Lost | Daryl Dixon

26 - Words Left Unsaid

First Person POV

I sit in the back with the boy's face on my lap, his breathing uneven as I stare forward, face sunken in with exhaustion.

The boy had tears soaked on his cheeks; decorated by a small hint of dirt from the dumpsters; his hair was matted and left unbrushed and his black cover to prevent him seeing the farm's location was frayed from how I'd cut it from my now half-destroyed shirt.

I looked down; every so often he twitched from the pain that was no doubt radiating from the wound, but he slipped in and out of consciousness enough that I felt less bad about ignoring his pain as we travelled - not that I could do much anyway.

He twitched up again, I gripped my knife hard for a moment in case he tried anything, but he relaxed back, staying awkwardly laid between me and Glenn so we could keep control of him. I eyed my knife, the letters more faded than they used to be as I rubbed over them - my nails were caked with blood, my bruised and swollen hands worse after the journey of keeping the boy alive, shotgun resting on my knee as the hum of the car engine kept me awake.

"Get him in the car!" I screamed, struggling to reload my pistol as more got close. I dropped my bullets and in a panic, wasting another shell from the sawed-off on one walker, stepping back as it slumped at my feet. Rick ran and got into the car, pulling it around as Hershel and Glenn pulled the man off of the dumpster, my fingers shook as I finally reloaded, shooting another one before I turned and ran towards the orange car, turning and stopping as Rick hopped back out, opening the door as the two rushed him into the backseats; he moaned and hiccupped from the pain, sweat shining on his neck and chest as he was lifted into the seat. I ran, climbing in the back with him and throwing the shotgun at my feet as I stared at his state; worried he wouldn't even make it down the road before he passed. And then, how long until he turned?

"What's your name?" Glenn asked as the car began speeding down the road, all of us in as walkers aimlessly followed. He cried, mumbling.

"Ran... R-Randall," He whispered, agonised.

"Keep hanging on there, Randall," I encouraged, pulling my knife out of my back pocket as I awkwardly began ripping the bottom of my shirt off. "Everything's gonna be okay."

I tied the shirt around his face, hiding his vision as he moaned and I looked at his twitching leg.

"You think he's going to make it?" I blinked at the question, glancing up towards Glenn as he asked. He looked exhausted as well; eyes slightly swollen from him repeatedly rubbing them, hair swept back awkwardly from the wind of the open window besides him, and his clothes covered in dust from the bar and dumpster. I nodded slowly, reaching out and squeezing his hand.

I don't know what it was specifically, but the gunfight taught me something new - firstly, that I'm able to kill when my loved ones are in danger. And secondly, that I would do anything to protect Glenn as I would my brother. I didn't even think about running to him at those dumpsters, about staying on the outside as Randall shot at us. I'd been so focused on getting these people safe from the beginning, I didn't even realise they'd become my family.

Of course I'd cared about them considerably, but ask me to die for Glenn as a stranger versus now, I would put my life on the line everytime.

I knew it was the way for them all; I loved them all so much the idea of any of them being hurt filled me with nausea - but despite that, I still couldn't abandon Randall and allow him to die as we watched. I knew it was risky; but the only difference between him shooting at us, and me killing Tony back in the bar was we were in different groups. I couldn't let a kid, barely 19, die.