Light hit the Native's face, but she remained unmoving. She sat against the wall with her head hanging limp and her arms crossed over her bent knees. It looked like she hadn't moved in quite some time.

The Governor cautiously stepped inside the cell and crouched down a distance from her. He knew she was still alive from her moving shoulders, but Stevens had apprehensively informed him of her lack of appetite or sleep. The woman either paced across her cell relentlessly or slumped against the mattress or wall for hours on end.

"There's barely any life in her."

Stevens was all too familiar with depression, raging from minor seasonal ones to the severe. The people of this town all had a limit and sometimes that limit was breached. The doctor himself was no stranger to moodiness and at times, fell down the slippery slope. Understandable. The world wasn't exactly a sweet place to live in anymore.

Before, the woman would have always readjusted in a defensive pose upon seeing him, but now she was as wilted as a dead flower.

"Have you given up?"

It sure looked like it. A pity, the Governor thought. She would have been more useful animated.

A twitch.

The Governor looked on in curiosity as the woman raised her head just enough so that her eyes could be seen. To the man's annoyance, they were as vacant as a void.

"Do you want to die?"

Was that her wish? Did the grief finally hit her and sent her into the bottomless abyss of despair?

What a waste…

"Let me ask you one thing…" Her answer will decide her fate. If he felt like there was no chance for her to get out of this slump, he'll kill her right here, right now. "Why did you do as I asked? At that moment, you obviously could have pushed that biter onto Micah and gotten your satisfaction, so why didn't you?"

The Native grimaced slightly.

Finally, a sign of life.

"…Does it matter?"

Her voice was raspy and as dull as the air in this small, dank cell. Her earlier arrogance and fierceness seemed like a far away dream. A trick of the mind. Who would have though that that once proud woman who had fought Micah tooth and nail was now reduced to this husk. They seemed like two completely different entities.

"It does to me."

Samara licked her dry, chapped lips. From this distance, the Governor could hear her thirst for water from that one insignificant action. No doubt her insides were working on empty fuel, devouring her fat storage. Awful way she chose to die.

The woman raised her head high and let it hit the wall behind her. There was nothing in her expression that belayed her thoughts.

"I was keeping my options open." She simply said.

The Governor nodded after a minute pause. That was all he needed to know.

Light footsteps trekked across the open field. Weary of visibility, Daryl and Michonne walked as low as possible, making themselves small in the face of the house before them. It was a farm house, similar in design and color to the dozens they had searched for the past week and a half and all had the same result—either barren of any living soul or occupied by the occasional stray walker.

No sign of life yet.

They hadn't found one single trace of living beings having occupied these houses. They had all been abandoned and ransacked a long time ago.

Time was pressing. With each day without result was one day further away from their lost people and it was beginning to take a toll on them. Even the hard-boiled Michonne was showing signs of physical and mental fatigue, but not Daryl. His new found resolve wouldn't let him snuff the brightly lit torch he carried in his soul. If he had too, he'll carry all these people along with him until they found them.

As they neared the house, they could discern no sound from it. They had scouted the margins of the house's terrain for nearly an hour before venturing forward, apprehensive of any human occupants. But, like before, the building appeared abandoned.

Daryl opened the door for Michonne to walk in first. His rifle was better suited to cover the short distance fighter. If anything came up he could shoot it from his long range and let Michonne deliver the finishing blow.

Easing into the house, they could hear nothing but the wind's mournful howl. A bead of sweat rolled down to his chin as they entered the living and kitchen, each taking one room, but there was nothing to worry as both equally were devoid of life.

Michonne eyes found bloodstains on the living room floor. Not a large quantity but enough to be noticed.

Signaling the hunter, he silently inspected the spatter. It wasn't old judging by its context and color, probably a week or more. Someone had been here, but they hadn't had the mind to clean the blood.

With a thoughtful frown, he mouthed to the sword-wielder—recent.

Michonne's eyes narrowed and she silently looked towards the ceiling. The hunter understood. There might be people upstairs.

Weapons ready, they investigated.

The steps were shoddy, creaking at every step. The duo had to climb at a snail's pace, fearful of disturbing the peace of the house in case anyone resided on the upper level.

There weren't that many rooms, just three. Carefully, they inspected each and every one only to find no heartbeat. But their poignant eyes saw the little things—the disturbed beds, the clothes strewn around and bags of half-eaten junk food.

It confirmed it. Someone had lived here recently.

"I'll go downstairs. There was another door near the back exit. Gonna check it out." Daryl spoke in a whisper, superstitious of the house's uninhibited image. "You look around here. See if you can find anythin'."

Michonne nodded and got to work.

It was amazing how well the two worked. Unlike some of the others, the two of them could function in total silence, guiding themselves by signals and body language alone. This was a feat Daryl had only been able to accomplish with Samara and Rick. After Michonne had calmed down from her anger she had stuck to his side like a baby chick. He knew why—out of all of them he had the most experience in recognizing tracks and finding lost people. She was simply following the best chance they had in finding Samara.

He didn't begrudge her. He welcomed her company because it kept him on his toes and she didn't slow him down. The woman was just as worried as him for their lost friend.

Friend?

Opening the door, he found himself face to face with a pair of stairs leading towards the basement. Below it was dark and Daryl searched the walls for the light switch. He wasn't about to waltz down there without a visual.

As light illuminated the dark cellar, Daryl carefully descended the stairs. From his position he could see that the cellar was just as empty, but his eyes zeroed on something that made his skin crawl.

Blood.

Approaching the support beam, he crouched low and like the stains above, they were a week or so old. The wooden beam also had the ruby color smeared across it right near the bottom. Settling his rifle down, Daryl sat with his back to the beam and crossed his wrists at the back. They were more or less near the position where the blood was.

