Hey everyone :) Thanks so much for all the reviews from the last chapter, I loved every one of them! Again, I have no professional medical knowledge, so Hershel's mistakes or inaccuracies are mine. Hope you enjoy this chapter!
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Hershel gestures for the rest of the group to sit down, and Rick's eyes flicker over to Glenn who has his head buried in his hands and seems to be shaking, before he finally lowers himself into a chair. When all of them are seated around the large table, some huddled close to others for support, Hershel starts to speak.
"First off, it's a wonder how you people have survived this long. And I have never seen anyone seem more determined to survive than that man in there. He's critical at the moment, should be dead really, but stable for now. Before I start, does anyone know what happened? Did one of you shoot him with his own crossbow?"
At the stunned silence that continued for a moment after Hershel's inquiry, Rick realised that no one else was going to respond. He cleared his throat, and then said, "No. We, uh, we just found him like that. Lying at the base of a valley and covered in blood. We think that he might have tried to climb back up, and then fallen again, knocked himself out for the entire night possibly… Plus, I'm pretty sure that Daryl would kill us if we even thought about touching that crossbow of his."
Rick smiled slightly when he said that part, and was glad to hear Shane snort in laughter. Everyone seemed to crack a silent smile at the statement, even Carol.
They had all seen at some point how protective Daryl was over his things.
"Well, we can cross that bridge if and when he regains consciousness," The mood in the room instantly sobered, and Rick found himself leaning forward slightly in his chair, desperate for some good news, "The most urgent injury was the arrow in his side, which had splintered by the time that I removed it. I managed to get all the pieces of wood out that I could find, but there may be more still in him. The arrow had pierced some blood vessels, one major one if I'm correct, so my priority was to make sure that he didn't bleed out. It was touch and go for a long while… still is really."
"What happens if you missed a splinter?" Andrea spoke up, from her chair where she had pushed it up to T-Dog's, and was leaning slightly against him. Her face was pale.
Hershel sighed, "If I missed one, then he will almost definitely develop an infection, and will have to undergo another surgery in order for me to attempt to remove it. We won't know if that's the case until it happens, but he's too weak and critical for me to go searching for the splinters before they become a problem at the moment. Any other questions?" No one spoke up, "Okay, so I removed the arrow and splinters, and stitched him up, and then I moved onto his head injury. There seems to have been two points of trauma, which would reinforce Rick's theory of him falling down, both of which were quite deep. I've sutured those too, but there's no way to know the extent of the damage without a CT scan, which is a facility that is long gone. I would say that a severe concussion is a definite though."
Rick suddenly flashed back to the memory of Daryl zoning out on them, and saying Merle's name over and over. He swallowed past the lump that had grown in his throat, and then spoke up, "Merle. He kept saying his brother's name, and getting distressed…"
"Yeah, it was kinda like he was talking to him, except, you know… Merle wasn't there." T-Dog spoke up, nodding towards Rick.
"I'm assuming that his brother is deceased then? I am in no way a professional human doctor, much less a neurologist, but I would imagine that in times of severe need like that, that perhaps a loving family member might be thought up as some sort of comfort to the person."
They were all silent at the assumption of Merle being dead, gazes glued to the polished wood of the table, but as Hershel continued to speak, Rick frowned. Merle Dixon, as a loving family member? There was no way that he could even begin to imagine that, "No… That wasn't what it was. Daryl was upset afterwards, like more shaken then I've ever seen him, and, to be blunt, Merle wasn't the comforting and help in need kind of guy."
Hershel could only nod his head, and say, "As I've said, I am not a neurologist. Perhaps Daryl's perception on his brother is different to your's, and that's why his mind conjured up Merle, as a way of coping with the situation."
"He did change his attitude after he snapped out of it," Shane said roughly, looking up to meet Rick's eyes, "First he wanted us to just leave him there, with a gun, but then he made up his mind to climb up the fucking mountain by himself."
