Time to finish this up.

*I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.*

"Winter come,

Winter crush all of the things that I once had."

~ Daughter: Winter

Chapter 6: Denouement

It's quiet during winter because everything has been stripped down and weakened. The trees' leaves have fallen, most animals and bugs are hiding, and the humidity has been swept right from the air. What is left are skeletons of vegetation and a bitter bite reminding you you're still alive. There's no black, there's no white – just grey. Just tired, old grey.

When sound does reach your eardrums, however, the heart located in your chest tightens; pounds a little more than usual. Right now those sounds consist of crows calling to one another and dead leaf carcasses crunching under weight. Daryl and I are walking through what remains of the woods behind the cabin. The snow is gone and so is the flu – the moment they melted away Daryl held up his end of the bargain. It was a promise, really, but that concept and I aren't friends. Old acquaintances with a grudge in between, though? That sounds about right. I only pinky promised Carl because those types of promises are more real. I had a hold on him and was not planning on letting go.

And I didn't.

A new weight is settling in my arms as I walk, trailing behind Daryl's form. His crossbow. He told me I would get a bow – probably so I wouldn't have had to touch his – but yet, there he was: thrusting the weapon into my grip seconds after the cabin door shut. It's heavy and I definitely feel it, but nothing I can't handle.

Daryl lowly whistles to find my attention that was actually never lost. We crouch down in the leaves and I can see his breath flowing out in puffy clumps as he speaks, "Whaddya see?"

I scoot forward, steadying myself so I do not fall over from the crossbow. Amongst the dead leaves there are broken and sunken-in ones, almost as if they've been branded. No owner is around to claim them, though, and then I think about the crunching we've made out here so far. The noise – it was not from snacking on a bag of potato chips – God, I haven't had those in forever – but rather walking. Yes. Walking.

It clicks.

"There's tracks here," I say, staring down the evidence. "Too big to be a squirrel or deer, though," Looking up, we meet eyes and mine get a little wide. "A person."

"Alright . . ." Daryl breathes, nodding along to make it good. Guess I saw what he wanted me to see. "Anythin' 'bout this person?"

I bite down on my lip, sucking on it – go back to the tracks left by a human. The markings, well, they're all over the place; staggering and inconsistent. Like a drunken fool leaving a bar, like –

This person was not drunk; doesn't even have a family to stumble back to, at least that they can remember anyway. This person is not even a person, and it may still have a job and carry a human body, but don't let appearances fool you. Some things cannot be helped; some things are too far gone. And for that, we are forced to put them out of their misery because they swung first after all.

"It's a walker." I confirm and his mouth twitches out of pride, which just brings back a whole other memory I wish I could forget.

Standing, Daryl moves forward and I go to take a step, but I'm weighed down by the crossbow – or the memory . . . But the crossbow is out in the open while the memory is tucked away.

My fingers crush the weapon but it won't crumble. It's hollow, like that mask we always wear. I speak to Daryl's back, his angel wing vest because it's easier to look at, "What I said a while back, I didn't mean it."

He stops, the vest clinging to his skin more as he stiffens. And what did I say to him? Dad. It was a stupid slip of the tongue but I hate myself for it.

And Daryl is well aware of the discomfort lodged between us, well aware of the word. Hell, it was one of the last I spoke before I just let winter win. I don't think he knows about that, though. Things were quiet.

He turns, slightly, "It's alright." The forgiving blue orbs of his eyes are there but I don't believe him. I'm awaiting the blows, waiting for the softness to disappear with a snap.

Nothing happens. I don't like it.

"But it's not, Daryl." I inform him because there has to be more here. "It's not." I watch his body sink. He huffs and fully turns. "I know he's dead, I know. It's just – " Pausing, I swipe my nose with a jacket sleeve, switching the crossbow between hands. It's dry out here and the runny nose is merely a reminder of the darkness. They're everywhere. "I'd rather not remember it."

Daryl's eyes flick down and then bounce back up. "I shot my dad. He was bit."

"Did it hurt?"

"Didn't feel a thing . . . We were up huntin'; heard the stories on the news, but they were just stories." He shuffles and I watch as his hand reaches for the crossbow strap, comes up with nothing, and falls back down in defeat. "'Til they weren't. I took the gun from my uncle, pulled the trigger – we left. Turns out he was bit, too," He sighs. "Was just Merle and me for a while. We ended up gettin' stuck on 85."

