The sound of the gunshot echoed through the small room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears.

Pulling the trigger had taken every last bit of strength in his aching body. Muscles weak and trembling, he slumped back against the wall and dropped the gun to the floor. It was useless now that the last bullet had been spent.

Knowing what was coming, that had been a bitter pill to swallow. But as his hand landed on her soft, still leg, he knew he'd made the right decision. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, willing away the images that flashed behind them. At least he wouldn't have to live with them long.

Above his raging, pounding heartbeat, he heard a soft, muffled patter somewhere above him. Looking up, he saw a moth trapped inside by the window. Its dusky brown, paper-thin wings were beating against the glass in a vain effort to get to the light outside.

He'd intended to get up and walk out into the sunlight, to face death head-on, on his own terms. But now he knew it was too late, he'd waited too long, and now he didn't have the strength to even get to his knees. But he wasn't staying in that room with her. He knew what was coming, what that would mean.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the image of her lying there before him. That wasn't her. He didn't want to see her like that. She wasn't there. She'd already gone on ahead.

And so he started crawling, pulling his tired, weak body across the floor with his hands. He whimpered like a kicked dog, gasping for air as he dragged himself along inch by inch. It felt as though the muscles in his arms were tearing away, ripping and snapping from a bone that was crumbling, shattering like glass.

He felt every move pull at his torn shoulder, where a walker had just barely gotten its teeth in him as he bent over Carol. It wasn't much of a wound, not like hers, but it was enough. More than enough.

He was almost there. His lungs were burning, his heart pounding as though he'd run ten miles. And now the door stood between him and the outside. Just a simple door but it might as well have been Mt. Everest.

Gritting his teeth, he clawed at the door and grabbed for the knob, ignoring the screaming in his head as he pulled himself upright.

He cried out, the sharp sound echoing in the small, silent room as the pain whited out his vision. But then the door was open and he was outside, pulling it shut firmly behind him. Between him and her final resting place.

He could only hope it would help.

He slumped back against it, the world spinning around him.

The sun was bright overhead but he couldn't feel the warmth of it. His eyelids felt heavy, burning hot against his eyeballs.

He closed them for a moment, just a moment, and when he opened them again, the sun was higher overhead.

The light was brilliant, blinding white in his aching eyes. He tried to lift his hand to shield them but he couldn't even move his arm now.

And so he sat. Waiting.

Blinking, breathing, and waiting.

All the people he'd known and cared for were rushing through his scrambled brain, interspersed with fleeting images of gnashing teeth and milky eyes.

There was Rick standing tall…Lori with those brown eyes flashing…Carl begging to try out his cross-bow…Dale with that stupid damn hat of his…Andrea holding Amy…Glenn and Maggie sneaking off to the guard tower…T-Dog with his face turned up towards the sun…Hershel and his all-knowing eyes…Beth singing by the fire…Little Ass-kicker wrapping her tiny hand around his finger…his brother with a fishing pole in one hand and a beer in the other…his mama burned down to nothing…his daddy looming over him with a red face and bulging eyes.

Fire coursed through his veins and up his spine, licking at his brain until it sloshed in his skull. That'd be the fever, he thought.

At the mercy of the fleeting images, he found himself clinging to only one…a woman with a kind, hesitant smile and a scrawny little girl ever-clinging to her leg. He held it tight, closing his eyes on it and trapping it there in his mind. That had been something worth fighting for. He wished now that he'd fought a little harder.

But really, what good would it have done? Was there any other ending in this world?

He felts tears on his face, cool on his burning cheeks, and wanted to kick himself for crying like a baby instead of taking death like a man.

The fever was taking over. He could feel it. Probably wouldn't be long now. It was hot and aching, deep down inside him. Had him shivering, teeth chattering.

He hoped she wouldn't be mad at him when she got there first; when he wasn't right behind her like he'd promised. Because he was sure now that there was something, somewhere after this. He could damn near feel it. And there was some peace in knowing that she was probably already there, waiting for him.

She just – she might have a long wait. But she'd be okay. She'd forget quick 'cause her little girl would be there. They'd all be there.

Waiting.

His eyes were heavy. Too heavy to keep open anymore. They slipped closed, plunging him headlong into the darkness.

Just waiting.