The silence was killing her.

Any other time, Samara would have relished in it. Sometimes the chirping of crickets and night critters could be a bother but now it only reminded her that the undead were still around, vigilant for any signs of fresh meat.

The graves had been finished some two hours ago and now the Native sat, contemplating the events of today and the grim days to come. What was there to do now? Should they keep on fighting or was running the best option? More and more her thoughts revolve around the second option. What could the others possibly gain from staying put except for more suffering and death? They were in a harsh position. Half probably wanted out while the few wanted to fight back for today's transgression. They would not reach an understanding soon, and Rick…He will definitely want to retaliate once his senses come back. But one thing was for certain, Samara will fight. She would not give up now, even after Lori and Axel's death. Her bruised ego and sense of justice would not let her.

"What do you say, Lori? Should we fight?"

Silence was her only answer.

Samara scoffed, not surprised. Lori had avoided her like the plague, interacting only if it was necessary. Had suited Samara just fine, to be honest. It wasn't like they had had much to talk over.

"We never got along, did we Lori? We were just too different. I was the opposite of everything you were, as you were the anti of me." Her eyes sharpened as she looked at the fresh mound of earth, indicating Lori's final resting place. "To be truthful I don't think I even wanted to. We had nothing in common except for Rick and even that you hated. There was nothing between us, by the way, despite what you thought. You had a great guy on your hands. True, he's got his faults, but who doesn't? You knew that, but we all make mistakes and some can't be so easily fixed…" Her mind wandered to days past, when all they had to worry was Shane not blowing a fuse. Those were the good days. "Rick didn't kill Shane, Lori. Your son did. Carl protected Rick. No matter how much Shane wanted to be the head of your family, he could never replace Rick. Even your son saw that. I guess, in a way, you saw that too."

Otherwise, she would have shunned Rick and started a new life alongside that man. But, Samara guessed the woman's survival instincts kicked in and she lingered with the safest choice.

"I know you still loved Rick, even after all the troubles that happened between you two. I could see you sometime staring after him longingly. You must have been so lonely these past few months, but you both brought it on yourselves." Cruel, but it was the truth. Each had equal faults in how their marriage and relationship crumbled to dust. But, the yearning had still been there. "Rick loved you. I know you thought he didn't after Shane and the baby, but he still did. He was just scared and exhausted. Nobody wants to go through heartbreak a second time, you know? Plus, I think he wanted to punish you a bit with his detachment."

And now, oh how much he must regret it. As the saying went, only when something is gone do you truly miss it.

"He's not alright." That was little to say. "Rick didn't take the news lightly. I hope that he picks up the pieces sooner rather than later, because right now we don't have the luxury of grieving. We need to be united because this war is not a fantasy anymore. It's painfully clear."

As selfish as it sounded, all of them needed Rick to be in the present right now. He, out of all of them, had the most reason to remain catatonic but he couldn't. He shouldn't be allowed because without his guidance they might not make it through another attack. Like it or not, he was the leader and he had to do his duty. Grieving came later. She just hoped Rick would come to that realization as well.

"We can't die now. Not after we had to cut you open and pull out that pruny, screaming mandrake out of you…Not after I had a hand in killing my friend's wife."

That will haunt her for a while. Not just the notion of it, but the image…Samara winced. That damned woman brought the demons out. Her with her sacrifice and her screaming baby. Samara had been trying to block them out for half the day, but nothing seemed to appease her tormented mind. In the end, Samara would just have to bear through the onslaught, as draining as it was.

"You know…" She felt her lips moved before she could even stop them, the words just pouring out. Bitter and acidic they were. "I had a kid a year before the virus spread. He didn't make it." Those were some of the darkest hours of her life, and the main reason for her marriage deteriorating. If there had been a chance she could have avoided the situation entirely, she would have chosen it gladly. Nothing was worth that much suffering. "When Alice pretty much shoved your daughter in my arms I felt that nasty urge to drop her. To be as far away as possible."

Samara scoffed, a vile taste filling her mouth. "I never even got the chance—"

Like a jolt of electricity, Samara's lips closed and she instantly sobered. Perhaps it was instinct or just a lifetime of internalizing her problems that voicing out her grief felt like an alien action. Uncomfortable and unwelcome.