Someone had been tied here.

His heart did a leap. Was this it?

Upstairs, Michonne looked through the rooms for anything that could indicate Samara or Oscar had been there, but there was nothing. This looked like a house that had been occupied for a long time, months even, but now it was deserted. Some of the food left had become rotten and a thin coat of dust settled over the clothes and bed sheets. Whoever had lived here hadn't been home in a while. Why was that, she wondered.

As she entered the last room, Michonne found a large duffel bag on the floor behind the bed. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the gun barrels sticking out. Picking up the bag, she settled it on the bed. Guns of all sizes were inside, not many but enough for several people.

Her hands froze.

Underneath the weapons was a leather harness worn across the chest with several holsters for guns.

Michonne's eyes widened. She knew that chaffed leather. Picking it up, he fingers shook over it as she inspected it with her heart in her throat. Without question, this was Samara's. It had the exact modifications and there was that smug inscription on it, something Samara had written in permanent marker in nostalgic humor of a movie she loved—'Bad motherfucker'.

Michonne looked around the room in a frenzy. Where were they?

The mattress was thrown off. Michonne looked underneath the bed, underneath the clothes. When she opened the wardrobe, her fingers went limp and they fell from the handles.

There, suspended and hanging lifeless, were a familiar crossbow and compound bow assorted with a quiver full of arrows.

While Michonne stumbled across her revelation, Daryl stepped outside through the front door. He was looking for tracks and he came across several near the house. Men and woman alike had walked the dirt road judging by the boot sizes. There were even a few cigarette buds strewn around just as old as the blood on the floor. They had had a car from the tire marks and now he knew that wherever those people disappeared it had been via a car and not running for their lives.

Daryl sighed as he looked in the distance. This reminded him so much of Hershel's farm that it hurt. The only thing missing was the RV and the tents. If things had been different, they could have had a good run at that farm. They would have been isolated from the world with their own crops and animals.

However anyone looked at it, Daryl still thought of that time as one of the most peaceful in this new world. He didn't have to wake up to walkers jilting the metal fence with that desperation typical of them. He didn't have to worry about food when they had it at their disposal or just a few miles away in the woods. It was…different from the prison. Good or bad, in some ways he preferred it over the boxed in, concrete building. But all in all, the prison was a much better choice to reside—

Something caught his attention.

In the distance, there was a dark patch on the ground. Carefully approaching it, Daryl was surprised to find that it had been the remains of a cremation. Someone's body had been burnt here—a man's judging from its height and width. The hunter coughed and covered his mouth and nose. While the fire may have extinguished a long time ago, the charred stench hadn't left the cadaver entirely. Whoever had lived here hadn't even taken the precaution to burn the body entirely. The flesh might be burnt beyond repair, but he could still see patches of tender meat and bone peaking out in some place.

Daryl spat as he searched the cadaver for any signs of its identity. Nothing. The face was burnt beyond recognition and the clothes either burnt from the fire or melted onto the flesh and molded with it.

—Who had this person been? How did he die?

"Daryl!"

The hunter turned swiftly with his rifle at the ready. Eyes set in stone he searched for the threat but could only see Michonne on the second story window, waving him inside. She disappeared the next moment and Daryl rushed towards the house, forgetting about the unfortunate bastard on the ground.

Michonne wouldn't have yelled like that if it hadn't been important.

With his heart in his throat, Daryl all but climbed two steps at a time in his mad rush. He stopped in the threshold, his breath whizzing and cold sweat pouring down his face as his eyes adjusted to the room and Michonne.

Silent gasp.

His heart dropped into his feet.

In the woman's hand was a crossbow.

Tentatively approaching her like a frightened child, he took the weapon back and felt its familiar, comforting weight. This was his. This crossbow was his weapon, no doubt about it. Daryl almost jumped in joy at the reunion with his old companion, but it was short lived as he noticed the compound bow on the bed.

Samara.

"They were here."

Michonne gravel voice had his heart compress in despair. Blood, a burnt corpse, and no sign of life for quite a while.

They had been too late.

The Governor looked over the model town and thought of the possible changes he could do. They needed more space, expand Woodbury but for that to happen, this town had to be secure first. It would be a waste in fighting for more room when they had no means in protecting the people. He had to speak with Merle about the possibility of expanding the fenced area.

Rustle.

Milton sat at his desk overlooking some papers with a deep seated frown. A tinge of disgust made its appearance every now and then in reaction to what he was reading.

"Governor…What are you trying to do?" The man's pale eyes held a gripping worry. "This plan of yours for the fights is like a twisted game. You've set up fights man against man and they're all death matches. Dani's crew versus our people. Even with the others that have fought, you never did anything like this. Most of the them were mock fights so the prisoner could live longer."

"It's not a game, it's a tournament." His voice took one a distant tone, almost musing to himself. "A hundred days of slaughter…"

The other's man's confusion was almost palpable.

"Well, not like it's going to be that long." He assured the fearful man, although it didn't seem to placate him in the slightest. "I don't have the manpower for that. Two weeks, that's all. Enough to appease everyone for a long time."

"If I told you that this is completely barbaric and immoral, would you stop this tournament?"

His indifferent look was his answer.

"Not everyone here in Woodbury craves blood." Milton tried to reason, but it was useless. The Governor had already set up his mind to it, but it didn't stop the other from trying. It was somewhat amusing to see Milton so flustered and concerned for the human plight. "There are parents with children—"

The man scoffed. A weak excuse. "Did you see them yesterday? I could practically feel their blood-lust on my tongue. And yes, those parents that you are talkin' about were there among the crowd, cheerin' on." He could still vividly recall his people's reaction to Samara's victory. It had been like a stone thrown in calm waters, ripples upon ripples surging forward. He knew that underneath it all that civility and friendliness, people wanted to taste the forbidden fruit. "We all on different levels crave blood, even you."

