On the back of the moving truck, Merle and Samara made themselves as comfortable as the hard bed allowed them. This was their usual sitting arrangement in Abraham's beast of a truck since it only had three seats, but it worked just fine for the duo. Fresh air could do wonders for the body, especially for two heavy smokers. Scouting the area was a favorite pastime for Samara while Merle tended to occupy his time with other quiet endeavors.
A pair of binoculars fixated on a certain spot in the distance.
"I see it."
Merle grunted casually, not once lifting his eyes from his book.
Samara followed the 'Welcome to Georgia' sign before it disappeared behind them. Since Monroe, they had been on the road for twelve days. Road blocks, walker herds and the damned truck overheating had delayed their arrival. Stopping for a few days in Alabama had been a necessity to salvage certain parts for the truck so Abraham could fix it. Not to mention food scavenging, bathroom breaks and fuel syphoning. Before, it would have taken eight to nine hours to get from Monroe to Newnan, but now…a person would be lucky if it took only a week.
Before long, they would arrive at the prison and be reunited with the ones they left behind. Steadily, Samara felt a growing euphoria bubble in her chest. Just the knowledge that she would soon be in the presence of her friends left her as giddy as a schoolgirl. Michonne, Andrea, Rick, everyone else. Hell, at this point she would be happy to even see Carol as long she knew it was a familiar face.
Samara sat opposite Merle, watching him study. He'd picked up the habit of reading whenever they had the spare time. Mostly crime novels and even some soul-searching books. To her peculiar surprise, he had even started carrying a small book with him.
"Do you still carry that Bible?"
Merle patted his jacket's breast pocket without taking his eyes off the pages.
"I never asked you, but why? You don't strike me as the 'praise Jesus' type."
"I ain't, but a bit of light readin' never hurt nobody. Besides, this here my lucky charm."
"There's no such thing as lucky objects, you damn honky."
Merle sighed, almost as if displeased to be interrupted from his limited leisure time, and took off his glasses. Not long ago, Samara had discovered that the older Dixon needed spectacles after some embarrassing misreading's. Due to her insistence, they had found a suitable pair for close up reading and even thought Merle grumbled in the beginning, he seemed to be glad for them as they allowed him to indulge in his hobby.
"Remember in LA when we got separated?"
"Best two days of my life."
Merle gave her the finger.
"Got cornered by some walkers, almost got my ass chewed on, and this little book." He took it out of his pocket and stared at it with silent fondness. "This here saved my life. Walker was comin' for me, I was on the ground, no weapon in sight. Thought this was it. Man can't have a third chance of escapin' death after all. But then that dumbass walker slipped on this little book and the impact just broke his skull in two. Must've been a real rotten one. This little thing's been keepin' my ass safe ever since. So yeah, this here my lucky charm."
"It was a coincidence."
"You say tomato, I say tomato." He slipped the book back in and gave the Native a scrutinizing look, focused mostly on her face. "What about you, Tonto? Why are you still smearin' that shit all over your face? Case you haven't noticed, we left Arizona a long time ago."
That 'shit' in question was war paint. Five, greyish-blue stripes that ran along vertically over her face, ragged trails left by her fingers. Like religion she would retouch it, never once letting them fade away.
"I have my reasons." Samara grumbled defensively.
"Well then, I also got my own reasons for carryin' around my little piece of luck."
Touche.
"When we arrive at the prison…Gods, I hope they have some good food there." She had been dreaming of some of those delicious cooked meals by Beth or Carol. Could even smell them.
"Mhmm. Need me some cooked meat. Gettin' kinda tired of canned food."
"And squirrels." During the periods when it had been only the two of them, they had survived mostly on squirrels and birds with the occasional rabbit. Never anything too large since they hadn't had the means to preserve or transport it.
"You can never tire of squirrels, darlin'. They the good meat."
Samara couldn't attest to that.
As she stared at the older Dixon, Samara wondered on a topic that both fascinated and plagued her. She hadn't dared touch on it before nor did the time seem appropriate, but so close now she felt the need to vocalize it.
"You ever regret staying with me?" She watched him prudently, careful of any lapse of expression. "You had your chances to leave, but you didn't. You could've stayed with the bikers, but you chose to come back east with me. Didn't expect that, to be honest."
His face was neutral, without a hint of what lay underneath.