Stop. Just breathe.

With a few deep gasps, the tremble in her hands subsided, but the ever grey thoughts still circled above like carrion eaters after a fresh carcass. Some things were better just left in the dark.

With a heave, Samara rose to her feet. Her clothes were dirty with crusted blood and dirt. She stank of sweat and the dead. And even with all that, she still did not care. It was an everyday occurrence. Death was always around the corner.

The two graves stood forlornly under the silent gaze of the ivory moon. A taciturn observer, always watching and never sentimental. Some live some die, it was unavoidable. Only the lucky ones get to die peacefully and without pain, a rarity these days.

"Please, Lori." Samara gave the woman's final resting place one last look. A cold, but imploring one. "Don't look to me to take care of that baby. I can't do it. I'm not good with small, fragile creatures. My hands are for breaking, not caring. I got that kid out of you, as you wanted, but that's where I cross the line."

She will not be a surrogate mother, not even a friend. Samara was far too jaded to even be considered left around small children. Some of the other women will have to take that role. Carol, most likely. She was the only one, beside Michonne, with child rearing experience. Michonne was another no go case. She, like Samara, was far too down the rabbit hole. But…The least Samara could do was to protect that baby from all harm. That much she could do.

With a small prayer in her native language, Samara said her farewells to the sheriff's wife.

"Find peace, Lori, wherever you are."


As Samara walked inside the cell area she was immediately greeted by the entire group, discussing heatedly. From the looks of it they had been talking over for a while now. Nobody but Daryl and her two companions seemed to have noticed her late arrival. Merle, who was the closest to her, did not even give a second glance to her dirty countenance.

Leaning against the wall, Samara popped another painkiller. Before joining the others, she had made it a priority to visit the medical wing. Her body was killing her as even her bones felt sore. It was a wonder she could still walk around let alone stay upright. The strain of today's horrors had all but exhausted her body beyond limits. She would not sleep peacefully tonight.

"We can't stay here!" Hershel roared in his soft tones, fear written all over his old features. Understandable, since the farmer had more to lose if they went to war.

"Rick says we're not running, we're not running." Glenn countered resolutely. He paced relentlessly, a disturbed look about his face.

Merle scoffed, his arms crossed in annoyance. "No, better to live like rats."

"You got a better idea?" Daryl hissed from his vantage point near his cell. The chill in his glare was undeniable.

"Yeah, we should've slid out here last night and lived to fight another day. But we lost that window, didn't we?" Merle too displayed the same arctic courtesy. "I'm sure he's got lookouts on every road out of this place by now."

"We ain't scared of that prick!"

A peculiar shadow seemed to dawn over Merle's features.

"Y'all should be." Samara felt a shiver roll down her spine. Merle's tone was cool and as sharp as a scalpel. Even his eyes burned with a cold fire. "That truck through the fence thing…that's just him ringin' the doorbell. We might have some thick walls to hide behind, but he's got the guns and the numbers. And if he takes the high ground around this place, he could just starve us out if he wanted to."

A pin could drop and the sound would have been deafening. Everyone listened with their breaths held and their hearts frozen in their throats. This was not a scary story Merle was voicing around the campfire for entertainment. This was the truth and, sometimes, it was more terrifying than fiction.

"When the Governor returns, he's gonna kill me first." Merle looked at them all with nothing reflecting in those deep blue pools but the simple truth. "Michonne, Samara, my brother."

Samara felt her skin pinprick. She knew that that was the only end for her if caught, but hearing it out loud didn't fail to curdle her stomach. And the others…Olive clashed with blue and Samara knew that if she would ever be subjected to watching her friends, Daryl and Rick die before her…Samara swore that what was left of her humanity would fade away like a forgotten memory. She'd rather use her last resort plan than to go through that and live for tomorrow.

"Glenn, Carl, the baby, whoever else is left…" Merle showed no mercy as he listed them all. "He'll save the sheriff for last so he can watch his family and friends die ugly. That's who you're dealin' with."

The tension in the air was suffocating. Merle's words had the desired effect as everyone sat on edge of theirs bearings. Samara could see the change. Fear was a powerful incentive and now most of them wanted to leave. She could see it in their furtive gaze.

