Maybe this was it. Maybe today was the day that you finally died. You'd survived countless attacks by walkers, even a few by people. But, you'd finally met your match.

Dozens of walkers filled the field around you. Having been separated from the group during an attack on the prison had led to this moment. The air was thick with the moans and cries of the walkers. The scent of rotting flesh and despair filled your nostrils.

You ran.

You were well aware that you wouldn't get very far, not with this many chasing you and more appearing by the second. A few walkers went down thanks to your knife. The bullets were for last, you only had two and they needed to count. The distant roar of an engine almost made you laugh. Maybe if you'd ran faster someone would have saved you. Dozens of maybes and what-ifs plagued your mind. Your feet didn't quit pounding on the grass. The grasp of walkers ghosted your body.

"God damn it!" A familar, gruff voice yelled as the roar of an engine boomed out. Your gaze went up and spotted the source of that familiar voice. Daryl raced through the field on his motorcycle, towards you. "Run faster, God damn it!" He called out.