"If you're lookin' for a little pow-wow, you got the wrong Dixon, sweetheart. I don't do heart to heart."
Samara smirked, having already anticipated his answer. Merle had never been one for sentimental talk, especially sober. He laughed and expressed his anger and displeasure freely, but when it came to meaningful conversation he was a closed book.
"I'm glad you did." Samara smirked, the edges of her lips soft. "You might be a giant thorn in my ass, old man, but you're at least better company than Alistair. Well…only a little."
"Well, shucks darlin'. I love you, too." Merle scoffed before waving her off so he could continue on reading. "Goddamn, I liked you better when you were barely talkin'."
They had been traveling for nine months, she and the older Dixon. Nine long months sleeping and breathing the same air. At first, Samara had found it hard, even downright exasperating. Twice, she had tried leaving him behind but the bastard managed to track her down with accuracy. He stuck to her like an annoying flea, but as the weeks turned to months she learned to rely on him as he did her. Samara had learned a lot from Merle. Not only had he taught her the system he shared with Daryl in bird calls, he had also helped her improve in hunting, tracking, survival and even manufacturing basic traps. Using the bow had fast become her favorite weapon.
The two depended and protected each other, and somehow Samara had come to the conclusion that accepting him in her car had been the wisest decision she had made. Despite all his faults, Merle was useful and could be funny in a macabre and vulgar way. They bantered and argued most of the time, but somehow it never seemed to bother her. Perhaps because he reminded her a little of Daryl and having at least that put her heart at ease.
"Samara, wake up!"
Like the lashing of a whip, Samara woke with a startle. She jumped to her feet, sleep rapidly draining from her mind as she readied her bow. Bad things were coming and the Native was fully prepared to fight or flee if need be.
Her eyes assessed the environment. For one, the truck wasn't moving. It stagnated in the middle of the road with Merle overlooking something in the distance. Whatever it was it instilled panic in the older man, his jaw on edge and the veins on his temple bulging with rapidly pumping blood.
She saw it then. Merle's frenzy—
A cloud of smoke rose in the distance, dark grey and thick.
Samara knew. Despite being asleep for hours with no knowledge of how far along they were on their course or even where they were, she just knew.
"No…"
A heavy stone dropped in her stomach.
Please, don't let it be true.
Entranced by the chilling scene before her, Samara barely heard Merle urgently bang on the roof of the truck.
"Hey, Texas Ranger! Move this hunk of metal! We gotta get there now!"
Abraham stuck his head out the window, his thoughts on their destination clear on his face. "It doesn't look good, Merle."
"I don't give a shit! Get me to my brother!"
With reluctance, the truck sprung to life and soon the familiar beaten path came to view. Samara felt skeletal hands sink their jagged nails into her throat, strangling the breath out of her. It felt wrong, like slowly heading towards a funeral. That same feeling of dread overwhelmed her, threatening to sink her to the bottom of the abysmal ocean.
Instead of focusing on that plummeting feeling, Samara threw herself into her ritual, Merle already way ahead of her. They both checked their weapons, fed the ammo clips and supplied their bows with arrows. Who knew what awaited them on the other side of the forest and they no longer took any chances, experience having taught them that.
The closer they got, the more walkers could be spotted, all marching towards the prison. Whenever the undead walked with singular intent, it meant bad things had passed.
—It meant the stench of death was fresh.
The truck stopped suddenly, nearly knocking the duo off their feet. Merle banged on the back window angrily, foully cursing the man behind the wheel.
"We're not goin' any closer, Merle. This doesn't feel right."
With a growl, Merle jumped out of the truck with Samara hot on his tracks. If Abraham would not move, they would just have to walk the distance through the undead. There was no time to stop and think. Now was the time to act, at least until they understood the situation more clearly.
As they passed the cabin, Abraham stuck his head out, one eye on Samara and the other on the many walkers already changing course towards them.
"I can't go with you, Samara. I can't risk Eugene gettin' caught in whatever the hell is goin' on out there."
Samara understood. The man was fixed on getting Eugene to Washington even if it meant over their bodies. Samara had never asked, but there had to be a reason behind Abraham's resilient drive. Nobody would go to such lengths, even if it meant 'curing' the undead, without a personal motive.
"Get back on the main road and wait for us there. If we're not back by sunset, go."