"Lori and Axel are dead." Never once did Hershel raise his voice, but the effect was all the same. "I said we should leave. We can't just sit here, not anymore."

"We need to speak to Rick." Dale intervened. He was a simple man. He looked towards their leader because without Rick, most of them would be lost. "We can't do this without him."

"After what happened down in the Tombs…" Glenn grimaced at the memory of it. "I don't think he's in a listening mood."

Confusion settled in her bones. Rick was in the Tombs? Why? The only thing that moved down there were the stray walkers. What the hell was he doing there and why had he been left alone? All those questions and no one to answer as everyone turned to Merle once he began speaking.

"You want my advice? You keep everyone inside. Nobody goes out unless it's for a good fuckin' reason. Y'all still got enough hidey-holes for sentries in case the Governor is feelin' bloodthirsty again."

Glenn nodded determinedly, his spine straightening. In these moments, Samara swore that the kid grew a few inches taller. Confidence was indeed a great booster.

"Four's enough. Dale, myself, Sasha and Andrea will take the first shift. I know everyone is tired but we have got to pull through tonight. Carol, Beth, I want you two to move all the food and water we still have left here. In the morning, you're going to make an inventory of it. Alice and Hershel, that goes for the medicine as well. We don't know for how long we'll be closed off to the outside and I'd rather we stay in one place for the time being. Carl, stay here with your sister. Tyreese, Samara and Michonne bring all the guns and ammo from the armory in here as well as the suits. We're going to need them close. Daryl and Merle, you bring the supplies you found in Hampton here. The sentries will be your cover."

Like ants they dispersed, everyone intent on their assigned task. It was better this way. Everyone kept themselves busy, instead of brooding over their uncertain fate as well as their recent losses. It didn't escape Samara's notice that some of them sported puffy, red eyes.

Samara had passed the grieving process. Her conscious was almost clear concerning the two dead, but what bothered her more was the fact that she could not rest. She was so tired that she was literally grabbing at straws of energy to keep herself upright. She knew that Glenn's request was rational, but for the life of her she did not know if she could follow through.

As if sensing her plight, Michonne materialized near Samara. "Where were you?"

"Digging."

The woman paused before nodding understandingly. Something was off though. Michonne's body was tense, her eyes furtive and alert, and there was an eerie sheen over her eyes. Samara might have attributed it to adrenaline if she had not known the woman, but this was something else and Samara recognized it at once. PTSD was horrible when it made itself known. The Native sympathized and that old feeling of hopelessness came back to bite her as the only thing she could do was watch and wait until her friend's madness passed.

"You look like shit."

Samara would have laughed is she had the strength for it.

"I feel like shit. Everything hurts."

"…I'll handle the guns with Tyreese then. You rest."

We both need some rest.

"I can't. Not yet." Samara showed the woman the tiny plastic bottle she nicked from Hershel's supplies. "These'll keep me on my feet."

Any other time Michonne would have frowned at her old habits coming back to life, but now there was only emptiness in those coffee orbs. She was somewhere far away, where Samara could not reach even if she tried.

"Michonne, what happened with Rick?" The Native was seriously concerned for the man and his current mental state. After Lori, the last thing Rick needed was to be left to wander on his own.

"He woke up and left for the Tombs."

"Just like that? Nobody tried to stop him?"

"Not when he picked up an axe."

Samara cursed foully. The sheriff must have left to vent his madness in the only way possible without repercussions—killing walkers.

Goddammit…If he dies down there…


With practiced flourish Milton wrote down names upon names of people he knew. Alex, Nancy, Morrison, Daniel, Erica…All neighbors and friends enumerated for the sole purpose of war.

As per the Governor's order he was putting together a list of Woodbury inhabitants capable of holding a firearm. To his utter disapproval, he had to write down the old and infirm and children as young as thirteen. In the man's view, even children were perfectly capable of shooting a target. And what then? What if they kill someone? How will they ever live past the notion that they had taken a human life? A burden of such a scale could might as well destroy them both physically and mentally. They were the adults. They were the ones meant to protect them, not send them into a war zone.

