When I watched the end of S3E5, my mind just about exploded with ideas as to who the mystery caller could be. I took one of those ideas and it became this. I didn't mean for the story to turn into a trip down good ol' memory lane, but there you have it. I also used a tiny bit of info from the comics.

This hasn't been beta'd, so there might be a few mistakes, but you'll live.

Spoiler alert: Anything written past ~/~ includes spoilers from the comics, but you probably shouldn't read any of this if you haven't seen up to S3E5. I warned you.

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing to do with The Walking Dead, except for the dvds of Seasons 1 and 2.

Red. My world is awash in shades of red. Has been, for so long. I just haven't seen it before now.

The red is all I know. It follows me around like a parasite. It sneaks up, sucks everything good from my world, chews me up, and throws me back out. It flows through my veins almost constantly, infecting everything and everyone it touches.

The red controls me.

I'm aware of the walkers being dropped by my hand, of the way their skeletal faces split, time and time again, under the force of my hatchet.

I know that the walls of The Prison are leaning towards me, aching for more blood than they already hold. I know that the place I thought a sanctuary is in fact, a tomb. I continue hacking my way through, anyway.

I'm aware of a shaking hand touching me lightly on the shoulder. I throw the owner of the arm to the bloody wall, pushing my forearm into their throat and pinning them there. My vision wavers. I know that I know this man. He's looked out for me for so, so long. This is a good man—a friend. Glenn. Glenn who has saved my life so many times. The peacekeeper of the group.

With a snarl I push him away. Too close. He speaks to me. I don't hear him. I don't need him. Not now, not anymore. I somehow manage to walk away.

I don't know how much time has passed, how many wrong turns I've taken, how many of those things I've slaughtered, or how many corpses I've stumbled over.

I find myself in front of a doorway that is free of bloodstains. I walk in, and down, down, down. My hands blindly reach for the wall. I know what this room is. I know what happened here, not so long ago. I stare at the blood, so fresh and spread out, and I just know.

A sound makes me turn, and I swipe at the moisture pooling under my eyes. I watch, as if from a distance, as I close the distance, take the knife in my hand, and plunge it repeatedly into the rounded torso of another walker.

A sharp brrrrr-ing registers in some part of my mind, and I pick my head up to look for the source of a sound that I never thought I would hear again.

I tilt my head, frowning, and walk towards the - miraculously - untouched phone. I pick it up, put it to my ear, and croak out a "Hello?"

The voice that greets me sounds familiar. It belongs to someone I never thought I'd hear from again.

~/~

A wry chuckle breaks across the line, abruptly cut off as the man asks, "How you holding up in there? Not trapped by walkers, are you?"

It isn't much, but it's enough to clear some more of the haze from my mind. I clear my throat twice, rubbing my free hand down my face. "Morgan..." I groan and trail off, unable to continue.

He draws in a quick breath. "Rick?"

So he remembers me, after all this time.

"Of course I remember you. It ain't every day my son hits a man over the head with a shovel." Apparently I'm saying things as I think them. I frown, noticing that I'm sat on the cold floor.

"Morgan..." I start, my voice less thready than before. "How are... How are you here?"

Another chuckle, this time sounding as if Morgan is shaking his head. "I'd say you ain't gonna believe me, but I'll bet you've seen the same shit I have." An exhale later, as if he's sat down, Morgan tells me his story. I'm glad for something to focus on.

"...The town got overrun, we had to move. 'Course, I never thought trying to find gas at the end of the world would be so hard." We both bark out a laugh. "Ended up in this little cabin 'round Christmas time. Just the two of us, a fire. Canned food. Almost too good to be true. Stayed there 'til the place started to thaw out and they started appearing."

"All good things."

"Yup, all good things. We travelled some more, holding up best we could, but... And then I ended up here."

"And what about Duane? How'd he take the moving?"

"He knew it was necessary. Learned how to shoot, too. We had a good chance at it. But Duane..." Morgan clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice cracks. "Duane didn't make it, Rick."

I hang my head, grateful that I'm already on the floor, and tears spring to my eyes once again.

"I...I'm so sorry, Morgan," I say, even though we both know the words won't bring Duane back. "Duane was a good kid."

Morgan brings in a breath that ends on a hitched sob. "I know. Thank you. You know what he said to me, when we were in that cabin? He said, 'Dad, I know mom's gone, but I'm so glad I still have you.' I mean, what sort of a kid should have to say things like that, Rick? Why'd the world get so fucked up that our children are suddenly glad to have one parent left?" Slow breathing. The kind where I know that I should tell him my story too. So that he knows it isn't just him.

"I... I found my wife, Morgan." My eyes start to tear up again. "And my son. It's the one good thing that's happened to me since waking up to this nightmare. And it's all gone, now." I find myself looking towards what's left of my wife, until my vision blurs. "They were with a group of survivors. All of these amazing people that we'd have never met otherwise. We've lost people, all of us. But we found other people, too." My voice cracks as I think of all the people we've left behind. And how I've failed the ones that are left.

How I've failed Lori.

"She's dead, Morgan. She's dead, and it's all because of me. Because I didn't protect my family as well as I should have done. I should've chased after the fucker who tried to kill me. I should have shot him, and then none of this would have happened. If I'd chased him, my wife would still be alive and-"

"Or," Morgan interrupts softly, "You could've been killed trying to find the bastard."

"You don't know that!" I make a fist and hit it against the floor, because I have to do something.

For what feels like hours, I calm my breathing until I can talk again. I clear my throat. "Morgan, you still there?"

The reply comes back almost instantly. And I'm glad that he stayed on the line. "Yeah, Rick. I'm not going anywhere."

"You know, you never told me where you are." I frown. "Or how you've managed to call me."

"Well," Morgan begins, almost hesitantly. "I'm over by the trees. Near the prison. Didn't want to get too close, in case the place is overrun on the inside." His voice hardened. "'Course, there's a few trying to get through the fences. And you know that nothing lasts forever. Might be time to get moving. Before they find their way in."

I think it over, knowing that he's right. I stand up, ignoring the way my legs shake.

"Will you be there, when I come out? You could come with us. We could use you." I hope that he'll come with us. Nobody should be alone in this world.

But, Morgan just says "I'll see you 'round, Rick." And I'm left listening to something like white noise.

Dejectedly, but with one last look over my shoulder, I climb the stairs to leave this awful place. Walking the corridors this time is easy. I follow the trail of corpses, and before I know it, I'm shielding my eyes from the setting sun.

Looking around, I see that everyone has stopped speaking in favour of walking towards me. I apologise to Glenn, then the others, and a few understand nods in response. Daryl walks over to me, mutters something, and I nod. He claps me on the shoulder before walking away, crossbow slung over his shoulder and poncho swaying side-to-side in the breeze. I scan the trees as I follow him, looking for Morgan. When I ask Daryl if he's seen any other survivors, he simply cocks an eyebrow. It's enough of an answer for me.

Morgan Jones has gone, but his words resonate through my head.

Nothing lasts forever.

Finis.

So that's that. I'd love to know what you guys think of this, even if you hated every word of it. (In which case, well done for reading it. Give yourself a cookie.)

For Tim: Yes, I added in Daryl's poncho. Just for you. I hope you're happy.

Personally, I think that the phone call is just a hallucination on Rick's part. I mean, come on, how could anyone really get the phone to work in that world?