Without another look back, Samara ran after Merle. The two hunters forgo the dirt road and silently ran through the forest, avoiding the walkers and their grubby fingers as they went.
The Native felt her heart leap into her throat. A dozen scenarios, each more gruesome than the other, rotated in her mind with sadism. Anything could be waiting for them on the other side of the forest and judging by the smoke, Samara knew it wasn't anything good.
The closer they got, the more she could smell death. Not the walker kind as theirs was a rotten, sickly-sweet stench. This one was fresh and coppery. Samara fought back a sob and she could already picture what lay beyond the approaching tree line.
Breaking through the foliage, the two hunters both stopped cold in their tracks, shock hitting them like a hammer. The prison…
—It was gone.
The fences had been run over. Walkers ran rampant through the fields and courtyard. Bodies lay everywhere. Building parts had been destroyed with its inner skeletons exposed. The watchtower was on fire and a tank was on the field. This was the scene of a harsh battle. An unprecedented attack on the prison and the people in it had not been prepared for its gravity.
They're dead.
That was all Samara's numb mind could think off.
We were too late.
Why? For what purpose? Wasn't it enough that they had the undead to fight off, somebody else had to come along and destroy what little safety there was left in this world? Spite, hatred, jealousy…What good did that bring except for blood and grief? The more Samara explored this ravaged, barren world, the more sadness accumulated in her soul. Nothing was sacred anymore, everything was a free for all.
"Come on." Merle's hollow voice broke through the thick silence, a light tremble to his words. "We need to camouflage ourselves and make sure that…that he's not one of the dead."
He too was afraid. Hope seemed like a laughable context in the face of such a horrible scene. Samara felt a hysterical cackle bubble deep in her gut. Start where? Which body? There was so many strewn around that it would take more than a day to identify them all. A cold shiver puckered her skin as the Native was transported to a different time and different country. There was no difference between what she saw here and what she witnessed during her army years, just raw death and carnage.
With stiff limbs, Samara followed the older hunter on instinct. They quickly found a pair of walkers and picked them apart, spreading blood and guts all over their clothing, face and hair. It was disgusting work, but necessary. When forced with such a large presence of undead, it was more efficient to become one of them than walk around with a large target on their backs that screamed 'fresh meat'.
Carefully, they walked over the downed fences, the walkers not the least bit perturbed by the two new additions. Merle took point while Samara had the back, both with their weapons ready. Neither made a sound, communicating simply through the hand signals they both learned in the military.
Samara felt as if she were stepping into another dimension. A parallel world where another version of the prison existed aside the one she remembered. It felt wrong, but the reality was staring her right in the face. Nothing lasted in the face of the tireless undead. Whatever home or family was constructed, it all inevitably came crashing down in fire and blood.
Abruptly, Merle stopped.
"Holy shit…"
Samara walked up to him and her stomach instantaneously constrained into a painful knot.
—It was the Governor.
He laid dead on the field, chest bloodied and with a bullet hole in his forehead.
"Motherfucker." Samara snarled, rage infesting her veins with sizzling hotness. "He came back."
"Came to finish what he started." Merle continued before steeling his gaze. "He always was a sore loser."
Without regard or any before thought, Samara stomped on the Governor's face until there wasn't anything recognizable left. The moment his skull caved underneath the force of her boot, the Native felt an intense, twisted satisfaction. He was the reason for this massacre. The reason so many dead lay forgotten and picked by scavengers and crows. The reason her home was on fire. Her friends either dead or vanished.
—Everything was gone because of this madman.
Crunch!
Grinding her boot into the mush of brains and bits of bone, Samara spat on his corpse. She wished she could do more, but what was left of him was nothing but an empty carcass. In the end, beating a dead horse never fulfilled anyone. The fact that he got away with only a stab and bullet made her even madder. He deserved far worse for what atrocity he had caused.
Merle had to physically pry her away from the mutilated corpse, otherwise Samara would have continued in her ghoulish dance. With hatred spilling poison into her body, the Native marched on, hardening herself to what new horrors she would find the further she ventured into the prison. She was painfully aware that familiar faces would pop out any moment, either devoid of life or shambling to the song of the undead. The urge to turn back and run was hot on her heels, and she wished she could just hide and be ignorant of the events that transpired, but she had a duty to search for any survivors.
She had a duty to mourn her friends.
