettiest field; some of the patches were thick and brown due to dead and decaying plants. But besides that, it was seemingly adequate. There were no walkers, mysterious strangers, corpses, abandoned cars, or anything of that sort. We had really hit it off on terms of safety. But what did safety matter now?

There was water.

A small, shallow pool of the liquid, off to the side of the field. A tiny pond.

I didn't even bother glancing over at Daryl, who was now collapsing onto the ground. I guided him towards the pond as quickly as I possibly could, listening to the sound of his monstrous breathing behind me. Somehow, along the way, a message dawned on me: My half-assed plan, the one I had composed in less than a second, was actually working. It was strangely satisfying, knowing that I could do something more in life besides pick berries. In the back of my mind, I spat a hearty Take that, Shane, and continued on to the water source.

I didn't want to get too cocky. Not for the moment, anyways.

Once we made it to the pond, I helped onto the ground; I didn't want his body to shatter, and I decided that doing it gently would be the best decision for the sake of us both. Doing so, I slipped the crossbow off of his arm — it was heavy as fuck — and tossed it onto the ground. It went out with a bang as it lolled over to the side. I didn't show mercy to weapons.

"Glenn," I heard the man hoarsely mumble, drawing out my syllables in a typical Southern fashion. It was the first time he had said my name. "Please... water..."

"I know," I told him, leaning over his torso. Letting go of his hand, I urgently took my fingers and undid the buttons to his disgusting flannel shirt, exposing his tan, muscular frame. I had to admit, he had a nice chest, apart from the ghastly bruises diverged amongst his upper half. Just like the backs of his hands, they were also a striking shade of purple.

Cupping my hands up and dipping them into the shallow pond, I retrieved a bit of the water. It was cold and slippery. I slathered the liquid over his body, massaging his battered skin, hoping that it would absorb into his flesh. He moaned as I moved up to his neck, gradually making my way to his dirt-caked face. My hands smoothed over his forehead, his cheekbones, and finally, to his lips.

I didn't know if I was doing anything right, but it had to've been working; the man's breathing was starting to even out.

Cupping some more of the water, I lightly poured the fluid into his mouth. He drank it greedily, letting the liquid swish inside of his cheeks and down his overly-parched throat. I imagined how good it must have felt, especially under the radiating heat. "More," he whispered, his reddened eyes locked with mine.

"Okay," I said back, repeating the process. My fingers felt nice against his bare skin, brushing against his nipples, his neck, his chin... all the way up to his lips again. Whenever I did this, he stirred a little, his eyes filling with eagerness. It was somewhat awkward for me, but I could care less; after all, I was saving another man's life. That was all that mattered.

This went on for around ten minutes. I didn't want him to vomit up all the water, so I stopped feeding it to him for a minute or so, focusing more on his chest and face. In fear of evaporation, I buttoned his shirt back up. It was no longer drenched in smelly sweat, but with the cool pond liquid. That went for the rest of him, too, all coated up with the refreshing substance.

Now that some of the dirt had washed off, he was starting to look fairly normal. Handsome, even. It shocked me to see his creamy layer of pinkish skin, dotted with small-scale freckles underneath all the putridness. I let my eyes drift across him, absorbing all of his features. This time, I didn't see a crazy killer. I saw an average, worn-out guy with water dripping from the corners of his mouth.

"What?" he asked, voice still raspy. He noticed that I had been staring. "Is somethin' wrong...?"

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head, my cheeks flushing crimson. I wasn't about to admit what I had been thinking. "Are you okay?"

He did that half-deflated smile again. "Yeah. I feel better..."

"I'm glad."

"So am I," he said. "Now, can I have some more water? Please?"

Grinning, I did exactly that.