"I was with Beth."
"Is she dead?"
"She's just gone."
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"You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon."
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Walkers were sluggish, south-gone and no near meek when it came to their unyielding hunger for even the crisp, bone-dry flesh of the living. The undead that roamed the mountainous terrain of his surroundings weren't the least of his problems. Unfortunately, neither were they the worst. The whispering wind was by no means inaudible, deafening his ears along with a thumping adrenaline in his bloodstream. He was on alert, his heightened senses ran on the awareness of his intractable fear.
However, if it weren't that spineless emotion, those same senses would have eventually been clouded by a deathly Siberian stream of crimson long ago that would serve the collapsed ultimatum on his downfall. Losing all feeling in his right leg from the knee downward, he leaned on two scraped elbows, supporting his shoulders enough for his eyes to glaze over and focus on any immediate threats. His right hand, scythed with dozens of miniature cuts, grasped upon his last bolt. His crossbow was over his shoulder, because he would be damned if he left it behind. After the helplessness of being stuck in a train car in Terminus, the second highlight of that day was Carol handing it back to him. The first was when he saw his old friend alive.
He had pierced an undead Merle with his unsanctified weapon. He could still feel his grip on the biting metal, even now, that brought forth the reality of what the apocalypse was truly capable of. Even when Sophia came clumsily stumbling out the barn, the only instinct left in her to feed on everyone and her own mother, he shoddily comprehended the immense pain. Now, it wasn't long till he would die. It wasn't long till he turned. The blood seeped from the back of his shin, the bullet of a good sniper submerged into his leg. The skin around the wound could have been coated with a few layers of alabaster paste, it contrasted to the normal peach skin color he had.
It wasn't that Daryl Dixon, badass jack of all weapon-trades and loyal companion, was afraid of dying. He was afraid of what would be left of him- because Dr. Jenner had confirmed they were all infected, however it happened. A limping corpse that dragged itself across the tarry tracks of abandoned road. A walker, by his luck, that would bring shame to the last of the Dixons. He was embarrassed to even know that he had the image duly perfected in his mind. Carol's eyes quickly welling up with tears, insisting that he would want it to be her, pistol shaking in her hands. She wouldn't get the chance to say much before pulling the trigger. If he knew anything about walkers, it was that they had nothing to stop them. Their desperation to eat would drive them to persevere in the harshest conditions. Daryl wasn't an intellectual genius, neither was he stupid enough to believe he as a walker would be any different.
He would be tearfully rewarded a fleeting farewell, an apology and a cheap burial. That fear compelled him to breathe- but another thing compelled him to live. Something. Someone. A being who once served as the growing light at the end of his dark tunnel. Someone who questioned him, ridiculed him and left him second-guessing that maybe she was right.
"You do still believe there are good people left in the world."
And, somehow, there she was. Everything was the same. Perhaps, a light had warmly welcomed him in after a mellow death and reunited him with the familiar nervousness that tensed in his stomach. Hair matted with brown dirt, that was once sun-kissed by the warmth of the blue overhanging them. The innocence that could never be veiled within big blue doe-like eyes no matter how tough things went. Even this dying world could not extinguish the everlasting hope that the rest of the prison group had made it. And she had been right. Her reappearance would quell Maggie's unspoken worries and bring a smile to Glen's new stoic calculative self when he saw the miracle his sister in law made it through. Rick would welcome her back into the group without a thought, and they would all deservedly mourn over Hershel.
Beth Greene's natural scent came flaring to his nose. Like moths seeked the comfort of the heated timbers of a flame, the faded fragrance of damned Peach Schnapps annoyingly hit the taste buds of his tongue sourly. It would've been her stubbornness that willed her to drink such a godforsaken waste, simply because she would argue that Daryl didn't know all. Like fireflies drew wonder from an inexperienced child, he raggedly leaned onto his left leg as he stood up. Hygiene was obviously cut out to be much of a priority for both of them, though. Daryl's sideburns were the result of ill shaving for a fortnight and Beth still wore the same butter-colored blouse he'd last seen her in.
"Beth..." His throat was raspy, croaking in his throat, his lack of energy making his thought patterns dire. Her eyes stuck on him, proving her eagerness to see him. By now, the Redneck was sure he was no longer living, otherwise Beth wouldn't be so damn straightforward in her body's lingual advancing. She whimpered something out to him incoherently, a hasty grin he had been forlorn to previously wish for appearing on her face to match his own. His bolt still grasped in one hand, he brought up his other to reach out for her.