Rick opened his mouth to add something, but then closed it when he realised that that was exactly what had happened. Somehow, the hallucination of Merle had given Daryl the will to live, and the strength to survive. But the look in his eyes while he had been staring into space with an intensity had scared Rick at the time, and the way that he had tried to close down his shaken expression when Rick had snapped him out of it, the determined glint to his eyes when he had gritted his teeth, and struggled to his feet.
"Looks like you don't know everything about Daryl, and his relationship with this Merle then," Hershel said after a moment of silence.
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No one else said a word, and after a minute, Hershel continued with his diagnosis of Daryl, with a glance down the table at Glenn, who was still hunched over and unmoving, "There was also extensive blood loss. He was on the verge of bottoming out when you brought him back, and for a while during the surgery, I didn't know if I would be able to get his pressure back up.
"When we started working on him, I had Jimmy run and fetch a small blood testing kit that I had purchased a year or so ago. It's not brilliant, but it's accurate enough. Daryl has O- blood, which means that he can only receive blood from other O- donors, and that's where Glenn came in. Glenn gave a large blood donation which seems to have been just in time, but Daryl still is suffering from severe blood loss, and will definitely need more transfusions."
At this, Lori, who was sitting next to Glenn, leaned over and put her arms around his hunched over figure. Rick watched as he turned marginally towards her, and allowed himself to be enveloped in a hug, one that looked like it was duly needed.
"That all? Is he going to be okay?" Shane asked, his voice low and harsh.
"I don't know yet," Hershel's answer was honest and full of badly disguised worry, "In addition to his major injuries, he also had a badly dislocated ankle, and may have broken some small bones, but there's no way of telling at the moment. Extensive bruising across the chest, some deep scratches and wounds on his arms, superficial cuts and contusions. To be frank, he should, by all accounts, be dead. He's stable at the moment, but there's no way of telling if his condition will improve or deteriorate at this point. And we are so grossly underequipped to deal with any sort of real deterioration, so…"
Glenn lifted his head rapidly, "I can make another trip into town! If there's a doctor's office or something, I can get anything that we need, and—"
He was hushed by Hershel, who looked down at him sadly, "A doctor's office won't have the equipment that we need. We'd be talking a major trauma centre, which there are none of anywhere near here, and even then I wouldn't be qualified or have the knowledge to use any of the equipment. And Glenn… we need you here, resting, to be able to give more blood. I'm sorry."
"So what, that's it? If anything goes wrong, he's dead?"
The whole table turned to stare in shock at Carl, who'd blurted out his question, his eyes hidden by the rim of the hat that had once belonged to Rick. "Carl, honey…" Lori attempts to fold Carl into a hug, but he wiggles out of it, and fixes his eyes on Hershel.
Hershel glanced at Rick for a split second, during which he found himself giving the other man a quick nod, and then looked back at Carl. "In short, yes, that's what I'm saying. But of course I will do everything that I can to help your friend, I promise you that. And Daryl is a fighter, Carl. If he's made it this far, I'd like to believe that he can pull through this."
Carl stared at Hershel for a few more seconds, as if trying to determine if the man was lying or sugar coating the truth for him, and Hershel stared back, calm and honest. Finally, Carl seemed to take Hershel's word for it, and sank back into his mother's arms.
"He'll be okay, Carl," Carol's voice was soft and gentle, but commanded everyone's full attention, "He knows how much we need him."
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After everyone's outbursts, Hershel had retreated back into the spare room to monitor Daryl some more, while everyone else went their separate ways as well. Lori ushered Carl back to their tent, saying that he still needed to rest as well, and that it had been a big day for all of them. Carl had protested for a while, but then Rick had knelt down to his height, looking him straight in the eyes, "Your mom is right, you have to get your strength back. I'll come get you if anything happens, okay Carl?"
"You promise?"
The anxious look in his eyes surprised Rick, who hadn't expected Carl to care this much at all for the other man, but he nodded nonetheless, "Promise."
It was funny, how Daryl Dixon had managed to creep in quietly and earn a place among them, without anyone really realising it.
