Group Conscience No More
Daryl automatically stepped back as the rest of the group hurtled toward him. He watched as they came to a sudden halt before the man writhing on the ground. The man, who only hours before had told Daryl that his opinion mattered, was groaning in pain. Only Rick's cries for Herschel broke the relative quiet of the early summer evening.
Dale. His name is Dale. He ain't just some man.
As more people from the house gathered around Dale's body, Daryl noticed something else: the smell. During the day, the pasture had the sweet aroma of sun-warmed hay, late summer flowers, manure. Now, though, mixed in were the sour odors of old sweat, unwashed clothes, and something else…the salty, coppery scent of blood.
By itself, blood wasn't a horrible smell. Often, by Daryl's way of thinking, that scent suggested that dinner would soon be cooking. The sharp odor usually meant that a squirrel or rabbit, even a deer, had fallen beneath the sharp point of his arrow. Or the kill had just been skinned and gutted and butchered and was waiting for some salt and pepper and a hot skillet. That tangy smell really could be a good one.
Daryl frowned. Looking at the shocked and horrified faces surrounding Dale, he realized something else: there was another smell in the pasture. And it was one that he had smelled so often that it didn't even register anymore: the dark, dank odor of rot that was rising from the corpse that had wounded Dale.
Is that what had happened to Dale? Had he missed that smell? Had he been attacked because he was so used to that stench that he couldn't tell when a sack of flesh was shuffling his way? Had he been so angry with the drama inside the house that he hadn't been paying attention to the environment outside? Could he have been that ignorant? That out of touch with his own senses?
Daryl stepped back from the crowd, shaking his head to clear it. Damn it. Dale wasn't the only one who was out of touch. He had been right. The whole group was broken. They were so wrapped up in this soap opera they insisted on living that they were missing out on what was important: watching, listening, and smelling, even. Using your senses kept you alive. The arguing and jockeying for position was just a whole lot of nothing. And it was going to get them all killed.
He heard Andrea desperately trying to calm Dale down. She kept saying nonsensical things and looking into his eyes in an attempt to make him believe what was obviously untrue. Looking over Rick's shoulder Daryl could see that the wound was a wide, gaping hole in Dale's stomach. There was no way could Hershel fix that, even if it hadn't been a walker that had done it. The hole was too big.
Daryl watched as Hershel shook his head at Rick's silent question. He saw Rick's face collapse into itself, aging him twenty years. The anguish that suddenly appeared in Rick's eyes was huge, all-encompassing. It was like he knew what he had to do and realized that he was going to lose a piece of his soul doing it.
Daryl's respect for the lawman grew as, despite that terrible look on his face, Rick took out his gun and cocked it. The click it made was very loud, even with the sobs and moans filling the pasture. Rick's hand shook as he raised it. Daryl knew what he was thinking: that he had to help Dale. Save Dale, really.
But at what cost to Rick's own sanity?
Daryl moved forward quietly and settled his hand over Rick's. He couldn't just stand here and watch as one man died and another gave up a piece of his humanity. He could save one of them, at least.
He took the gun from Rick's hand and knelt closer to Dale. He felt rather than saw Rick's body sag in relief when the gun left his hand. Daryl aimed the gun unwaveringly at the old man's head. Before he could pull the trigger, Dale craned his neck, pushing his forehead into the gun's muzzle. Daryl felt a wave of pity wash over him.
"Sorry, brother," he said, and squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked in his hand. He felt the report all the way into his shoulder. Over the roar of the shot, he heard the muffled cries of the people around him and smelled the bitter aroma of gunpowder. He watched the fine mist of blood settle on his hands and shirt. He suddenly felt awake. Alert. Like that one shot had jolted him out of the stupor he had been in since Sophia's death.
He handed the gun back to Rick and stood up. He deliberately avoided looking at Rick because the expression of gratitude he would find on Rick's face would be too much. Instead, he looked at the shocked faces of the other people all around him. They weren't looking at him. They were all looking at Dale's ruined body.
Everybody except for one. She was looking straight at him. Calmly. With no malice. Nor bitterness. Just still. Serene.
Daryl gazed back for a moment, gathering that peace from her eyes. When he had taken all he could, he turned away and headed back to his tent. Away from the scene, the group, the community.