How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Questions had ran through his head all this time, memories eloped in with them, resembling sentimentality in all the little things they had accomplished together. Playing the darndest annoying game called 'I Never.' Arguing about chomping on good ol' Mud Snake suppers and camping out. Protecting her from becoming walker bait because she was eighteen and had to have a first real drink. Teaching her to track after her consistent begging became such an earful and serious piggybacks weren't enough. Trivial things meant more than the bigger things, in his opinion, but even those stood out. Opening up to her. Hugging. Throwing a fit that proved him to be an emotional drunk. Holding her hand to comfort her over the loss of her father. He had missed her.
As the blonde closed the distance on them slowly, her clothes burnished in brown and ash, her eyes haunted him. The baby blue that matched the sky. The innocence of 'one of the little ones' coming to fade. From underneath the masking shadow of an aged alpine tree, came the graying hunger. The decaying smell replacing those damned Peach Schnapps, a pathetic excuse for moonshine he dearly longed to see. A rot of death came from the walker foolishly choosing him as a meal out of all the possible squirrels the forest had to offer. "Of course not."
He shook his head, stepping back on his one good foot. "Nothing good ever happens to Daryl Dixon..." At that moment, the creature was within inches of bringing his misery to an end. He would let it. He swore. Merle, Sophia. All of it was too much. Too intense. Building up on him the miniature stones that made up a mountain, until that mountain grew too high and came tumbling down. If it happened literally, he'd be crushed. And emotionally, the way it was happening, was exactly the same. Maybe even worse. A jagged swift of his other hand, an ongoing flame of anguish escaped him as he yelled out a heart-tearing battle cry. His last bolt was met with her last hissing groan, tearing through the skull in the same way he had with Merle. And it felt every much as real.
Beth never wanted to become one of them. He still wanted to imagine those baby blue pupils dilating like the round doe eyes of a dear, running to him in a fumbling sprint, tripping over herself and retorting to him when he mocked her for it. But here she was, as he noticed the deep teeth shaped scars marked forever into the very crook of her neck. Her body fell, all the nerves that had long since disappeared rightfully rendering her shell limp. Her decaying ankles descended without delay before her knees crashed to the black tar. Daryl fell with her, catching her zombified form within his arms, unable to bring Beth's body any more agony. Even if she could no longer feel anything.
Daryl Dixon wasn't dead. He wouldn't shame the Dixon's family name any more than it had been. His father's abusive and alcoholic habits had unjustly brought enough of that, and Merle had redeemed them all. Carol wouldn't have to bring down his infected self any time soon. Nobody would have to mourn, or bury him. No quick goodbyes yet, as there were too many promised laughs to be filled for that yet. No, he definitely wouldn't go out so easily. Not from a single bullet to his shin. This world had something much worse planned for him, saving something so horrific it could possibly beat even this. When it came, he would welcome it with open arms and personally tell the Devil himself that he hasn't been to Hell.
Anger churned within his veins, forcing him to stand once again, the pain that surged through his foot could never compete with the deadness that now ironically lived within his chest. Once before he had carried Beth like this- in a kitchen when he'd been pretty damn set on carrying her everywhere after her tracking skills led her straight into a cursed snare trap. Inside a place that had been his nearest home since the Prison. Where they almost lived together. Where they almost were the fortunate owners of a dog to care for.
And like everything else, the walkers within this world ruined it. Daryl hadn't been pretty religious before, but he now knew. Oh God, did the fool know, that Gods themselves didn't exist. And if they did, then they weren't the all-loving kind that cared for humanity. For all the man-made disasters out there, this was certain never to be one of them. Lest someone hated humanity that much, that they set loose their most basic inner monsters on themselves. And just as when he had been so paranoid over carrying her when she was alive, he pained his legs to pathetically shuffle through the woodland back to their church.
Beth would gain a burial. A ceremony. A bloody effin' funeral where they wore bright colors and laughed at her happy memories, and cried as they all dug her grave. Hell, he was going to build spoiled Miss. Greene her own wooden coffin. Nobody got coffins nowadays, but she bloody would. And he'd take out a fine black sharpie, much like he had for Lil' Asskicker's baby box back in the prison, and he would write 'Damn Peach Schnapps,' in the scrawliest handwriting he ever had, just so that it was barely readable. So that spoiled Miss. Beth Greene would come to haunt him to write it neater and give her more flowers.
And she also better thank him. For planning, and delivering, a death sentence on the Terminus cannibals that shot at him after he found Bob dead and skinned alive. For using his last bolt on Father Gabriel for putting his family through hell. For giving her a proper burial, and a coffin. For getting that Eugene to whatever hyped up scientific buildings he needed to end the walkers. For becoming the group's new light to lead them out of a dark tunnel and into the new dawn. For Promising to find them a proper home.
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"You're going to miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon."
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"I Never missed a living jukebox more."