Carol

She didn't remember much, but she remembered pain.

It was a searing, dizzying pain, she recalled, with no precise source that she could pinpoint. But her bones felt like glass and even the slightest pressure was crushing. Her vision blurred, and the outside world slowly ebbed away.

Blood. She saw blood. Everything was painted in thick, sticky crimson; the concrete, the walls, the fallen bodies.

Whoever was carrying her tightened their grip, and her breath caught in her throat as another bolt of anguish shot through her body.

Screaming. She heard screaming. In the distance, a baby was howling, its cries thin and shrill. A girl was wailing, and each sob was strangled with grief.

Gunfire. There was gunfire ringing out on all sides of her. The echoes mingled, and sounds melted and blended together until they formed a wall of background noise.

She fought to maintain consciousness. There was blackness closing in on her, cornering her like prey. Inky clouds seeped in around the edges of her vision, slowly creeping forward to swallow up the light and plunge her into darkness.

She was clutching something, she realized. Her fingers were gripping some material. Perhaps the fabric of a shirt. She didn't know why, but it was comforting to have something to grasp. She almost felt as if she were clinging to life itself. She dreaded what might happen if she were to let go.

Her strength was draining away fast, and suddenly a pleasant numbness eclipsed the pain. Death was wrapping its icy tendrils around her body; tugging at the roots that connected her to the earth. She tried to resist; tried to stay grounded; stay awake. Tried and failed. She was powerless as her hand fell limply away to dangle at her side.

Someone was calling her name. Screaming it. Or maybe it wasn't her name at all. She couldn't tell. People were barking orders at each other left and right. She strained to distinguish words. Couldn't. It all sounded like meaningless garble.

And then a fuzzy face loomed over hers, and that was when she finally slipped away into the dark nothingness.

Daryl

He'd seen the solider curl his arm back in an arc and fling something across the courtyard. His eyes had followed the small, round object as it sailed through the air; followed it up until the split second before it collided with one of the back walls of the prison. He had only an instant to brace himself before he was sent reeling.

The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his stomach in the dirt, spitting out dried grass as the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.

The impact of the grenade had knocked all the breath from his body, and his ankle had folded in some ungodly angle underneath his weight. The bone didn't feel fractured, thank goodness, but it hurt like a bitch regardless.

He tried to inhale, but his lungs were heavy and unresponsive. Smoke billowed up from the ruined guard tower, strangling and blinding. His eyes watered and burned and he was forced to squeeze them shut. He had no control over the greyish tears that slipped down his cheeks.

He sipped the air, and managed out a few shaky wheezes. But just when he'd achieved steady breathing, he found himself in the throes of a violent fit of hacking and coughing. Too much smoke had infiltrated his lungs, and the stench of death clung to the air like a fog.

He watched a steady stream of walkers trickle into the courtyard, drawn by the noise and promise of carnage. If the cell blocks weren't already teeming with them, they would be soon. And the tombs...the tombs ought to be swarmed.

The tombs. That's where Carol was stationed. She was in the tombs, with Glenn. He swallowed hard, hoping and praying that they were safe; that she was safe.

He'd insisted she stay down there with the sole intention of keeping her out of harm's way, since she firmly refused to retreat into the woods with Beth and Carl and Judith.

Soldiers marched in through the hole in the prison wall. The men and women of Woodbury couldn't snipe for shit, but they were armed to the teeth, and Rick's group was vastly outnumbered.

Daryl itched to re-integrate himself into combat. He felt like a shivering coward, cringing in the background like that, but he knew that he was injured, thus hindering his skills, and if he pushed himself out there in the open, limping and winded, he'd no doubt leave the group down one more man than they could afford.

The walkers were swarming, now; wandering across the pavement, and stumbling over the rubble. Nobody seemed to notice. But Daryl did. He kept his eyes peeled for enemies living and dead alike. He was, after all, a sitting duck. He was lying flat as a board in the tall grass, weak as a newborn kitten, his vision compromised. He groped around in the dirt for his crossbow. Couldn't locate it. Stripped of his defenses, he was forced to hunker down, wait for the screen of smoke to lift, and pray he wasn't spotted.