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It was only when Rick was in the lukewarm shower, trying his hardest to rid himself of any blood that had spilled onto him, that he properly thought about Hershel's statement, looks like you don't know everything about Daryl, and his relationship with this Merle then.
The words couldn't have been truer, and he wondered how he ever really thought that he had understood the two Dixon brothers. Granted, he'd never seen them together, but it had seemed simple enough all those weeks ago, when he had met both of them within the space of a few days.
Merle had been, quite simply, an asshole. Just a big, loud redneck, with a talent for being especially racist at the worst of times. He'd punched him in the face too, Rick remembered, and sent him sprawling into the dust. He didn't think that he'd been too harsh, handcuffing the man to the pipe, in fact, it had been exactly what the situation that had been spiralling out of control had called for. But then, through an unpredictable array of events, the horrific had happened, and Merle had been left stranded.
Rick sighed, putting his face directly under the water that had now turned cold. It was something that he would regret for the rest of his life.
But then they had returned to camp, and none of the other survivors had been fazed by the abandoning of Merle. One person, Rick couldn't remember who, had gone as far as to say that the guy had deserved it. No one deserved to die like that. To be tethered to a pipe in a city overrun by the dead, and left to rot.
The next day, Daryl Dixon had come blazing into the camp, shouting for his brother to come help him, and Rick's heart had sank. But he had done the mature thing to do, and confessed to handcuffing Merle to the pipe. He hadn't known what to expect, so it had shocked him when Daryl had gone crazy on his ass. A string of squirrels had hit him straight in the face, as Daryl roared, and, slipping into some sort of default setting, Shane and Rick had subdued the man.
He hadn't thought about it from the perspective of what he would have done, if some stranger broke the news to him that they'd handcuffed Lori or Carl to a roof, and left them there. And he'd told Daryl bluntly. When he considers what he would have done, he realises they he probably would have tried to shoot the person who had done it.
Maybe it was the way that Daryl had been angry for weeks after they had lost Merle, his temper being triggered by the tiniest things and sometimes nothing at all, and then how he had just stopped mentioning Merle all together that made everything think that he hadn't really cared about his brother. From what he had heard, Merle hadn't seemed to care that much for Daryl.
Rick hadn't figured out before that maybe the brothers just had a different idea of love than the rest of them.
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When he stumbled back into the kitchen, most of the group was gone.
Glenn remained though, his damp hair the only clue that Dale had persuaded him to take a shower, but he was slumped onto the table in the same position that Rick had left him in. Beside him, was Carol, whose eyes seemed to be dry, but her cheeks were streaked with tear stains. She had her head ducked down, buried in what looked like a cooking book, but it was obvious from her slightly vacant stare, and the way that she didn't turn the pages, that she wasn't really reading it.
Rick nodded slightly to each of them, but neither acknowledged him, and then with a sigh, he sank into the chair closest to him.
All three of them sat in silence for what seemed like hours, but, judging by the clock on the wall, was only twenty minutes, until Maggie came in quietly. All their heads snapped up, and she stumbled over her words for a moment, but recovered quickly once she looked away from Glenn, and spoke the rest of the sentence smoothly.
"M-my, um, father said that one of you can come in and see him for a few minutes if you'd like."
Glenn started to rise sluggishly from his seat, "Does he— Do I need to…?"
"No, Glenn, you can't give any more blood at the moment. C'mon, come into the sitting room with me, it's more comfortable there." Maggie came around the table to latch onto Glenn's arm as his face fell and he started to crumble back into the chair. He obediently rose with her, and let himself be led gently out of the room, and Maggie turned her head back to Rick just before her and Glenn disappeared from sight, "Y'all know what room he's in."
Oh, Rick knew the room alright. After his shower, which he'd had in the guest bedroom upstairs that had an ensuite attached, it was the shower that the entire group shared, he'd paused on the stairs coming down, and stared at the door that he knew Daryl was behind. The smear of blood on the wall just next to the door caught his eye as well, but he'd managed to tear his gaze away just as Andrea had started to come up the stairs.