Milton grimaced at the indignancy. "Death and violence aren't the answer, Philip. They can't be a substitute for peace."

"Why not? The Romans did it. They kept the people content during peace with staged battles. People, animals, what have you. Barely any riots."

"That was two-thousand years ago, those were different times. Very few had a degree of education, the rest had no idea what day of the week it was much less know how to spell it. They were ignorant people."

"And you really think times have changed?" He scoffed, knowing better. "The people that lived here, some of them have never even left this town. They don't know anythin' of the outside world except what they saw on TV. Heh…" He smiled derogatorily as an unpleasant memory assaulted him. "I was one of them once. Not anymore, though. This Judgment Day changed all that. I'm no longer blind."

"Sometimes…" Milton's voice was so low and despondent that the Governor had to strain himself to hear it. "I really believe that you view every one of us as just ants in your aquarium, moving around at you behest and at any moment you could just tip the glass and end us all. Not because we did anything wrong, but just because you wanted to."

The man's analysis surprised him. While he himself could see the resemblance he hadn't thought others could see it also.

"Do you really think I'm that much of a monster?"

Did Milton, out of all people, really think that of him? That he was a cruel master with no conscious?

Hesitation.

"Forget it." Milton sighed as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "It's just a silly thought. I'm tired. I'm not thinking straight."

"You spend too much time around the dead, Milton."

"Yeah, I think they're starting to affect me." Placing back his glasses, Milton looked at him anew, but the Governor could still see the mental exhaustion just creeping behind those iris. "What about Samara? She hasn't been in my lab in two days. Is she still feeling down?"

"More or less."

Milton's frown deepened. It seemed the lone man actually formed some sort of attachment to the sour woman. The Governor wasn't displeased by it, he actually approved of it. It would do the man good to speak to others that weren't dead or dying.

"Are you going to kill her?"

The Governor looked over the window in contemplation. He was still unsure.

Samara hissed as Stevens poked and prodded her bruises. She was recuperating nicely from her fight two days ago, but her disposition remained the same—unresponsive, silent and stared blankly at everything and anything.

"Doc, can't you talk to the big man and tell him that this bitch is a lost cause?"

Stevens sighed at the man's vulgar language. While he himself was no stranger to it, there was a time and place for it and now wasn't that time.

"She's not dead yet, Merle."

Merle apparently was Samara's guard for the day. To be truthful, he preferred Martinez to this lumbering brute.

"Shit." He spat, hatefully. "We're just waistin' supplies on a corpse."

"They're my supplies, not yours." The doctor's temper was starting to rise, distracting him from his work on his patient. "If the Governor wants her alive then she's gonna stay alive until he says otherwise."

"Fuckin' hell, you're a waste of time!"

In anger, Merle threw a bedpan and it crashed into the wall, startling Alice who was writing up some reports a distance away. Even Samara crawled out of her stupor for a second before the lights shut off in her eyes.

"Don't you throw temper tantrums here, Merle!" This time, Stevens couldn't ignore the frustrated man and barked back more authoritatively. He didn't need this racket right now. This was supposed to be a tranquil place for healing. "Take it outside if you can't control yourself!"

Merle dropped back down in his chair and sulked, throwing evil glances at the catatonic woman. If she would only just die…

Stevens drew in a deep breath to calm himself. He needed his hands steady not shaking from suppressed anger. He swore out of everybody, Merle was the only one capable of destabilizing him to this degree. He was usually a very composed man.

"Samara, I'm gonna give you painkillers for the soreness. Now, I'm reluctant to give you anythin' strong considerin' I've seen the way you chew your pills. I've only seen that sort of behavior in addicts and I strongly believe you were one at some point in your life."

"Really?" Merle piped up with a sly grin, forgetting his present resentment. "What's your poison, sweetheart? Oxy, Doxy, morphine, methadone?"

"Quiet, Merle." Stevens returned his attention back to Samara who was now looking at him with those vacant eyes that put him on edge. "But considerin' the situation, anythin' weaker would just prolong your agony."

He placed the pill in her open palm and gave her a glass of water.

"This is the last time. Ibuprofen will be your only option from here on out."

"She ain't gonna survive till tomrrow." Merle spat as he watched Samara mechanically swallow the pill. "She's already got the noose ready."

Merle wouldn't sugarcoat it. He knew that look, had seen it before in people just before they took the long way down. He just had to sit back and wait for her to finally realize what her only escape was.

"Fuck off, Merle! If you don't have anythin' useful to say, stay quiet!" Stevens' face was red with fury. He knew Merle was a bastard but this was taking it too far. He faced the woman once again, ignoring the feral man. "I know how it feels like. It's a vast emptiness that sucks the livin' breath out of you. It's ugly and despairing, but you can't give in to it."

Samara blinked owlishly.

"Why not?" Her voice came out raspy with disuse.

"Because you shouldn't give up so easily." The man wholeheartedly believed that the woman would overcome this. She just needed some support to understand that she wasn't alone. "Fight it. It might not look like it right now, but there is life to be made anew here. You can't let the dead pull you down. If you want, I can help you through these tough times. Nobody should be alone."

Samara twitched. Those awful dead eyes settled into a deep glare and that raspy voice turned a few degrees colder as she all but practically hissed.

"Keep your fucking advice to yourself because I don't want it."

Stevens' shoulders sagged as Merle let out a guffaw of triumph. "Guess she's made up her mind, doc."

"That's all for today." The man took off his glasses and rubbed his tired features. "You can take her, Merle."