There were many bodies with rifles and unknown faces. They must have been the people that came with the Governor and Samara wished she could spit on them too, but time was of the essence. From Merle's often contorting expression, he must have recognized some of the corpses as the Woodbury people. Samara only vaguely remembered them, more intent on searching for familiar faces than those that temporarily crossed her path.
Upon reaching the basketball court, what Samara saw almost floored her to her knees—it was Hershel. He was dead, a bullet having perforated his skull. The rifle he had used to defend his home and family was still in his hands, gripped tightly in rigor mortis.
"Old man died fightin'." Merle crouched low and closed Hershel's eyes in respect. "He was lucky. It was fast. Might not even seen the bullet."
Samara strongly suppressed the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks by biting the inside of her cheek until the taste of copper flooded her tongue. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be alive, happy to be reunited again. The old man didn't deserve this end.
"Rest in peace, doc."
In a daze, Samara followed the older Dixon. She wished she could give Hershel a proper funeral, but time was not on their side. The Native profoundly apologized for the abandonment and hoped that wherever he was now, was a far better place than this ongoing hell.
Rest in peace, Hershel. You were always kind to me and patient. I swear if Maggie and Beth are still alive, I will find them. It's the least I could do so you don't worry in the next life.
They marched on with a feeling of looming dread hanging over their heads. Hershel was just the first, she knew. More would follow, some worse than others. It wasn't a search mission anymore, but a death record.
The moment they opened the prison door, they were instantly hit with a wave of horrid stench. Decay and blood mixed with spilled intestines and putrid walker flesh after a few days of stewing in a closed space was enough to make the two living hunters tear up and gag. Samara rolled her mask up over her mouth and nose while Merle tied a bandanna over his face. The cloths barely shielded them from the reek, but it was better than wearing nothing. Inside, they found the prison in a state of chaos. People had panicked and dropped what they had been doing during the attack. The floor was riddled with dirty clothes, unfinished food, bullet shells and corpses, not to mention walkers shambling around. Slowly, the duo moved throughout the prison, careful of disturbing their undead neighbors. Even camouflaged as they were, the wariness never left their vigilant senses.
The next unfortunate casualty to be found was Alice. She had been shot several times, neither of the bullets hitting the sweet spot that would have let her remain a still corpse. She stood stock still near the cells, swaying silently to whatever her reanimated brain listened to. A ghost of the soulful and bright woman she once had been, now reduced to nothing but a thoughtless cadaver.
Samara hissed as the need to cry and rage curled her fingers into painfully tight fists. How did this happen? Did the people led by the Governor burst inside and just opened fire, killing everyone in their sights like animals? Alice had seen it happen and probably suffered for it. The location of the bullets holes had assured her a few slow, agonizing minutes of suffering before she succumbed to oblivion.
With a swift and practiced move of her arm, the Native stabbed the one once called Alice in the head. Slowly, she lowered her body down to the floor, her undead vigil having come to an end.
You're at peace now. Goodbye, Alice.
Samara looked over to Merle helplessly. What was there to do, her gaze pleaded with him mournfully. So much blood. So many dead. She was lost.
Merle's only answer was to press on through the graveyard that had been their home. No matter how bleak it looked, they had to know.
Their steps echoed like drum beats in the eerie stillness of the building. Where life once flourished through its corridors, it now lay silent and forlorn, the prison having returned to its roots. This was a cursed place now, haunted by the poor souls ripped violently from the comfort of their shelter. If Samara listened intently, she could almost hear their lamentation over their far too short time on this earth. Nobody had been spared the Reaper's scythe—the adults, the old, the young. Samara had to look away whenever they came across the body of a child. There were some images on this godforsaken earth that Samara could never get used to, nor did she wish to.
The more they searched, the less corpses they came across and instead the number of walkers increased. When it came to entering the Tombs, Samara downright refused. She'd rather not be ambushed by walkers in the dark and besides, nobody sane enough would try to hide in that deathtrap unless forced to. Safety was outside, past the prison's fences.
Samara paused by her old cell. It was as empty as the day she had left. She could almost hear them, the memories she had had of her little niche of the prison. The moments with Michonne and Andrea conversing over everything and nothing, drinking the wine Michonne had given her as a peace offering. The awkward, but oddly comforting moments shared with Daryl in the quiet darkness…
Her eyes shifted upwards. His cell was on the upper level and despite the dread tearing at her chest, she knew she had to climb those stairs. She had to see.