They had both paused upon seeing one another, because, who really knew what you were supposed to say in a situation like this, when everything else seemed to have just gone to hell?
It felt like they had started to grieve already. Because, just how many other breaks were they going to get in this cruel, new world?
After a few beats of silence in which they both just remained frozen on the steps, Rick forced his body to start moving, and he began to descend the stairs. He saw her glance towards the room as well, but then she too began to snap out of her state.
Their shoulders brushed against each other when they passed, but as hard as he tried, Rick couldn't find any words to say.
Neither could Andrea.
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He looked up at Carol, who had shrunk back against her chair, and whose head seemed to be shaking slightly. "I'm not ready," She whispered, "I can't—I can't go in right now."
The look on her face was so heartbroken and scared, that Rick felt something break inside of him, "We can go in together," He said roughly, "C'mon, we'll do this together, Carol." But still she seemed to retreat inside herself, shaking her head over and over again.
"No, I can't, I can't." A whimper broke loose from her, and she brought her hands up to her mouth, "I can't see him like this, not right now, not while he's just lying there… dying…" Then a sob slipped out, and shook her head more furiously, "You go in, Rick. Please. Make sure that he's not dying… I just, I can't."
As much as Rick longed to console the woman, who looked as if she was about to shatter into a million pieces, he knew that there wasn't really anything that he could say. And while his leadership tendencies were slowly coming back to him as the initial shock of riding back with Daryl wore off slightly, he still felt exhausted, and didn't think that he had the energy to attempt to help Carol at that moment. He made a note to either talk to her that evening, if Daryl lasted that long, or get Lori to.
"Well, okay. I'll let you know how he is. Keep the faith though, Carol, you and I both know how stubborn he is."
Though Rick hadn't known the man was that stubborn until he had witnessed Daryl singlehandedly haul and drag himself up a small cliff with injuries that probably should have killed him already.
Daryl Dixon was just turning out to be all sorts of surprises.
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Rick knocks softly on the closed door to the room, and waits until Patricia opens it to make any sort of movement. She touches him gently on the arm, motioning for him to go in, while she slips around him and out of the room.
His steps seem to be in slow motion as he tries to decide if he can face seeing Daryl like… he doesn't even know what Daryl is going to look like.
He thinks that he might throw up again.
But just as he is about to turn and run, his feet take the last few steps on autopilot, and he clears the doorway, having a full view of Daryl. For a split second, Rick focuses on Hershel first, the man checking Daryl's blood pressure in the corner, giving him a look that Rick feels is bordering on pity.
Then he looks properly at Daryl. He's lying outstretched on the double bed, and somehow seems to take up all the space but hardly any of it at the same time. Maybe its just Rick's brain going into overdrive, but he seems to look huge on the bed compared to what Carl had looked like, yet so weak and vulnerable. He's thin though, even more so than the rest of them, but Rick wouldn't have noticed the way Daryl's ribs were slightly noticeable if he hadn't seen him shirtless. He needed to eat more, for sure.
IV bags hang on the bedposts above him, more than Carl had had, and both his arms are resting by his side, palms up. Daryl is dressed only in a pair of bloody jeans, which have been cut off at the knees, so that Hershel could treat his ankle, Rick assumes. His foot is wrapped tightly in thick bandages, propped up on several pillows, and Rick can see how swollen it is from all the way across the room.
There's a huge bandage covering the left side of his torso, where the arrow went in, and bruises upon bruises smattering all over his chest. The bruises run up his arms as well, shallow but painful cuts littering the limbs. The deeper cuts have been covered with small pieces of gauze, several having been stitched up as well, and one of the most noticeable lacerations is one that slices just under his collarbone.
Bandages are wrapped around his head as well, making the paleness of his face seem more evident as it clashes with the stark whiteness of the gauze. An oxygen mask is strapped to his face, and Rick is relieved to see that Daryl's breathing seems to be at least slightly regular, though it does hitch every few minutes.