Like a gazelle, Merle sprung from his chair and took a hold of Samara, not in the least bit gentle.

"Come on, Tonto. Governor wants you workin'. You might be cozyin' up to the ol' Reaper, but until then you'll feed the geeks."

Groan. Slurp.

Samara watched vacantly as the walkers gleefully devoured Micah's flesh. She knew this time she was feeding them Micah because her guard, Merle, had joyfully informed her in high hopes of inciting disgust.

He barely even got a blink out of her.

The Native felt so heavy she could barely stand on both legs. They felt like jelo and they shook slightly, giving her the bizarre sensation of toppling over at any moment. Aside from the bruises from the fight, there wasn't anything physically wrong with her, it was her soul that was in turmoil. Samara hadn't expected Daryl's death to hit her so hard. It had been two days already and she still felt like the world had crumbled to dust. Funny how one person's death could bring her to such a sorry state. It was almost laughable.

But Samara wasn't laughing. She couldn't even cry anymore. Her grief was now a silent and devastating one.

—She hated this feeling.

Feeling her long dried up tears still coursing down her cheeks, the heaviness of the paths left behind as if her skin was sinking in, every muscle in her face unable to retain even one single expression…It was pure agony.

Samara chucked the next piece of meat with more force than necessary. While on the outside she was as dull as ever, her insides were a different matter. From that pool of misery sprung forth an ugly and horribly contorted fury—Pining over some guy she had only been fucking was ridiculous. It hadn't been like Daryl had popped her cherry or anything among those lines, so there was no need for the dramatics and yet, she couldn't climb out of this hole of depression no matter what the practical part of her mind yelled. This is exactly what she had feared from the beginning of this strange affair. Him dying on her and her reaction to it. Samara had thought that she could have handled it logically, but she had been dreadfully wrong. It all spiral into a complete emotional disaster.

It made her wonder in the quiet hours of the night if Daryl had meant more to her than just an itch to scratch.

Did he?

Samara tsked, and the cynical part of her squashed her sentimentality to fine grain.

Did it matter anymore? He was dead. 'What if's' never helped anybody in the long run.

The walkers snapped their teeth at her. She had stopped feeding them, lost in thought, and they were getting anxious. They still had a lot of room left in their rotten stomachs for seconds.

Sigh. How did this happen?

Looking at their milky eyes and outstretched hands, Samara felt a dark pull towards them. It was like they were inviting her to join their gluttonous feast, devoid of thought or emotion. In a blink of an eye, she could just disappear. A droplet in a vast ocean, nothing would be left of her.

Their macabre moans and groans beguiled—

"Do it."

Merle rough voice felt like a stone being thrown into a calm sea.

Samara blinked hard and assessed the situation with a harsh breath. She had unconsciously taken several steps towards the monsters with no intention of giving them Micah. She had simply acted on her subconscious thoughts, propelled by dark delusions.

"Just one itty bitty step and I'll have a reason to shoot you dead." His voice changed almost hypnotically, preying on the woman's moment of inexplicable insanity and broken vulnerability. "Then all that pain will just wash away and you won't have to ever hurt again."

What would it be like? If she just took those steps and gave herself over to oblivion?

Her hand rose slowly, shakingly.

Sweat poured down her forehead and she licked her dry lips as Merle's words echoed through her mind.

Her fingers coiled until only one finger remained extended vertically.

–Her middle one.

Merle spat and cursed.

Like hell I'll do what you say, redneck.

No, Samara had no thoughts of suicide even if life looked bleak at the moment. This feeling of emptiness and sadness too shall pass. After her husband had died, Samara had went through an even worse patch. If she hadn't killed herself then, there was no chance of it happening now over someone that she hadn't even loved. Samara will survive Daryl's death. It was inevitable.

In the end, that was the only thing anyone could in this mad world. Moving forward meant life. If you stopped to let the demons overtake you then you were to weak to walk upon this earth. Samara will never forget Daryl. He'll always have a place in her memories, but she couldn't let his death drag her down.

She will not allow it.

Perhaps…once she got out of here, she'll find a dog to keep her company. Another Alistair would be a calming transition.

But for the moment, she just had to focus on her own survival. It will take some time before Samara could function normally, both physically and emotionally, but until then she'll rely on her shrewdness and cruelty. It will be like before meeting Rick. That total selfishness and indifference towards others that hid itself deep in her being will rise to the surface once more and dictate her actions. The times of the lone wanderer shall return.

Samara threw another piece of meat, her eyes infinitely more sharper than before.

This was the only way. Pragmatism and taciturnity were her only options.

And she excelled at these.

Multiple pairs of eyes of different shapes and colors gazed before the burnt body, all experiencing different degrees of distress.

"Do you think this is…?" The blonde one with pale blue eyes bit her lip worriedly.

"It could be anybody. It ain't Oscar." Unconsciously, Axel hugged himself tightly. He didn't want to believe something so awful.

"But if it were one of their own why—"

"We don't know who this is, period." Rick interrupted Tyreese before he could plant anymore ideas into the other's already horrified psyches. "Look everyone, the most important thing here is that we found their hidin' place. We know where they will be when they return."

"This place looks deserted."

Rick's jaw locked tight. Michonne was right. The house had been left untouched for some time now and he wasn't sure why. Any number of things could have happened that delayed the occupants' return.

"Could they have abandoned it?" Axel's fingers sunk into the material of his hoodie, his eyes unwilling to leave the charred remains.

"Not with all their supplies here they didn't."

Axel glowered slightly. If Sasha wanted to ridicule him, she had picked the wrong time. "I mean, could they have abandoned it in a hurry? Like somethin' happened that made them run, leavin' everythin' behind."

