Chapter Text
Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of the characters. All I own is the plot :)
It's cold. So freaking cold.
Daryl hunches his shoulders as the wind picks up, trying to ward off the cold as much as he possibly can as little skiffs of snow are picked up by the breeze and thrown mercilessly in the groups faces.
Rick is the last to cross the frozen river, and Daryl is quick to step out on the ice. It's too cold to stand around looking at the scenery. The rest of the group is on the other side waiting for him.
Halfway across, Daryl slips, his feet flying out from under him and his bow skidding across the ice. He's quickly sprawled out on his back, his head meeting the ice with a sickening crack as the air is forced from his lungs with the impact.
He's dazed and a little confused as his vision blurs and the world seems to tilt precariously to the right. Rick is yelling, running across the ice to kneel beside him, dragging him onto the riverbank a moment later.
He doesn't understand much by now. He's only catching bits and pieces of the conversation floating around above him. Something about concussions and bleeding and worst of all; walkers. There's about five or so heading in their direction, and they have to move.
The un-dead cannibals might be slowing down in the cold, but it didn't seem to bother their appetite.
He's not sure who lifts him, but someone is carrying him fireman style, someone following close beside his carrier and applying a cloth of some type to the back of his head.
Daryl's head pounds mercilessly and he starts to feel nausous, but before he can manage to even think of being sick, everything goes fuzzy and he's willingly giving in to the painless world of unconsciousness.