How did it come to this, Milton thought sorrowfully as he became more and more engrossed in the curves of his letters. Not a month ago Woodbury was just a happy little corner in this world of despair, nothing could have disturbed their peaceful lives…and then Samara came. Not that she was at fault, but Milton could see that she had been the cataclysm for future events. It was because of her that her group came searching. It was because of that group that the Governor ended up in this vengeful, mad state. It was because of that anger that now they were at war and making lists for the Reaper himself.

Butterfly effect…

The pen fell and Milton massaged his heavy brow. They had not even started this battle and Milton already felt the heaviness of it, crushing his brain. He did not wish to be here, stuck in this situation, but the man pacing before him would not let him leave. They had been discussing and arguing since first daylight, and still Milton had not managed to dissuade him from this bloodied path. Nothing will be gained from it, only death and fire.

"Why are we doing this, Governor? Sending children to war…" Even the spoken words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Over what? A building? Your pride?"

The man paused in his methodical pacing. His lone eye assessed Milton with a hawk's intensity. Even now, Milton could see the destruction that woman had caused. Was there even Philip anymore? Or did the Governor reign supreme now?

"Milton, you know I value you above all the others and not just for your expertise. You are my friend, but this is not somethin' you can change." A shadow fell over his features, setting them in stone. "This war will happen. These people have done enough harm."

"Haven't we also done enough? Can't we just agree to live as neighbors that don't speak or see each other?" Wouldn't that be easier?

The man scoffed derisively. "You're naïve, Milton. We can't ignore each other, no more than we can ignore the biters. It's in man's nature to fight. After yesterday, if those people are smart, they'll pack up and leave. If that happens, I will not pursue. But they got to leave, one way or the other."

Somewhere in the back of Milton's mind there was a slither of a doubt. Governor wasn't the kind of person to just let it be, even if it was out of his sight.

"Why didn't you try to negotiate with them? You promised you would."

"I did and I tried as promised, but they wouldn't listen. They're bloodthirsty."

Another doubt, yet he wasn't crazy enough to voice it. In the end, what other choice did Milton have than to follow his friend, his leader? He was not brave enough to face this world on his own, and so, he remained in the Governor's shadow, led to an uncertain future.

But as those dark blue eyes roved over the names, the acrid taste became more prominent. Milton feared even mouth wash wouldn't be enough to get rid of this tang. No…this was not a taste caused by a certain food or drink. This was the taste of fear.

"You can't let Noah train." The man's voice sharpened with distress. "The boy has asthma. He can't run more than ten yards before losing his breath. What good is that to you?"

"If he can hold a gun, he's fit."

As he looked over the list more attentively, as more and more names passed his alert consciousness, their images came to mind with all their imperfections and troubles. So many there that had no reason to pick a gun. So many that couldn't fight because of pains or birth defects or old age.

This can't be happening.

All these people will die if he didn't do something, Milton just knew it. Either they will shoot themselves out of pure inexperience or get shot by the likes of Samara and Merle. Milton held no illusions that the two would spare anyone from Woodbury, and neither has Woodbury given them any. They were the type to shoot first ask questions later, if any. There will be no mercy, no peace not as long as they just stood by and let this war happen. Milton had to do something because nobody else will. But even the thought of that had his stomach in knots. He was neither a fighter nor a leader. He shouldn't be the one to stop this madness, but what other choice was there? The Governor had a one track mind that led to bloodshed, the others in Woodbury either didn't care, relished the thought of blood and death or were simply too scared to raise their voices. Nobody was left but him.

The man swallowed the lump in his throat and noticed deprecatingly that his throat had gone extremely dry. His hands trembled and Milton knew that he was scared to his very bones. But even so—

The question came out in a wave of incomprehensible blurted words the first time, leaving the Governor with a look of mild annoyance and amusement. Milton had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves and his embarrassment and rearrange his words until it was understandable in human language.

"What if I went?"

"To the prison?" Governor scoffed derisively, most likely entertaining the thought of skittish Milton walking over there through a throng of biters.

"I could talk to them. Break a truce." But even as he spoke it he himself doubted his accomplishment. "No more bloodshed is needed."

The disdainful look the Governor gave him actually cut deep.

"They'll stick you before you open your mouth."

"I'm not a threat. Merle and Samara know that. They'll listen to what I have to say without violence."