"It's possible." Tyreese rubbed his tired jaw. "But if walkers had driven them out there would have been something left behind. A few stragglers, some destruction to the property, footprints which Daryl would have found. And if people tried to take over then why is everything left untouched? This place just looks like they went on a supply run and never came back."

It was on all their minds. Each with their own idea of what happened. Walkers could have driven them out, they could have died somewhere else, damning Oscar and Samara along…or this corpse before them was Oscar and Samara was missing, probably never to be seen again along with the attackers.

"What if they're not comin' back?" Andrea verbalized their fears.

"They have to." Daryl crushed that train of thought as he readjusted his crossbow. "No one in their right mind would leave food, guns and ammo behind."

"Unless they were kept from coming back." Everyone looked to Michonne. Her eyes were narrowed as she contemplated over the dreary situation. "What do we know about these people? They took Oscar and Samara to fight. Fight who? Where? Not here apparently."

"What if this group took Samara and Oscar someplace else? I've seen dog fights before and they usually ain't somewhere public."

"Does it look like anyone should fear the police anymore?" Sasha scoffed at Axel's words.

"No, Axel ain't wrong. That seems the case here." Rick understood Axel's implications. "Oscar and Samara were taken somewhere else to fight. A town maybe?"

"Or another house."

It was then that it dawned on everyone.

"We're back at square one." Andrea aggravatingly raked her fingers through her hair. "Goddammit!"

Even after they made such a huge discovery, they still had nothing to guide themselves to their missing friends. It was just one obstacle after another.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Rick couldn't have them lose hope. If they did, then those two were really lost. "We still don't know what happened here, but I intend to find out."

Dawn was closing in fast. They didn't have time to argue, but to plan ahead.

"We're gonna post people here as lookouts around the clock. Take shifts in pairs. Sasha and Tyreese, you're first. If those people come back, don't do anythin' stupid. You wait and you watch. Their strength, their numbers, everythin' and anythin' you catalog." He looked everyone in the eye, not giving an inch to despair. There was still hope. "Sooner or later, we're gonna have to confront these people and I'd rather not go in unprepared. We'll get our people back, even if we have to kill."

Daryl's grip on his crossbow tightened. Hanging onto his back was a compound bow and quiver full of arrows—a constant reminder that their owner was still missing.

He will not give into anguish again.

Samara looked over the old man nestled on the bed with mild curiosity.

After she had finished feeding the walkers, Merle had brought her to Milton's instead of taking her back to her cell. Suited her just fine. She wanted to keep her hands and mind busy, lest they venture to darker territories. She had to recover fast, even if it was a forced one because time was of the essence. Nobody was going to wait for her to naturally get over her grief before she could escape.

Merle hadn't remained like Martinez used to, to her suspicion and mild relief. Perhaps that was because the Governor was also present, speaking with the sickly man in hushed tones. She hadn't seen him since this morning, and even then it was briefly. Samara had thought he had come to her to decide her fate judging by his curious question, but here she was…still living and breathing.

She wondered with a grain of salt what this man had in store for her. What his next trial would be like…

Perhaps this was the reason she was here in Milton's lab? The man on the bed looked on the verge of death. Was she supposed to kill him? What were they trying to accomplish?

"Mr. Coleman, this is Samara." The Governor gave her a brief glance. "Milton will bring you up to speed." He then leaned and whispered something to this Mr. Coleman, his hands tightening warmly around the older man's.

Cynicism was as hospitable as a cold winter as Samara watched the 'friendly' interaction with a doubtful eye. She wondered how much of it was real and how much was just a ploy on the Governor's part. She didn't buy his 'good guy' act, not after she realized what this man was.

On a side note, Samara did respect him for never breaking the mask he wore so perfectly. He played his act so thoroughly that he even had his own people fooled. She wondered what would they do if they saw his real face—the one with dead eyes and lack of any human mercy.

The Governor shook the man's hand one last time before leaving his side. The smile dropped once his eyes were on her, a solemnity taking over instead. One of his hands settled over the handle of a knife he kept at his belt.

Samara's muscles locked.

He took out the knife.

"I'm giving this to you."

Huh?

Samara stared dumbly at the offered knife. She hadn't expected this turn in events. For all intents and purposes, she had believed he would stab her right then and there.

"Why?"

"In case this experiment goes wrong." Experiment? "I need you to protect Milton from himself. He can get overzealous with his projects to the point of foolish."

Samara's eyes returned to the knife. It glinted so smoothly in the dim light of the room. Almost invitingly.

"You're giving me…a knife."

The implications were clear.

"I'm going to trust you with this." He flipped the knife and held it by the blade, offering her the handle. "Don't disappoint me."

The glint in his eyes had Samara take a hold of it without further ado. It hadn't been malicious or even domineering, but expectant of her next move.

Samara bit her lip harshly. He was testing her again, the bastard.

"What is this?" Samara asked after the Governor left her alone with Milton and the dying man.

"Could you cue up the first song on the record?"

Looking around in confusion, Samara spotted an old gramophone. It was smooth to the touch and lacking in dust. Milton had been thoughtfully taking care of it.

"On my mark."

Samara was surprised at the unexpected hollow sound. She watched in confusion as Milton circled a bowl with a wooden tool, producing a sound similar to fingering the rim of empty wine glasses.

The sound reverberated as Milton stopped circling it. He nodded towards the gramophone and Samara placed the needle on the record. The song was unknown, but it sounded just as old as the phonograph itself. Probably from the black and white movie era.

"My name is Milton Mamet. Please raise your right hand off the bed if you recognize any of the following statements to be true. Your name is Michael Coleman." Shaking and with barely any strength, the old man raised his hand. "You were married to Betty Coleman." Again. "Your children were Michael Jr. and Emily." Again.