Rick

He shot from the catwalk, with Michonne beside him. Both were clad in full-body armor; bullet proof vests were strapped tightly across their abdomens, and sturdy helmets protected their skulls, visors pulled down to shield their faces.

From below, a soldier open fired, releasing a torrent of metal teeth in Rick's direction.

He dodged, ducking behind a palate of wood as bullets whizzed by. Michonne dropped to the ground, quick and nimble as a feline.

She was lying flat on her stomach, still as a corpse, with only the tip of her gun peeping out behind the palate. Her heart hammered out a frantic rhythm. But there was no room for cowardice on the battlefield, so she shoved aside all the doubt and fear aside and, gripping her assault rifle tight, emerged from behind the palate of wood and let loose a fury of bullets upon the encroaching intruders.

The soldiers dropped like flies at the hail of gunfire, bright bursts of blood exploding from their chests and torsos. Seizing the opportunity, Rick jumped out from behind the palate and deftly picked off several of the Governor's men. Their knees yielded immediately and they toppled to the concrete, rivers of blood leaking down their faces, bullets embedded snugly in their brains.

And then, Rick saw him; in the distance, by the fence, sporting a wicked smile and a black, telltale patch covering one eye. The other scanned the courtyard with a burning hunger for vengeance.

He stood in the open, carrying himself with God-like poise, his spine straight and head held high, as if no harm could ever befall him. He was far too easy a target.

Rick aimed his weapon, using the metal mesh to aid accuracy. His hands were slippery with sweats, his heart pounded, and his breath froze in his throat. He re-adjusted his grip, peering through the scope, until the black cross was aligned perfectly with the Governor's face...

Michonne screamed his name a second before the pain struck. Blood splattered across the catwalk. Rick's hand jerked, causing his finger to instinctively squeeze the trigger, but the bullet didn't do so much as ruffle the Governor's hair. There was, instead, a hazy brown cloud of dirt where it ripped up the soil beyond the fence.

Rick gasped, clutching his arm. Warm, sticky red leaked out between his fingers, soaking his sleeve. He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the anguish and push on.

Michonne gunned down the assailant; punched him full of vivid red holes. The man howled and went sprawling down onto the pavement, and quickly walkers gathered to dine on fresh meat. He was still screaming as they ripped into him. He drowned in his own blood, hacking and sputtering all the while.

Michonne stared at Rick, eyes wide in concern. He motioned for her to get down.

"Are you okay?"she mouthed out, but he disregarded her question with a swat of his hand.

But the truth was, he wasn't okay. He didn't have a single clue where any of the others were - if they were dead, alive, or off bleeding out in some bush. The number of walkers in the courtyard was increasing, making it difficult to pinpoint a target who was worth the ammo. And to make a terrible situation worse, he could distinguish the rumble of an approaching vehicle.

The wheels coughed up gravel as a bulky box truck raged through the open gate. Gunners hung out the windows with minds only to kill. The truck slowed to a halt, and back door shuddered up, setting free over a dozen more steeled fighters. And perhaps it was just the way they carried themselves, but they seemed awfully confident in their training.

Hampered by his wound, and hopelessly overwhelmed by the sheer number of the Governor's army, Rick made a quick and bold decision: the prison wasn't worth it. Its high fences and sturdy walls were something everyone had dreamt of over the winter; a place to call home. But home meant safety, and the prison wasn't safe. Not anymore.

There was a getaway car parked out back, stocked with supplies and weapons lest the need to quickly elope called. They had determined beforehand that it was possible for all ten of them to squeeze in, if they weren't shy about sharing a bit of personal space. They would make for that, he concluded. At this point, the only thing he wanted was for the nightmare to end. He saw only one way to achieve that.

"We're getting out of here!" he cried to Michonne, and she seemed unable to process his command. She lifted the visor on her helmet.

"What?!"

"Get out of here!" he repeated, whilst taking out as many of Woodbury's men as he could given his injury. Adrenaline had overshadowed pain, for which he was thankful. But he was still bleeding rapidly, and his entire sleeve was sopping.