Merle viewed him as a harmless little kitten, he even said so. The weakest of the litter. And Samara was probably not far away in her thinking. He didn't blame them, Milton himself knew he was weak. He could never best them or anyone in a fight. That moment with the Hispanic, that had been pure luck. Milton's hands had been shaking so badly it had been a miracle that he managed to deal a mortal wound.

But what if, on the off chance, both decided not to listen and send his head back to Woodbury in a box? No, Milton shook his head of such a paranoid thought. It was possible that Merle would turn deaf, but Samara would listen. Hearing both sides and maybe coming to an agreement would be preferable to full out war. That much Milton knew she was reasonable enough.

"Why do you believe that, Milton?" The look the Governor wore told Milton what the man thought of his ridiculous plan. "Because I let her be your little assistant? Because she drank your tea and ate your sandwiches? That woman is a predator. She was surveyin' you, your strengths, your weaknesses and tagged you as easy prey. A mouse to toy with. She even nicked off a scalpel from you because you started trustin' her."

Milton bit his lip. He didn't want to believe that. If Samara had been like that she would have never come to him. She would have never given him those words of comfort. But then again, what did he know about her? He wanted—no, he needed to believe she was a rational person. That she would not shun him away when the moment they met face to face once more, and that maybe she would keep him safe from the wrath of the others. Milton was not foolish enough to think there won't be some backlash for yesterday's actions, but he did hope they would not unleash their anger on him.

Even so, Milton still had to do it. What if's and possibilities were not enough to stop him. This conflict needed to end, and Milton needed to know if it could be resolved peacefully.

"Governor—No, Phillip." Perhaps appealing to the man underneath the Governor's skin would have better results. "Let me talk to them before you march to war. We could avoid killing entirely and maybe reach a common ground. It doesn't have to be blood. Please. I know you lost Penny—"

A dark shadow with promises of agony loomed over his features. It even set Milton on edge, but he had to keep on talking lest he lose his courage.

"I had hoped that my experiments would bring her back, but what's done is done. We hurt them deeply and in return, they killed some of our own. But it has to end there. If we go to war for something as insignificant as territory or power, we are no more alive than those things outside feasting on flesh. We're still human, Phillip. Please, let me try." I have to try.

His leader's silence stretched on, seemingly infinite.


There was blood everywhere.

Pooling on the floor. Smudged against the walls. Painted across his hands. Spattered on his shirt. Everywhere…

But Rick did not mind as he sat motionlessly on the floor, his eyes staring out into space vacantly. Nothing seemed to disturb his eerie tranquility, not even the stench of the undead lying butchered around the corridor hall. There wasn't much Rick remembered, except for all consuming pain and anger. It had practically left him blind and deaf to everything around him, his only focus the undead, hacking and slashing at them until there were none left standing. The dark halls were finally quiet now.

The man did not know how much time had passed here in the darkness. He vaguely recalled that Glenn had approached him at one point, but Rick had sent him away. He had not been in any state of mind to listen to the younger man's pleas. He still wasn't as his thoughts jumbled and dissipated only for a whirlwind of memories to assault his fragile mind. And to flee from those ugly thoughts Rick swung his axe with all the fury and power he could muster. It was his only escape, his only break from this harsh, cruel reality.

Lori was dead.

He was not ready to admit that. Everything was too raw, the wound gaping in his chest and revealing no heart but a mutilated organ weeping sorrowful blood. She dominated his every waking thought. Only her. Only the memories they shared. Every touch and kiss. Every smile and tear. Every argument and laugh. They were his punishment for not being there for her when she needed him. He had left her alone in her most dire hour, focused on other problems that should not have been his in the first place. She had died alone with two strangers while Carl had to watch helpless as his mother withered away.

In the peak of his insanity Rick's thoughts turned to his dead friend. Had this been Shane's revenge? Had he reached from beyond the grave and taken Lori away from him as punishment for taking his life? If so, then he had accomplished his task. Rick was in pieces, Carl was dead inside and that…thing…that was Shane's by blood was still alive. A constant reminder of his failure as husband and man, and Lori's deception.

Are you laughin' now Shane, wherever you are? Lookin' down on me and thinkin' what a fool I am?