"So did we." I pitch in, voice hollow and worn. The army evacuated everyone and then left us out to dry on some overcrowded slab of concrete. I remember that night, though; when the bombs dropped. "My dad left me in the truck so he could scope out the area with this other guy traveling with us. The people around were loud, shoving each other and stealing things from other cars. He handed me the keys and before he went off, he said to push the panic button if anything happened." A slight breeze tosses my hair into my face and I tuck it behind an ear. Daryl is watching me and my eyes are on him without truly taking his form in. It's like the two of us are swapping war stories; just ours aren't very glorious. "So I kept my thumb on the button because I was making up just about every bad scenario I could. But in the end, it didn't even matter . . . because when those bombs were dropped on Atlanta, the alarm went off anyways."

A moment of silence – remembrance. More wind, more leaves skidding across the dull forest floor, more crows talking –

Daryl states, "Yeah, I 'member that."

"Strange how it used to matter . . ." Now it feels like next to nothing.

In the next brief pause, a red squirrel scampers out from the underbrush made of sticks. It is the only splash of color in all of this grey and the two of us – Daryl and me – we watch for the seconds we're given; until it scurries over to a tree, stops, and begins scrubbing its face. Daryl motions for me to advance forward and I do, all slow and lowered down like I have seen him do many times before. I watch my feet and I watch the squirrel. The animal stalls and I halt with it. I have a better look at it since venturing closer, and its coat appears less red, bruised in brown instead of fiery red. The squirrel's nose is twitching back and forth – alive. Real.

And somehow, I think it knows of an end time as the crossbow's weight digs into my callused fingers. Wide-eyed, it sees right through me from where I stand eyeing the creature merely yards away.

Daryl is to my left, pushed off to the side and halfway behind a tree. I don't look at him but I feel his presence. Sometimes, a state of just being works.

"He knows somethin's up," I comment, tone lowered like my stance. The words swirl out into the air like smoke from a toxic cigarette.

Daryl answers with the same type of voice I used, "Gotta be quick, then," He begins adjusting my stance but every bone in me locks up in return. I don't mean to but it is a nasty habit, one that can only be broken with time. And when do we ever get granted that? My eyes have not retreated from the task like the rest of me, though, and they still find interest in the squirrel basking in its final moments of life. At least it has time . . .

I start thinking about how I can't do this, how you shouldn't rip the breath out of one's lungs because we fight every day to stay afloat. And then I remember how many animals I've eaten out on the road, and it doesn't matter anymore. I release a breath and sink down, even though that voice in my ear has been telling me to do so for roughly half a minute now. It could be real or it could be just there. When I was sick, I heard a lot of voices . . . they always wanted something from me. At first, I blocked them out, but I later found myself spending nights listening to them, back against the wall. I couldn't move to complete any of the tasks they demanded, for I was too sick to move, but I listened because they were something and it was better than nothing. Like a friend you secretly hate but still say yes to their invitations to hang out; they're just assholes, they're just assholes to hang out with. It is all pretend, same as the games the two of you play.

I guess my stance is as good as it is going to get because the voice begins spewing out mumbles of other directions:

"Lean into it a bit more," the voice, which is very much Daryl's, says. "And watch your fingers; you can take 'em off with that string."

Once again, I listen and line my shot up with the pretty squirrel's head. I only now realized how pretty it is. The animal is fuzzy from its own winter coat and it makes me want to pet the fur rather than pierce it. But I shut my thoughts down. Instead, I focus on breathing, relaxing – keeping a grip on both myself and this weapon.

I time an inhale with a pull of the trigger, but right before I take action, I allow myself to have one more thought. This squirrel must know what is happening but yet it stays. Maybe it wants this. Maybe it is tired.

So I do it.

The arrow hits exactly where I intended. It smacks into the side of the animal's head and its body flies back, once curled tail going flat. The end of the arrow lodges into the dirt and death pins the body down. I'm not really sure what to think when the crossbow lowers and my shoulder starts buzzing from the kickback. I ended it . . . that is blood on my hands. Again. But the squirrel also could have moved because I gave it time.

I end up deciding to let myself be because I did accomplish something after all.

My attention turns to Daryl, I bite back a grin, "Soon I'll be doing this on my own."

"Not so fast, kid."

And I kind of wish I never turned around upon seeing Daryl's face. He tries to cover it up but I still see it – see the horror of realization. We both know that one day we'll be gone, maybe him before me or vice versa – maybe at the same time. It is a given in life. But I was not applying hunting to Daryl dying, just him taking a step back while I do some heavy lifting. Now that the other possibility is out there, though, it stays.

He may be afraid of it and I don't know if I am because the threat of death has always been there.

But then I figure out a little more of him when he brings back a compound bow upon returning from the next run.

THE END

Annndddd that's all she wrote!

I'd like to thank everyone who joined me in this little journey; it was nice to test out some new waters and expand my horizons writing-wise.

I will catch you all later. :)

~ Rainy