Samara sat on a stool and followed this slightly melancholic show with only the lightest trace of interest. The old record grated on her ears, not because of the woman singing it—she had a pleasant voice—but the lyrics…

All I did was wonder how your arms could be,

And it happened, and it happened,

And it happened to me.

—She wanted to vomit.

The old man whispered something to Milton before settling back on his pillow, exhausted.

"What did he say?"

"He asked if I could keep it playing while we wait."

Oh joy…

"Milton, what am I supposed to do here?" She asked as the reflection of the knife's blade shined over her face.

"After Mr. Coleman passes, we'll restrain him. He'll reanimate. I'll ask the questions again, record his responses." He gave her a blank stare, but Samara could see the despondency behind it. "I need you to end the subject's reanimated state."

Samara nodded. So, she was supposed to be a guard dog then.

"I've been trying to determine whether trace memory and human consciousness exist after the subject has transformed, but I had no baseline to work off of till now." His eyes laid over the slumbering man. "Prostate cancer. We didn't have the resources to treat him, so he volunteered to be the test subject. He's a remarkable man."

"You two close?"

"We spent a lot of time together. The song, the singing bowl, the questions. We've done that a few dozen times." He pointed to the memorabilia strewn around. "These are cues that will hopefully linger in his unconscious mind even after he's died."

Samara scoffed. What has this man been smoking?

"There is no unconscious mind, Milton. When they turn, they become monsters. That's all. Whoever they once were is gone."

He looked at her pointedly.

"We'll see."

Samara frowned. He didn't believe her in the slightest, and he even looked at her down his nose for a moment.

Heh…This man had no clue. He was just as ignorant as any other person.

"You haven't seen the transformation before, have you?"

"No." He answered curtly.

"Well, you're in for one hell of a show." A horrid smirk contorted her lips, giving off ominous vibes. "Sometimes, the body spasms and twists to extreme positions. It always funny watching it. Like a fish out of the water."

Milton blinked rapidly, flustered. "I don't see how that can be entertaining to watch."

Samara simply continued on grinning.

Coleman let out a final, breathy sigh.

Milton checked his pulse immediately and frowned. The man known as Coleman was no more.

With a heavy exhale, they began restraining the corpse. It wasn't hard to notice the tremor in Milton's hands and Samara took the restraints out of his grip. Not because she wanted to spare him the distress, but because she didn't want him to mess it up and leave the leather straps loose.

Tightly bound, the only thing they could do now was wait. Milton pressed a button on a timer and Samara watched as the numbers shifted with each second. The maximum Samara had waited for a human to turn was two hours. The minimum, fifteen seconds. Which one will it be today?

The song had ended a while ago but neither had noticed.

Milton busied himself with his tea, the jitters never really having left him. He wouldn't look Samara in the eye, but she knew. He was afraid. He was practically emanating it through every pore in his body.

"Did you see my fight with Micah?"

He turned to her partially before shaking his head.

"Too bad."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because he had to die."

Simple and to the point.

Milton sighed wearily. "Nobody deserves to die…"

Samara snorted in disdain. "Clearly, you haven't seen what is behind those protective walls of yours. Or better yet…what is inside."

Pale khaki connected with olive green.

For a fraction of a second, Samara had seen the understanding within those eyes.

You can see it too, can you?

His eyes then took on a protective sheen masked with confusion.

But you just don't want to admit it.

Twitch.

All eyes diverted to Coleman.

Again, his shoulder spasmed. And then his arm. And then his body. It wasn't anything violent, just small jolts and joints contorting and bones popping. Even with the small gestures, it still made Milton swallow thickly in nervousness. Beads of sweat pooled at his hairline and Samara could see his skin prickle with fright.

Heh…

Coleman's eyes opened milky white.

Not wasting even a moment, Milton quickly retrieved his bowl and begins the same process as the one before, producing that tingling sound. He nodded towards Samara to play the tune.

The lady's pleasant voice echoed through the horn.

Placing the bowl down, Milton licked his dry lips as sweat poured down his face.

"My name is Milton Mamet. Please raise your right hand off the bed if you recognize any of the following statements to be true. Your name is Michael Coleman." No movement. "You were married to Betty Coleman." He shows it the picture of Coleman's wife. Again, no reaction. "Your children were Michael Jr. and Emily." This time the beast curled its fingers over the covers. "Did you see that? He responded!"

"It's nothing."

It had been just the walker stretching its limbs, nothing more.

"No, he can't raise his hand! It's the angle. I want to try again without the restraints."

"Hell no."

"We may have tethered his consciousness. We have to try!"

Samara's frown deepened into a glare. "Are you insane? I said no."

"I know what happens if the subject comes for us!"

"As soon as we pull the restraints, he'll lunge and the only thing you'll accomplish is replace him in that bed."

Refusing to listen, Milton began to frenziedly untie undead Coleman's right hand. Samara gripped the knife tightly as she prepared for the walker's lunge.

"My name is Milton Mamet. Please raise your right hand—"

As predicted, the walker grabbed Milton and brought him towards its open maw.

All of this happened in the span of a few seconds. And in those few seconds from the walker grabbing Milton to its approaching teeth, Samara deliberated heavily.

She was undecided on how to act, even at the sight of Milton's impending doom. The walker could just kill Milton and she could run for it and escape this place. There would be nothing holding her back. But how far could she run before she was found? No doubt the Governor hadn't left them as unsupervised as it had seemed. And the moment she was caught, what then? She will die a most painful death, most likely dragged out by that twisted man. And if Merle got his hands on her…

It isn't time yet.

With a growl of weary frustration, Samara stabbed the walker in the head.

Milton remained frozen as he had just avoided Death's excruciating embrace by a few inches. Undead Coleman fell back onto the bed, never to move again.