With trembling fingers, she pushed aside the curtain shielding his private space and peered inside, tomahawk ready for any danger. The younger Dixon had never been one to decorate. He believed in simple living and the need for only basic necessities. His cell remained almost the same as Samara remembered it. The pelts on the wall were a cozy touch, more having to do with the man's hunter roots than aesthetic reasons. The added books lying next to his bed were a surprise to the woman. She did not remember Daryl being an avid reader. Maybe it was a Dixon thing to pick up a literary habit later on in life.
With stiff limbs, she sat on the abandoned bed, the weight in her stomach drastically increasing to nauseating levels. It was cold inside the cell and lonely. A sense of claustrophobia assaulted her as she stared at the dull, grey walls.
Where are you? I know you escaped from here. You're not the type to die so quickly.
He had to be out there in the forest, fleeing from the graveyard that had been his home once. Alone and with no hope as his friends and home had been burnt to ash.
Did it feel like the world ended? Like Fate decided to punish you?
She could not even fathom what must be swimming around in his mind at the moment, but there was one thing she did know—survivor's guilt hurt worse than any open wound. Matters of the mind and heart never healed entirely, only dulled with time to acceptable intensities. Unlike his brother, Daryl was more emotional and took matters to heart with a surprising passion.
Don't lose hope. You didn't when we were fighting against the Governor. You didn't with me…Don't lose hope now.
Her eyes fell on the books next to his bed and a spark of surprise lightened up the dreary world around her. 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. It was amongst her favorites.
A phantom of a smile passed over her lips.
Samara's fingers glided over the pillow's wrinkles, feeling the smooth material. Even after so many months, she still remembered his scent—earthy with a touch of wood and leather. A fresh smell that reminded her of the woods in the early hours of the morning, dew still clinging onto grass and birds resounding with their sweet melodic tune.
She could not remain, Samara knew with deep sadness. She wished she could bask in familiarity just a while longer, but it was time to leave. They had found no other bodies of notice and would continue their search on the outside. Her time at the prison had come to an end.
Wherever you are right now, know that I won't give up until I find you all.
Wait for me.
Merle waited for her downstairs. Impatience was clearly written all over his features, but Samara took no notice. She took in her surroundings and tried to peer past the blood and death and see the better days she and the people she cared for had shared in this building—the laughter, the tears, the joy, the sadness, the anger and despair….Even with all that they still picked themselves up and walked on, leaving the demons wailing in the past. Strength had never left their spirits even when they had been brought down to their lowest. She just hoped that the survivors reached for their strength to keep on moving, keep on living with a tight grasp despite the darkness blinding them.
Even in the dark, a tiny ember of hope could always be found no matter how fragile.
Please, gods. Don't let me find anymore dead.
Samara pulled off her mask once they hit the outside fresh air and gulped on the air. That smell would remain with her for some time, and considering her luck, it probably embedded itself into her clothes. Samara had been in some smelly situations, but this rightfully took its place among the top. Merle wasn't in any better shape as he spat and gagged, cursing the awful smell to a hell of lavender and roses.
The Native looked back on the prison. Without its people to animate it, it now remained just another abandoned building in the wasteland. Soon, nature would reclaim it and bury the bones left behind, leaving no trace of the brutality and death. Even in the face of destruction, life still managed to find a way to bloom.
Back on their feet, the duo searched the grounds between the buildings, slowly closing up on the baseball field. The number of corpses were few to Samara's instant relief and she hoped none would be found more, but matters never did go the way one wished for. The moment they came upon the bloodied baby seat, Samara wished she had braved the Tombs instead.
With a sharp inhale, the woman vomited her meager breakfast on the pavement, no longer able to control her willpower. It had reached its crescendo. The sound attracted the attention of a few lone walkers, but Merle took care of them swiftly and urged the heaving Samara onward, fearing any more attention on them.
"Move your feet, dammit!"
Samara spat and coughed, eyes red from the strain as a massive tension pressured her skull. She felt like her brain was trying to escape the confines of her head and implode on itself as the image forcefully remained drilled into her eyes. Even with the increasing distance, she could still see it vividly crimson. Did he know that his baby was dead, ripped apart and devoured by walkers with not even a scrape left behind? She hoped to her gods that he didn't. If Rick was still alive out there, he was better off in complete ignorance.
