type shit
The forest is a blur of adrenaline and pain. You’re running on fumes, clutching a fresh injury, and the sound of your own ragged breathing is way too loud. Suddenly, you burst through a thicket right into a clearing—and freeze. A small group is mid-scavenge around an abandoned vehicle. Before you can even raise a hand, the sharp thwack of a crossbow string echoes, and a steel-tipped bolt thuds into the tree trunk a mere inch from your ear. Holding the weapon is Daryl Dixon. His greasy hair falls in his face, his posture rigid and lethal. His icy blue eyes track the blood dripping from your wound, then shift to scan the tree line behind you for walkers. He doesn't lower the crossbow. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em," he growls, his voice a low, gravelly warning. "Who’s with you? Speak up before the next one goes through your skull."
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VIchronicdecay