With stiff movements, Milton rose from the bed and took his pictures and documents with him. His grip wasn't as strong as before and his gaze was faraway.

Shell-shock.

"I—I think I'd like to record my findings while they're fresh."

"That was stupid." Samara said as she calmed her ragged breath. The small spike of adrenaline had been like a drug. "You could have died."

Milton busied himself with his papers, intent on ignoring Samara.

"Are you listening?" She walked towards him with brisk steps. "Hey!"

Harshly, Samara grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until his papers fell out of his hands and his focus snapped to her. His pupils were dilated out of control and Samara could see the deep rooted fear and unbearable failure, all mixed with a healthy does of shock.

Good.

"This is what happens when you get bit. There's no memory recovery. This is not Pavlov's dog we're talking about who'll drool at the sound of a bell. That thing is dead, in all manners except for a part in its brain that keeps it craving human flesh without end. There is nothing human about it." She let go of him as she recovered her breath. "You can't save them, Milton."

Milton settled on a nearby stool, his hands once again shaking. He took his glasses off and wiped the tears of frustration away.

"There is no turning back from this." Her eyes landed on the cadaver with no emotion. Apathy at its finest. "We're all going to meet this fate. Accept that fact."

She had a long time ago. But that didn't mean they had to race towards that finish line. Samara was taking her sweet time until the line could even be seen on the horizon and it was nowhere near now.

Again, she had been surprised. Instead of being returned to her cell after the obvious failure of an experiment, Samara was taken through the main street by the ever grave Shumpert and brought over to a two story house. The person that opened the door to the top floor didn't even surprise her. Of course he would whisk her away in the darkness of night. But what did surprise her was the dinner table abundant with mouthwatering food.

To anyone else having been held captive for almost two weeks, this might have seemed and smelled like heaven, but for Samara this was culinary hell. The food looked disgusting in her eyes and it smelled like rotten meat. She knew it was the depression messing up with her senses, but she couldn't look at the food without gagging.

"Are we on a date?" Samara asked sarcastically.

Governor smirked as he poured wine into two glasses. "You're attractive I'll give you that, but you're too aggressive for my tastes."

"You like them obedient, don't you?"

"I like them feminine."

Shumpert handed his leader the knife and the man had simply sheathed it, without even looking at the blade's state. Samara had cleaned it before Shumpert had taken it away, leaving no blood behind.

Taking his visual cue from the Governor's pointed look, Shumpert took off Samara's cuffs and left the apartment. Left alone, Samara now felt more vulnerable than ever. She felt naked and powerless in front of this predator who was watching her closely, no doubt assessing her every move.

He pointed towards the empty chair as he settled in his own.

Samara sat and avoided looking at her plate, focusing on the man instead.

"It's grilled salmon with fried vegetables. A rarity these days. I kept them for special occasions and I figured this is a good a day as any. Enjoy."

"I'm not hungry." The smell made her want to drive her fork into her eye.

A flash of anger.

"Eat."

It wasn't a suggestion but a command. He would force it down her throat if he had to, Samara thought.

Any other day, the taste of salmon would have given her taste buds an orgasm, but not it was pure torture. It tasted like ash on her tongue and the man before her was forcing her to eat this monstrosity.

"You need your strength. I can't have you deteriorating into a skeleton."

"Why do you care?" She asked hatefully between dry heaves as she slowly swallowed the meat. She knew the man could see her struggle but still he insisted like the happy sadist he was.

"You're still of use."

"Do you always dine and smooth talk your prisoners?" Samara had to wipe the tears that pooled on her lower lashes from the strain of forcing herself to eat.

"No." The Governor had no difficulty enjoying his dinner as he ate and drank. Every time he chewed his food, Samara could hear it ten times louder and it gave her vertigo from all the squishes and slurps. "I still don't know what to think of you. You're definitely a survivor, a resilient one by what I've observed. I've met people like you before. Those that think they can't be tamed, but they always manage to get in line when they land in my hands."

"Is that a proposition?"

His eyes narrowed reproachfully. "Don't get too conceited. Most of the people like you I've killed because they are, more than anythin', a pain in the ass. But…" He sighed as his eyes glared at her with something akin to slight defeat. "I recognize value when I see it. You know how to fight and from what I've seen in the arena, you use your brains more than your brawn. My people liked you, they even cheered for you, imagine that."

"That doesn't make me happy." She didn't give a rat's ass for his people's opinion of her.

"Of course not, but it makes me happy and that's all that matters." He wiped the corner's of his mouth and took a sip from his wine. "What I'm trying to say is I have use of people of your caliber within my ranks."

Silence.

"Heh."

Samara began chuckling in her seat. It was a low, derisive one devoid of any amusement. She was laughing at herself and her situation.

"So this is why you gave me that knife. You were testing me." The laughter abruptly ended with a sneering scowl. "You're a bastard."

"How so?" The Governor was not shaken by her expression of hatred.

"Because you knew there were chances I would just stab your friend and try to escape. Either that, or I turned the knife on myself. You gambled on a woman's fucked up psyche." Samara leaned back in her chair. This man really was the Devil. "You're either very perceptive for foreseeing this outcome or you're just plain thoughtless."

A small, knowing smile slowly morphed onto his lips.

"True, I did take a chance, but I was more than sure of the outcome. As I've said, you're not a stupid woman. You must have realized that even if you killed Milton, there would have been no way for you to keep on livin', much less escape. I would have killed you. Made you suffer for it first. And as for killin' yourself…" He scoffed as if the notion offended his intelligence. "You're not the type to take the easy way out."

He could see right through her. The man knew with what kind of person he was dealing with just as Samara did herself with him.