Oh gods.
Her mind continually cycled around the dark image, firing up her already scarred heart. Samara had known even before the baby had been born that her chances of survival had been slim, but actually seeing it uncovered a deep, profoundly bleeding part of her that should have never seen the light of day again. A momentary lapse, but one that cost her dearly.
"Snap out of it!"
Samara pulled away from the man, snarling with mental pain. He did not understand. To him it meant nothing, just another tragedy in their ugly world. One that he had seen time and time again, but to Samara…
"Just…let me breathe for one second. Let me think."
"We ain't got the time for that!" He snarled back, his increasing impatience waking his aggression. "I need to find my brother!"
"Daryl's not here!"
"That's what I'm tryin' to prove, idiot!" He shook the frenzied woman, not in the mood to deal with her down-spiraling emotions. "We need to check every body there is."
"No, we don't! Can't you see? Daryl escaped."
"How can you know?"
"Look at the corpses we saw until now." Samara wiped the vomit off her chin with the bit of trench coat that wasn't spattered with walker blood. Some semblance of sanity began to crawl back into her feverish mind, soothing it to reason. She had to keep talking. Keep explaining with logic lest she lapsed back into insanity. "The Governor's dead. The next we saw were the weak and the old. Alice, Hershel and…" Samara choked on the name. She knew exactly who that baby seat had belonged to, but did not have the will to utter it. "A-And all the other Woodbury people who couldn't fight another human if it meant their lives. I don't know who won in the end, but either way, both sides lost the prison. What matters is that the bus is missing. People escaped and I know Daryl is one of them. We have to find that bus."
Merle nodded after a short pause, following her optimistic line of thought. They did not remain to search for supplies, but they did gather whatever compatible ammunition they found as they walked back towards the forest.
Samara felt like she was on morphine, walking on numb and weightless legs. The sight of that baby seat had felt like a punch to the temple, leaving her dazed and confused. Deep in her mind, she understood that what she was experiencing was deep shock, but her body wouldn't cooperate so Samara found refuge in the only way she knew when reality became too much to bear—she shut down.
As they passed the broken fences, both Samara and Merle's attention was diverted to the headless body lying in the grass with its hands tied behind its back. The Native approached the convoy of trucks where the body lay and stared at it with a chilling numbness. She had gone past the point of being stunned anymore and scrutinized the body with a clinical eye. Even without seeing proof, she realized the identity of the mutilated man.
—Finding Tyreese's head did not prove to be a difficult challenge.
She stared into his faded eyes with an empty heart. His death had been violent and cruel from the repetitive chopping marks on the back of his neck. A poor execution, but someone had had the decency to put him out of his undead misery judging from the stab wound.
An ugly, painful death. One that someone like Tyreese did not deserve.
Goodbye.
Guiding herself only by Merle's footsteps, Samara followed like an obedient sheep. There was nothing she could do for him or for any of the dead except to give them her farewells. Life was unfair and cruel, Samara had experienced it firsthand and so did all those that remained alive despite the many hardships. They were the unlucky ones, not the ones that passed into the unknown. They were still here, enduring the pain one step at a time; feeling the misery carve a deep crevice into their soul, never once letting the memories fade. They became a part of them, molded the very essence and spat out a malformed version one couldn't even recognize in the mirror.
Goddamn you, Governor. Goddamn you to the darkest pits of Hell.
The truck door opened with a rusty screech as Samara and Merle approached.
"What happened out there?" Rosita asked over Abraham, startled over their sudden and ghastly appearance. The ashen faces and stiff spines of the two hunters were enough indication of what had happened, but the women pressed for information. The duo had been gone for more than five hours and just returned with blood and bits of flesh hanging off their clothes, and ghoulish expressions. Answers were greatly needed.
Merle shook his head angrily as he lit up a cigarette. "Place's gone."
Rosita seemed to deflate as she moved back in her seat, muttering a quiet apology. Eugene, forever awkward around any display of emotion, seemed to retreat further into his silence while Abraham proved to be his polar opposite as the rock in their little group.
"I'm sorry, Merle. I know he was—"
The glare shot his way was scathing. "I said the place was gone, not my brother."