The bullet had gone clean through the muscle: in one side and out the other. He would need it tended to soon - very, very soon. He could already feel a slight dizziness coming on.

"Get the others! Get 'em back to the car!" he shouted. "Go!"

She didn't even pause to nod; she just lowered the visor on her helmet once more, and made a run for it.

Carol

The back tunnels of the prison were dark and never-ending. They'd been branded 'the tombs', and they were certainly living up to the title.

She called out Glenn's name; once, again, and then a third time. No replies came echoing back as a confirmation of his safety. She and he had split up nearly twenty minutes ago, and she hadn't been able to uncover a single trace of the boy since.

He had taken off, no doubt, to face the Governor head on. It had been the only thing on his mind since his encounter in Woodbury - and, more importantly, Maggie's. He carried with him a seething thirst of vengeance, and Rick wasn't blind to it.

So Glenn had been posted down in the tombs with Carol as reinforcement. He wasn't happy about it - in fact, he was furious. Carol should've known better than to let him slip away so easily. She should've known he wasn't going to be content to twiddle his thumbs in anticipation. She mentally kicked herself for being so stupid.

The screaming and yelling and gunfire was loud and pronounced, even down in the bowels of the prison, and knowing that there was a battle commencing just outside...it was eating at her for certain. It was eroding her patience and twisting her stomach and picking at her sanity.

She should be out there, she realized. She should be out there facing the fight instead of cowering in the tombs and waiting for the fight to face her.

If the price of saving a friend was laying down her own life, she would gladly pay that bill.

But she never did see the chaos of war firsthand. Her gun was never aimed upon the body of a living man. For before she could navigate her way out of the darkness of the tombs and into the sunlight, an earth-rattling impact kicked her feet out from under her, and sent an avalanche of shattered concrete crashing down over her head.

From there, it was mostly black.

Daryl

His breathing had returned to normal, but his heartbeat was ever a-thumping. The screen of smoke had thinned, and he'd been able to locate his crossbow at last, and just the weight of it in his hands provided miles of comfort.

Still, his ankle was throbbing, and his greatest fear was to be hobbled. On the battlefield, being fast on your feet was often the difference between life and death. If you couldn't make a running leap to safety, you were as good as bait.

The density of Woodbury's army was decreasing. Rick and Michonne were damn good gunners, and Maggie and Hershel were lying low under some scraggly grasses, sniping from afar. The weaker soldiers - the older, sorer ones and the younger, callow ones - were plucked from existence as easily as weeds, mere fodder for the walkers.

But the stronger ones - the more skilled, hardened, capable ones...now they posed a threat, especially thronged together in tight formations. They were proving incredibly resilient; difficult to target and even more so to kill.

Woodbury was certainly a tougher foe than Daryl had expected. And as the sun slumped lower on the horizon, he began to worry the havoc may yet bleed into nightfall. It would be almost impossible to fight in the dark. They had to finish it, and soon. Or else they just had to leave. They'd already prepared a getaway vehicle.

And that's when the roar of an engine ripped him from his thoughts, and he scanned the vista for the source of the sound. He spotted a small, white cube whizzing by through the trees, rapidly advancing on the prison.

When the truck passed the gates, it decelerated 'till it came to a standstill, the engine still spluttering away. And then, in the blink of an eye, a dozen more marksmen came pouring out the back.

The Governor approached them with a brusqueness in his step, and he bellowed at them an order to kill. Like puppets, they raised their guns immediately, and simultaneously fired. But they weren't shooting at the prison's inhabitants; instead, they were firing at the walkers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl spotted a shape moving stealthily through the shadows. He allowed his attention to switch for just long enough to identify whether the figure was an sentient enemy or a drooling geek.

Instead, it was Glenn.

Daryl's breath hitched in his throat. Rick had ordered Glenn down to the tombs with Carol, lest Woodbury infiltrated the prison. It had been their appointed task to make damn sure there weren't any weak links in the chain; to make sure there was no way any stray soldiers could worm their way into the tunnels and strike from within.