"To be truthful, that is partially why I didn't stab Milton, but…he was just so frightened. Like a kid seeing the Boogie Man for the first time." In that split second, Milton had seen death and it had chilled him to the bone. To Samara, it had been nothing short of watching ignorant prey about to get devoured. "I saved him because I pitied him. He was no more than a mutt about to be put down in my eyes."

"It's called empathy."

Samara snorted, shaking her head in incredulity. "Empathizing with my captors. This is Stockholm Syndrome at its finest."

"It means you're starting to integrate among us. That's good."

"How is that good for me?" She snapped, frustrated with his unruffled mood.

"Because you have nowhere else to be." His voice exploded like thunder, silencing any further hostility from her. "If I let you leave these walls, where will you go? The world is a large, empty place. Surviving by yourself is a difficult task for anyone, no matter how experienced they are. Do you really not see how lucky you are? If things turned out differently you would have shared Micah's fate." He leaned in closer, a winning shine in his eyes. "You can start over fresh. You don't need to be alone, drivin' aimlessly around Georgia. You can have a purpose here."

He was guiding her over to his side. How long had he been planning this? Before or after her proclamation to fight Micah? He knew she was an outsider that could very well just decide one day that she had enough and escape, leaving behind a trail of corpses. But…

Samara wouldn't do that. And he knew that she wouldn't. Corpses only attract attention. Was he just trying to see what she would do? How she will manage to escape his prison? Was this just another test? If it was, Samara was sick to death of them.

"…What's your name?"

He frowned in perplexity. "Why would you need to know that?"

"I like knowing who I'm going to be working for. Governor…" Her lips pursed. "That's a title, not a nickname. What's your real name?"

The man observed her intently. He was reluctant to answer as his lips pursed into a straight line. Why his name was such a mystery she didn't understand. Did that make him less human than he was?

"Phillip." Samara's heart froze as her eyes widened fractionally. "My name's Phillip Blake."

Samara sat there uncomprehending, but out of the recesses of her memory came one simple phrase—Quid pro quo. She huffed with a small smile before extending her hand.

"Samara Tsosie."

The man gripped it firmly, his eyes never leaving hers, and shook it.

Samara looked around the apartment with a keen eye.

"You'll be more comfortable here instead of your old cell. It's not the Four Seasons, but there's a hot shower. Water's limited, so keep it short. We got food, water, fresh clothes."

"I kind of started to like my cell." Although, the prospect of taking a shower delighted her. She hadn't bathed in the past couple of days and she smelled of sweat, blood and antiseptics. She had been surprised the Governor had managed to swallow his food with the rank aroma wafting near him.

"I doubt that."

"Why this place?" She eyed him curiously. She wasn't fooled by this display of generosity. There had to be a catch. "You trust me so much already?"

"No, but I can't have you escorted in and out of the cells every day especially now as my people saw you as the avenged victim. Would be poor management."

Samara scoffed. Of course.

It really was all just a game to him and she was just another chess piece to be moved around in his favor. Anything that could potentially add to his gain was of significance. A stepping stone. She was that, no more and no less.

"Besides, you'll be closely watched. I'm not givin' you absolute free reign in my town, just enough so you can stretch your legs."

"I'm guessing weapons are out of the question."

He looked at her pointedly. She had to ask?

"Will I still be helping Milton, at least?"

The Governor shrugged indifferently. "He has no qualms with you workin' there. In fact, I think he likes havin' livin' company. Someone he can share his theories and whatnot. The dead, apparently, aren't so receptive."

"Imagine that…" Samara whispered to herself.

"Three days from now we're gonna hold another fight. This time a life and death one. I hope you will attend."

Meaning—you will attend. No questions asked.

Samara was surprised. She hadn't expected that particular detail. The Governor had been rather adamant in no deaths in the arena, but it seemed along with his people's cheers for her victory came a steady change. Was he really prepared to gamble with his soldiers lives?

"Who's fighting?"

"Winchester and Merle. And after that Dani will get his turn."

"Why not have Dani and Winchester kill themselves?" That seemed the most obvious choice and the less problematic.

"That wouldn't be fair to my people. As you said, they need to see justice being dealt."

Where would the fun be if he had the two strangers beat each other to a pulp? Who would the crowd cheer for?

The man never ceased to amaze her, and that wasn't a good thing.

Samara sat on the sturdy mattress as soon as the Governor left. She could wait an hour and then sneak off into the night, but she trusted the Governor's words that she was under watch. He wouldn't leave her out of his sight that easily.

With a worn-out sigh, Samara leaned over her knees and laced her fingers. She felt so exhausted, ready to sleep a thousand years and even then it wouldn't be enough.

How much longer must she feel like this? Her view of the world hadn't changed since she killed Micah. She still felt an oppressive heaviness on her shoulders, trying to push her underneath the surface, but at least she had a goal now. Even through the despairing darkness, Samara could see a small speck of light in the faraway distance.

Dale had been right—it wasn't enough just surviving. People needed a goal to strive towards in these dark times and she had found hers for the time being.

This improvement in habitation was a sign of better days. She was one step closer to her goal now.

Gasp.

Tears pooled at her lower lashes. The memories wouldn't leave her. They clung like a second shadow to her skin, never giving her respite.

"Come on bro, it'll be just like old times."

Samara bit her interlaced fingers to stop the scream of pure rage from coming out. She wanted to destroy this entire room, reduce it all to ash, but she couldn't. She had to be obedient and patient. Play the prisoner turned crony because it was the only way towards freedom.

She was going to get out of here soon. A month max and she's out. With her new abode, now she had the time to plan ahead and soon, the topic of Merle will come into play.

She just has to refrain herself from doing something stupid that could destroy her only chance.