Samara walked past Merle and climbed into the bed of the truck. Without a word she began picking up her meager belongings, throwing Merle's down to him.
Abraham watched with silent understanding. "What're you gonna do?"
"We part ways here, Abraham." Samara flatly said as she hopped down the truck. There was a mechanical aspect to her movements, almost without personality. "We need to go find our people. Some of them are still alive, I feel it. I know we said we'd escort you to Washington, but things chance."
"Wait, you can't just go by yourselves." Rosita interjected, worry etching faint frown lines over her smooth forehead.
"Honey, we've been by ourselves for a long ass time." Merle winked at her without the usual devilish boldness he possessed. Hollowness did not suit the man at all. "We got it."
"I know you can, it's just—Goddammit, Abraham, we can't just let them leave! We need each other!"
"If they have to go, let them go." Eugene interjected from his side of the truck, eyes on the road than on the drama nearby. "We are not their keepers and we still have to get me to Washington."
"Eugene is right."
"How do you even know which way they went?" Rosita asked the two hunters, waving off the men's callousness. "They could be anywhere. You can't track something you don't even know where to begin looking."
"The group had a school bus and we didn't see it when we came upon the prison. We're going to search for it."
A light seemed to flip inside the Latina and her words came out more animatedly. "That means they didn't go the way we came here. So that only leaves going forward."
"Meanin' south which is out of the question." Abraham interjected, not happy with the direction of the conversation. "Our destination is in the north, not the opposite."
"Abraham, the tank is almost empty. We need to find some fuel. Going south for just a little while won't affect the mission."
"Another goddamn detour!" Abraham cried in frustration. He had been from the beginning against the idea of breaching Georgia, much less even be in the vicinity of it. They should have drove in a straight line towards Washington, but with the addition of Samara and Merle, his plan had taken a backseat to accommodate his new companions and Rosita's insistence. "No, we can't risk—"
"We need fuel." To their collective surprise, Eugene put his foot down. "Otherwise we're going to be stuck in Georgia longer than necessary. We should find some gas and after that…" His gaze slid towards Merle and Samara without a shred of empathy. "You two are on your own."
"Fine by me." Merle said as he threw his bag pack back over the bed's side.
Samara sat rigidly in the back of the truck, shoulders hunched over and head between her knees. Her mind was alive with the buzzing of thoughts, all vying for the center of attention and eating away at the last defenses she had against madness. So many people dead. Hershel, Alice, Tyreese, Judith, and for what? A building? Revenge? How far down the rabbit hole did the Governor fall that he had to go to these extremes? Samara too had found herself on the edge of the precipice on many occasions, but she had never had the courage to take that leap. Woodbury had been the last straw and if she had followed up on her rash instincts, she would have become just another madman once called Philip Blake. Samara had avoided that downward spiral, but the Governor had not been that strong. He had fallen into temptation and returned to his baser instincts. See, want, conquer. It didn't matter how many people died in the process or even if those people were innocent or sinful. They did not belong in his mental picture so they had to be eradicated like bothersome pests.
The battle couldn't have been old. Judging by the state of decay, the bodies had been two maybe three days old. The two hunters had literally missed it by a margin. Maybe if they hadn't stopped in that small town for some rest, or just pushed through that small herd outside La Grange instead of circling around it. Maybe if they had skipped all those tiny, insignificant details they could have arrived on time and maybe turned the tide. Samara did not care about the prison, it was just four walls and a roof, but the people in it…her friends had been irreplaceable.
Hershel had helped her through some tough times. Saved her life back on the farm and then guided her through those painful withdrawals, never once judging her. Once she got to know him better, Samara recognized a gentleness in him similar to that of her own grandfather.
Thump!
Tyreese…Gods, poor Michonne. Her friend must have been devastated. And Sasha. Samara had been an only child, but she could imagine what it would be like losing a sibling, especially the last remaining family one had in this mad world. She hadn't known Tyreese, they had barely conversed even though he was her friend's beau, but she had liked him. He had been good to Michonne, treated her with respect and love and was there for her through that dark time of her life. He had proven himself to be an honorable man. A good soul.
Thump! Thump!
Alice had believed that safety was found at the prison, but no matter how thick the walls or how many weapons they had, Death always found a way. She had been a brave young woman. Compassionate and willing to bloody her hands for the sake of life, even as it head-butted against every fiber of her being. She had been through many unpleasant and downright horrid situations, but even beaten and bruised, she still picked herself up, forever hoping for that silver lining.