How he wished that he didn't care anymore. That all his sorrow would just float away and leave nothing but emptiness. Rick wanted nothing more than to burrow somewhere deep and dark and ever come out again. No other people, no worries, no stress. Just himself and a hollow mind and heart.

The former sheriff knew that above ground danger was lurking and that his group was worried of every moving shadow, but he could not join them. He could not lead them. He had not even been able to protect his wife, how could he be able to save all of them? They had been wrong. He was not a leader, had never wanted that title. He had just wanted to be with his family. The others would just have to go on without him, fight or flee, whatever they chose. Rick would remain here, in this tomb. This should be his grave; this dark, damp place with no light and no hope. Just a slow, endless sea of walkers until he finally collapsed from exhaustion and died. That was the least he deserved.

Ring.

Rick doesn't notice the faint sound, so engrossed in his dark thoughts.

Ring. Ring.

A twitch. The grieving man lifted his head slowly, a slither of awareness crawling into his being. What is that?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

On and on the sound went and like a walker, Rick sluggishly shuffled towards it, his grip firm on the axe. Past the maze-like corridors and into the boiler room where the beguiling ring became louder with each step. The room was barren save the large pipes and boilers, but in the corner he peaked a small wooden desk. The piece could barely be discerned with all the yellowed out papers and scattered pencils, but the small, black outdated telephone sitting on the edge was unmistakable.

Cautiously, as if waiting for the phone to jump up and bite him, Rick edged towards it. The ringing hadn't stopped, instead became more and more insistent, almost like it needed to be picked up.

Gingerly, Rick answered.

"Hello?"


Samara tsked.

It still wasn't enough, even with the NASCAR track ammunition and guns. The Native's eyes surveyed the contents of their armory and was left with a bitter taste. The bullets from the track only fit the guns from there and the supply wasn't infinite, in actuality very limited. Counting yesterday's shower of bullets, it left them with half capacity. If another attack of that kind happened again, they would have no choice but to abandon the prison. Sticks and stones don't surpass bullets and guns.

—No matter how they looked at it, even with the new additions, they were still outgunned and outnumbered.

Samara sighed as she massaged her tired features. Nothing seemed to draw in their favor…

Outside, everything was quiet. They hadn't seen any movement since the shootout, not living either ways. But Samara didn't doubt Merle about the scouts posted around the roads and prison. The Governor was a meticulous man, he wouldn't let them escape. Not that easily, at least.

She did not know what to expect anymore. The Native had not anticipated the man to attack so randomly and so soon. It was clear that the Governor had destabilized them, and perhaps that had been his intent. Watch them run around like fearful rats. Or considering the man's sadistic nature, he had just wanted to see them suffering. Soon, the group would have to confer again and talk about their retaliation. They could not sit around and wait for that bastard to come back with even more soldiers. They had to think, they had to plan and fast. The noose around her throat tightened with each passing day sitting around and waiting.

A crunch.

"Couldn't carry any more than this."

Samara did not turn. She did not even look at him as he settled beside her, but she did feel him. His proximity pin-pricked her skin and sent a light shiver down to her tailbone.

"Doesn't matter if you brought twice as much. I don't know if it'll save us."

"You think we'll lose?"

"With Rick how he is, two people dead and our morale down…I don't know."

Once she emerged out of her cell this morning, Samara had given herself a few minutes to observe everyone as they ate breakfast. Despairing was the only attribute she could have given the mood this morning. Everyone kept their heads low, their talk consisted of short whispers and everyone jumped skittishly at the faintest sound. They were all on edge, waiting for the Governor to knock on their door once more and rain death upon them. They were wretched and they were scared. How will they ever win this fight when the future looked so dim?

The others needed hope. A reassurance that they will survive through this bloody storm, but the man capable of that was not here. He was down in the Tombs doing god knows what. And Samara doubted he would recover anytime soon.

"Morale ain't down." Daryl frowned. "Our hope is that baby's still alive. That's what matters."

Samara scoffed, disillusioned by his words. "It's a baby. It'll die pretty quickly. Nothing that small survives this world."

"She will. Little Ass-Kicker ain't that weak. She's got Rick's blood in her."

The scorn on her features was almost scalding. "I very much doubt that."