Daryl is completely unconscious, or at least, that's what Rick can hear Hershel telling him. He nods, distracted, while his eyes trace up and down Daryl's body, hardly believing that the man is still alive, and hanging on.
Then he tunes back into what Hershel is saying, and finds that he really wishes that he hasn't.
"… so when he wakes up, there will be significant pain. I don't have a large supply of painkillers, much less the type of strong ones that would definitely be prescribed had he been in a hospital. We'll have to ration them out as well, so as not to use up all our supply, and so be prepared for him to be in agony when he regains consciousness. Unless we can come across more pain medication, the little that we will be able to give him will be almost insignificant. As for antibiotics… I have an even smaller supply of them, having given almost half to Carl when he needed them, so there will be an increased risk of infection. And by that, I mean that it will be a miracle if he doesn't develop anything."
Rick nodded numbly, turning to stare at Daryl once again, feeling his heart sink along with Daryl's chances of surviving.
"When will he wake up?" He asks, feeling the words grate by in his throat as he concentrates on watching Daryl breathe.
"His body has suffered an enormous amount of trauma, Rick," Hershel says carefully, "Even with just the head injuries; I wouldn't be able to hazard a guess. But, combine two serious head traumas with all his other injuries, and I just have no idea. I don't even know if he's even going to wake up… You have to be prepared for—"
Rick cut him off sharply, "No. we've lost too many other people already, and if we lose Daryl… The group just can't afford that. He's going to be okay. He has to be."
"I'll do my best," Hershel says grimly, and the conversation ends there.
Dragging a chair up to the edge of the bed, Rick sits down in it, not sure if he should talk to Daryl, or just stay silent. He and Lori had spoken to Carl, when he had been unconscious, but Rick had no idea where to even begin with Daryl.
What could you say to a man that could be dying, one that you and everyone else had so horrifically misjudged?
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In the end, Rick settled for telling Daryl about what his life had been like before the dead had started walking. Hershel had left the room, promising to be close by and to come and check on Daryl again soon, and once the door had snicked shut behind him, Rick had found himself speaking.
He talked so quietly that he could barely hear himself, about summer barbeques and the time that he and Carl had gone camping and the feeling that he always got when he got up for work and put on his uniform. The uniform that had once made him believe that he'd meant something, that he was doing good in the world. Rick talked about the smell of freshly cut grass in the summer, and the how good the first bite of a take out pizza always felt. Meaningless things, just memories and thoughts that started spilling out of his mouth, not making any sense.
Throughout it all, Daryl remained silent and unmoving, his breaths still too shallow and only just barely fogging up the oxygen mask.
After a while, Rick reached out and tentatively held Daryl's cold and limp hand in his own. He wasn't sure if what he was doing or saying was making the slightest inkling of difference, but he knew, that if he was unconscious, he would like to think that someone would do the same for him.
Maybe he was mostly talking in the hopes that Daryl would wake up, and tell him to shut up.
But when he finally tore his eyes away from Daryl's face, to look down at his bare torso once more to confirm that Daryl was indeed still breathing, Rick saw something that he hadn't noticed before. A long, jagged scar was visible just above his naval to the right side, one that looked years old and faded. His voice faded away.
And then, he saw another awful scar. And another.
The more that he looked, the more lines of scar tissue that Rick could see, on Daryl's torso, legs, arms… everywhere. It was only because someone seemed to have scrubbed off all the dirt and blood off him, that Rick noticed. Normally Daryl was covered in a constant layer of dirt, much like the rest of them at times, and this was probably the cleanest that Rick had seen him… since he'd met him. So it was only now that he was noticing the disturbing amount of scars littering his body.
What the hell kind of upbringing had Daryl Dixon had?
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Well, there's another chapter down… I hope it was okay! Would love to hear some feedback from you guys, it really helps me to write faster :) I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can, probably in a few days… I hope you guys still like this story.
Review…?
Thanks for reading,
ArmedWithMyComputer xx