A Long Winter
One winter is a long time when you have to live through every second of it.
The door bangs open hard. He can't see anything in the gloom, but the choice – inside: maybe walkers; outside: definitely walkers – is an easy one. He drags them both across the threshold and shuts the world out.
Dingy furniture in a one room shack. Sagging sofa in front of a dusty fireplace. Getting them there is now the only thing that counts.
He manages, but only just. As he lowers Daryl carefully, his knees give way and he crumples hard to the floor. Stays where he is, panting. Looks at his brother, so pale it's frightening.
Daryl holds his gaze, eyes fever bright and not quite there. Rick can tell his brother is further gone than he.
When the floor gave way and Daryl fell through it onto the lower floor of the old barn he'd been knocked out cold. By the time Rick got to him a walker was blocking Rick's path and had already taken a chunk out of Daryl's shoulder.
Rick killed the monster, too caught up in the horror before him to notice the other one under the debris by his feet. He felt the teeth, like it was happening to someone else. No thoughts beyond extricating Daryl, getting out.
Here they are. No water, no hope, two bullets between them. The crossbow lost, their loot scattered on the forest floor. Rick knows the others won't worry yet, they are not expecting them until morning. He can picture them, Carol, Hershel, Maggie, Carl… and loses his train of thought. Lori with her big belly. Shane's baby? He'll never know.
Daryl's hand comes up and grabs his arm. Rick tries to focus on his brother's face. There's blood on Daryl's lips; more bubbles up as he tries to speak. Ribs have pierced a lung. Words are lost in a coughing fit. Daryl curls in on himself, breath rattling painfully. He tries again.
"End it, man. End it now."
Eyes blue like the sky on a cold winter's day. Six small words, the biggest thing anyone has ever asked. Blood running red, dripping, dripping. Rick cannot focus on the question.
Daryl's grip weakens. His eyes close, his body goes slack. Rick knows it's time, almost time. Once more his brother struggles to open his eyes. They are full of pain, and fear, and pleading.
Please, Rick…
He can't actually hear the words, there is no breath left in Daryl. More blood runs down his chin.
Rick struggles to his knees. Lifts Daryl half into his arms, cradles him against his chest. Holds him tight, lets him know he's not alone; he, Rick, will follow right away.
The Python is cold in Rick's hand. Barrel pressed against the forehead, reflecting stray rays of light from the setting sun. Rick can't breathe, all energy if focused in one finger.
He doesn't hear the bang, it's like he's lost his sense of self with the trigger. He doesn't let go, holds his brother up, doesn't look down. Just closes his eyes, barrel cold against his own head. One more focus of energy, one more pull of the trigger.
Outside, a murder of crows rises into the sky, startled.