A pressure began to painfully compress her heart.
Goddamn…Little Judith. A small, fragile creature who couldn't even defend itself. Why kill her? She had done nothing. She had been an innocent.
She was just a baby.
Nausea broke through her empathy like a battering ram—
As she woke from the medical induced slumber, Samara peered around the pristine, white hospital room. Her husband was there, but he did not look like his usual upbeat self. From his puffy, red eyes, he had been crying for some time.
Why? She just pushed a volleyball out of her vagina after hours of painful labor. He should be high-fiving her for a job well done.
But as the doctor entered the room with that flat look reserved only for bad news, Samara knew. Every fiber of her being just knew.
The baby. It was—
"Oh gods." Throwing the sunglasses off her eyes, Samara felt the beginnings of a panic attack claw up her throat. "I think I'm going to be sick!"
"Puke on the side of the truck then!" Merle watched her with a tight grimace.
Samara tried, but nothing came. She simply dry heaved like a dying animal. Her breaths became shorter until only wild gasps left her mouth, sinking her brain in a heavy, thick haze. Samara crawled into a ball and tearlessly sobbed, her only witness a disgusted Merle. She couldn't stop. Her limbs felt numb and her entire body shook in cold sweat. The sorrow had been building up in her chest ever since she laid eyes on the smoke, compressing her heart until it burst uncontrollably.
"We were too late." Samara choked through strained gulps of air, her mind in a fever as thoughts all screamed different words at once. It was so loud she couldn't think straight. "If only we came just earlier. Gods, we were too late!"
Merle's frown deepened as his jaw clenched.
"They're dead!" Samara continued in her frenzy, her voice heightening into a sharp pitch. At that point, reason had flown out of her head leaving her a raving mess. "Goddammit, why did I have to be right? We were too late! They're probably undead food by now or dying somewhere, alone and—"
Merle shifted. A strong hand rolled her over and Samara's face felt the brute impact of a harsh, callous palm sending her to the stars.
"Shut the hell up and listen to me, Samara!" Merle caught her by the lapels of her coat and shook her like an old branch. Fury swam in his cerulean eyes, desperate to take control of the situation. "They ain't dead. Daryl ain't dead. I get it. Those people back at the prison, you cared for them. They were part of your pack, but they dead now. You need to accept it because cryin' like a little kid won't solve a damn thing. You need to get your head straight. We got hard work ahead of us and you need to focus. One wrong move out there and you're the one who'll be dead, and I ain't gonna be the one to deliver that news to my brother. So, quit your bawlin' and pull up your big girl pants. We got some huntin' to do."
His words were like a bucket of ice over her body, cooling down the scorching sensation boiling her insides. The frenzy in her mind died down to an enraged murmur in the back of her skull, finally deflating the pressure and allowing her to breathe. Reason slipped back into her consciousness and Samara slowly straightened herself out, forcing her breath to return to normal. He was right. She could not lose herself to despair now. There were people out there that needed her sane and whole, not a mess of tears and snot. Her defenses needed to strengthen back into a brick wall. She could not relapse to those dark days every time she saw a dead child. She needed to be strong. Be the golem she used to be in the beginning of the plague, no matter how much that displeased her.
She needed to grasp the strength she knew she harbored and use it for the greater good.
Picking up her weapons, she lost herself to the routine—clean the blades, check the weapons, feed the magazine. She needed the clinical, disciplined steps she used to partake in every day for eight years in the army. Routine had been her savior in a world filled with chaos and death, and she hoped it could become her liberator now.
Misery was not an option. Samara had to keep her chin high and search for those embers, no matter how dark the world was. They were there just out of reach, but if she persisted she would catch up to them in no time.
I'll find you all. I know we'll see each other again someday.
Don't give up.
A knock on the back window of the truck disturbed Samara from her profound trance. She had no idea how much time had passed once she became a prisoner to her thoughts, but from the color of the sky it was close to twilight.
"Up front!" Rosita yelled.
Both hunters jumped to their feet and peered into the distance. In the middle of the road, a person fended off a group of walkers while another figure lay on the ground, either dead or unconscious…wearing armor…the kind found in police stations…
Oh.