The idiot didn't even die doing something heroic. Well, perhaps having another go at guard duty was some sort of heroic, but Eugene couldn't get over how stupid it was. He was a crap shot anyway! He had never, ever hit a zombie with a gun, except for that one time in the Midlands when he'd whacked one over the head with a rifle. But that didn't count.
It wasn't right that Eugene was thinking about how stupid his death was. He should be sadder. He should be crying. He shouldn't just feel like his ribcage was hollow and be overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the situation.
Jack Freaking Holden, survivor of the zombie apocalypse, died falling off a wall.
If he'd landed differently, he probably could've survived. If he'd just been better at bloody well landing, he would be fine! Well, not fine, but not dead. Why'd he have to go and die on him? He survived the rocket launcher attack and what followed, and that was when Eugene really did think he was dead. He'd distracted himself then, too, with countless attempts to find him — he couldn't face up to what he thought was the truth, that all the attempts were useless and he was just staving off the inevitable realisation that he would never see the jerk again.
Except this time he'd seen Jack's broken body, he'd seen the blood, he'd seen the unnatural angle of his limbs and how his neck was not meant to bend that way, and he'd had Maxine murmur something softly to him, but he didn't know what it was. He'd left the room where they'd laid him out because he couldn't process it, and he vomited just outside, not even thinking that someone would have a grand old time trying to clean that up later. The smell would stay for weeks.
One he'd emptied his stomach he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, swaying slightly, before getting as far away from — from there as possible. He didn't know where he was going, but he'd ended up at the far end of the township, underneath one of the trees the kids played on when they weren't in lessons. There were no children there now — there was no one around, and Eugene couldn't find enough space in his brain to wonder why — and he crumpled to the ground, not bothering to try to get there gracefully. He faced away from the wall, staring at his foot so he wouldn't have to even see the sky and think about —
No.
He sat under the tree and picked all the grass within arm's reach, creating a circle of dirt, of death, of emptiness around him. It was fitting because he was empty and Jack was dead and what the fuck did he have to do that for, why would he do that? Why had he been such an idiot, what had possessed him to lean over the side like that, why did he have such shit balance that he fell over, why was he even up there, why did Eugene let him go up there, why hadn't he said they needed to go over their topics for tonight's broadcast, why hadn't he reminded him that he was utterly useless as a gate guard, why hadn't he— why—
He was supposed to be on the radio that night, but he stayed under the tree, barely noticing the passage of time but it got so dark he could no longer see the grass, so he couldn't kill it, and as it got colder he just sat there because he didn't know what else to do, because he didn't know if there was anything else to do, and as long as he sat there, on the opposite side of the township to that room, to that sight, to that puddle of vomit, then he wouldn't have to face it.
When Maxine came to find him, even employing a torch and using up valuable resources (he wasn't worth that, why was she doing that, what use was he without Jack anyway? Without Jack. Without. He wasn't sure how to do that), she didn't say anything, just sat down next to him, in the dirt, and he stopped tearing the grass he'd pulled up into tiny little pieces so he could put his hand in hers. They sat in the cold, and until the sun rose, he didn't have to face it.
But the sun still rose.