Chapter 2

The sun was blistering hot and I could already feel my pale shoulders turning red. I'd only been walking for about fifteen minutes, but sweat was dripping down my neck. My blonde highlighted bangs plastered to my forehead in a greasy mess, and the rest of my hair was pulled back in a ponytail, if anyone even dared call it that. All it was made up of was the hair I could get off my shoulders. My boots rapped on the littered ground as I searched in as many cars as I could without losing the small amount of food still left in me from last night as of now, I'd found nothing, and the sweet smell of death rose up all around me in a claustrophobic, elevator way.

"Damn it. Why the hell did I even suggest this? I should have made someone-" Noises. I looked to my right toward the trees running along the road barriers. Rustling noises. Walking. I pulled out a hatchet and continued to stare. Up until this point, I'd killed five zombies, and that was in hand to hand combat. Time to try my skills with aiming and throwing. I whistled, hoping that would attract, what I thought was, the roamer toward me. A flash of light through the trees, I raised the hatchet over my head, eyeballing where it might be. A grunt, steady... Steady... A swift shift to the left, throw.

A sharp pain cut through my shoulder and I gasped, grabbing the wound with my left hand and dropping to my knees, gritting my teeth and trying very hard not to cry. I couldn't cry. There was not time to cry anymore. I focused my eyes to the sky, then let them fall to the ground next to my wounded arm. An arrow. I gazed at it quizzically as my heart pounded. If an arrow had shot through the woods at me, it was the result of one of two options. First, it could be a very smart zombie, or second, there were other humans here. I lifted my head to look toward the trees again, only to find a man, walking at me in an angry fashion. Slung over his sculpted chest was a camouflage strap, belonging to a black crossbow. The arrows look just like the one that hit me, and in his hand was my hatchet. He stopped in front of me.

"Git up," He had an accent, not strong enough to make his words unrecognizable. I stayed and stared at his hunting boots thinking I'm going to die. Right here, right now. He tried again, more aggressively this time.

"I said git up!" I stood, still holding my shoulder. I noticed that he was wearing blue jeans, a plaid, short sleeve shirt, and a denim vest. He had a bit of a goatee, some stubble of a mustache, plus sideburns and hair almost down to his chin. This man was an obvious redneck, a dirty one at that (physically). I let my brown eyes fall on his blue eyes, trying my hardest to look tough.

"This yours?" He hissed thrusting my hatchet in front of my face. I glanced it at then back to his eyes. They might possibly be the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen. Bluer than a clear day in May.

"Yeah," I said plainly. His expression hardened.

"Well, maybe, before you use it next, learn to aim," He said throwing the hatchet at my feet. He turned and started walking back toward the trees. I clearly heard him say "Stupid bitch" under his breath.

"Hey!" I said, letting go of my shoulder and bending down to grab my hatchet and his arrow. My head was spinning with emotion. I had hardly noticed the sharp pains in my wound. I stormed toward him.

"First of all, don't call me a bitch," I said reaching out to grab his shoulder. "And second, your fucking arrow got me in the arm. I don't think I even left a scratch on you," I dropped the hatchet and touched him. He spun around, pulling out a hunting knife and pushing me in to the nearest car. The blade caressed my neck and I lifted my head, so as to stretch the skin a bit. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I'm sure he could feel it considering his forearm was pushing my sternum in such a way that prevented me from escaping. He snatched the arrow out of my hand and put it in his pants pocket.

"Don't fuckin' touch me," he growled in a low, whispery voice that sent shivers down my spine. "Your damn hatchet came two inches from ripping me open!" I didn't dare say anything. I just stared at him, shaking slightly and past the brink of tears. He stared back for a few moments then asked, "How old'a you anyway?" I bit my tongue, trying to swallow the lump collecting in my throat.

"Seventeen," I said, a tear ran down my cheek, breaking the no cry rule. He let up.

"What's a kid like you doin' out here alone?" He put his knife back in it's holster and his arrow in his crossbow.

"I'm not alone. My group's back down the road in the big, red RV," I pointed it out, but where we were, it was just a tiny speck. He shielded his eyes and looked toward where I was pointing. While still scoping it out, he asked, "Why'd they send you out instead'a someone older?"

"Me and Mel are the oldest, but Mel was asleep when I left," At that he looked at me, subtly surprised. It didn't last long because he had shifted his gaze to my shoulder.

"Lemme see that," He gripped my upper arm and pulled me to him. I winced, half from the pain and half because I thought he'd grip much harder than he did. He was gentle, actually. Very gentle. He stood behind me, and fingered the edges of the cut, probably checking out the internal damage. My breathing was even, but as he continued to touch me, my heart started racing again. I felt my insides melt in a hormonal waterfall, then I screwed that up when I shivered as he moved a piece of hair, that had fallen out of my hair tie, off of my neck. He pulled away and stepped back. I blushed and looked at my feet.

"Got any medical supplies in that RV?" I started picking at the cuticle on my thumb.

"No," I replied flatly. He laid my hatchet in my hand and I looked up. He must have gone and picked it up while I was being embarrassed. I started to thank him, but he had already started walking away. I stood there watching him, then he turned.

"Are you gonna stand there all day, or do you want me ta treat that?" He gestured toward my shoulder. I looked at him doubtfully, as if he wasn't real, and then I started to follow him.

"What's yer name, kid?" He asked, turning again to lead me.

"Kella and I'm not a kid. I'm turning eighteen in August. What's yours?"

"Daryl Dixon."