Chapter 2
Daryl Dixon, just 13, was walking through the woods of Georgia with only a knife and a bit of food. He stopped to check again what he had. Some beans, jerky, half a loaf of bread, some oatmeal, gatorade, a granola bar, and two bottles of water.
He would have to make do.
By sunset he was tired and hungry, so he sat down, built a small, damp fire like his brother had taught him-not the damp part, that he couldn't help because it had rained the day before-and sat down to cook the beans in the darkness.
As the beans were cooking, he sat down with a small oak branch and his knife, and started sharpening the end of the stick to make a spear to hunt with. He knew that he would have to hunt eventually, but he didn't mind. He had been doing it since he was about 7, with his dad's .22, and later his brothers shotgun, hunting larger game that the .22 couldn't kill. He was comfortable with killing things, but he always made sure to eat as much of what he killed as he could, preferring not to waste the meat.
He thought of his father as he sharpened, and what he would think of him being gone. "Not much 'probly." he muttered to himself. He tried to avoid his dad as much as possible, he hit him if he looked at him wrong.
_
The next day he woke up from his sleeping place in between two trees, and took two short sips of some good old H2o. After he stretched a bit, he picked up his finished spear, and kicked some dirt over the remaining coals in the fire.
He set off at a slow pace, wincing from yesterday's beating that had caused him to leave in the first place. His dad had been drinking, and just slapped him for no reason. Daryl tried to ask him why, but all he got was a baseball bat to the thigh. Twice. Hard.
He kept moving north.