But if Glenn was there, where was Carol? And that's when it came to his attention that, likewise, Michonne's silhouette could no longer be seen balanced on the catwalk. He could spy only one lone form: Rick's.

The Governor and his henchmen were still busying themselves with clearing the yard of walkers. Daryl saw it a narrow opening for him to finally emerge from hiding and find out just what they hell was going on.

He bolted. Agony flared up in his ankle, but he shunned it as best he could manage. He sprinted across the open. It was as if a red bull's eye was painted across his best. A fresh slew of bullets was propelled his way. And it baffled him to think that somehow, he evaded them all.

Glenn noticed him almost immediately. The scrawny Asian came sprinting up to cover his friend with a wild ferocity. Together, they made a mad dash behind a wall, and pressed themselves stiffly against the cold stone.

"The hell're you doin' here?" Daryl asked in a harsh whisper. "You're s'posed to be down in the tombs with Carol!"

"I can't just sit down there and wait for everything to blow over!"

Bullets pummeled the wall behind them, sending the two fleeting across the concrete. They dove for cover. If Daryl hadn't been wearing leather sleeves, he would've ripped the skin clean off his elbows for sure.

"So you jus' left 'er alone?!" Concern had turned to rage. Daryl would've never left Maggie to fend for herself.

Glenn's determination left little room for guilt, but for a split second, Daryl could've sworn he'd seen a flash of worry in the other man's almond-shaped eyes.

"I have to protect the group. I can't do that if I'm down there."

"Goddammit," Daryl swore, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot, readying himself to make a sprint across the courtyard. The pain was enough to make him gasp, but once he took off, he wouldn't be able to do so much as blink. "Carol is parta the group."

And with that, he darted. Smoke provided a partial shroud, making distinguishing a target quite difficult, which played in Daryl's favour.

When he reached the gaping hole in the prison wall, he didn't hesitate to take out whomever or whatever stood in the entrance - walkers and humans alike. One soldier, who couldn't have been much older than Carl, sunk to his knees, wretched gagging noises gurgling up out of his throat, a bright red foam seeping out between his lips.

Daryl tried not to let it bother him. After all, he had her to think about.

He was going to save Carol, and lead her to safety, and whoever blocked his path would lose by default.

He passed into the cool, shady tunnel, wishing he had a flashlight to aid him. Yet, he did not, so he made do with the pale rays of the winter sun that poured in through the breach.

There was a knot of walkers just ahead, crouched down in the rubble, clawing fervently at the debris like chickens scratching for bugs. His stomach twisted, and he wasn't sure precisely why. A gut feeling, he supposed.

To avoid attracting unwanted attention, Daryl put them down with his blade as opposed to his gun. They were far too preoccupied to notice him until it was a moment too late.

He kicked the bodies out of his way and leaned in to inspect what the walkers been so eager to uncover. He started flinging aside chunks of concrete, fully expecting to discover the corpse of stupid rat that had been smothered to death when the bomb obliterated the wall.

He never in a million years would've guessed that he'd find Carol.

She was visibly battered and bloodied, and at first he thought she was dead, and his heart had clenched up tightly. But then he realized, upon further examination, that she was, in fact, alive - drained of force and barely clinging to consciousness, yes, but alive.

He choked out a bubble of nervous, relieved laughter, working frantically to liberate her. She had a nasty bump on her forehead, swollen and sickly shades of purple, blue and red, and numerous cuts and bruises, but she seemed to have been buried just deep enough to avoid any bites or scratches.

Daryl had just begun to hoist her up when he heard footfalls quickly approaching around the corner. He froze. He couldn't drop Carol, and he couldn't grab his weapon, either.

But, as luck would have it, the footsteps were not those of an impending enemy - they were, in fact, the footfalls of Michonne.

He let out a deep sigh of relief when she revealed herself; short, quick breaths, a hand on her katana, and an urgency in her eyes.

"This place is goin' down," she told him. "Rick wants us to make for the car; get outta here while we still can."

Daryl nodded. He needed no further convincing. "Sounds about the best idea I've heard all damn day."