"Fine." Daryl spat, annoyed by the look she was giving him as if he was an idiot for even saying that. "She's got Shane's and he was a fighter despite how crazy he turned out to be. We ain't dead yet, Samara. As long as we stick together we can fight through this. I know we can. Ain't nothin' we can't handle a long as we don't break apart."

The woman frowned at his words. The way he was looking at her—

Daryl cleared his throat once he understood how his words could have been interpreted. "I meant the whole grou—"

"I know what you meant."

Without another word, Samara turned and walked away. She needed to be as far away from him as possible right now. Phantom sensations were licking at her mind and stirring her black heart, and Samara would not have it. They were supposed to be dead and buried.

But luck was not on her side today as Daryl dogged her heels.

"What's wrong with you?"

So many things and no time to tell. "Doesn't matter what we do, we just get kicked in the teeth at every opportunity."

"That's life, but we get up every time. We ain't weak and that asshole ain't gonna be the one to bring us down."

Samara stopped once she reached the entrance of her cell. The thought had been dominating her mind since yesterday and she had had no one to talk to with.

"…Maybe leaving doesn't sound so bad."

She threw a tentative peek over her shoulder to assess his response, and the hunter didn't fail her. Aversion and weariness contorted Daryl's frown.

"Not you too." The man sighed, almost tired to the bone of this topic of conversation. "We ain't leavin'. That's that. I don't wanna die, but I ain't gonna run. Not with my tail tucked between my legs."

Samara rolled her eyes at his bravado. It was not about cowardice, but survival. Besides, she hadn't been ruminating over this option for herself. "I meant everyone else, not me. Most likely Michonne also. We got a bone to pick with the Governor. You can all go."

Except for herself, Michonne, Rick and maybe Glenn, there was no one else that had a reason to fight the Governor. They had not suffered at his hand, nor have they lost a loved one. Perhaps if they were only a few, they could sneak inside Woodbury undetected and cut off the snake's head. The way Samara saw it, an assassination might be their only salvation.

"Now you're just talkin' crazy." Daryl scoffed at her idea, his brows twisted angrily. "Nobody gets left behind. You know me better than that. What's with you? You were the first to fight against the Governor, now you want us to run?"

Samara glowered. "That was before I had to watch a pregnant woman being cut open and letting her die for the sake of a squealing piglet. I've done a lot of bad things, Daryl. I can be brutal and vicious when I have to be, but…" She sighed, fatigue overcoming her once more. A few hours of sleep hadn't been enough to wash away yesterday's pains. "This was not something I want anyone to experience. It's worse than torture."

She'd rather have the group far away than to go through brutalization and abuse in a small, dark room or beatings and dismemberment or the death of a loved one while they watched powerless to stop it.

"Lori asked you to, right?" Daryl's tone softened, a slither of sadness blending into his usually gruff voice. "It's not like you did it because you wanted."

"Doesn't matter. Her blood is still on my hands and Rick…" Samara winced, dreading the day Rick climbed out of his hole. She was afraid of what he might do, insane or not. "Does he blame me?"

"No." Daryl said resolutely. "He ain't all up in there right now, but I think even he understands the choices."

"Choices…" Samara sneered, hating that word. "Choosing between the greater evil and the lesser is not a choice. Whatever you do, it's still bad in the end. Why did I have to be the one to choose? I didn't ask for it. I have enough on my conscience without this heavy burden."

"It ain't your fault that Lori went into labor and it ain't your fault that she got shot." She knew his words were rational, but all it did was give Samara more grief. "Those assholes that caused all this are miles away, probably raisin' an army as we speak. Death happens, Samara. We got no control over it."

No, Samara just let the woman die, that's all. Whichever way she viewed it, Samara had a hand in Lori's death. She had been the one to decide in the end.

The silence between them stretched, as neither knew how to handle the other or even if they should. Even the air around them was electrifying. Samara wished she could reach out to the hunter, but knew that it was a false dream. The man had no love for her anymore. She was surprised he was even talking to her.

"Daryl…" Samara licked her dry lips. She needed to tell him, because there might not be another chance. She just hoped he would listen. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Merle."

Daryl took a deep breath, and Samara feared that he would shout at her again. Shun her. Rebuke her. But he did neither.

"I know why you didn't and I understand." Those blue eyes appraised her with deep weariness and despondency. "I would've done the same if I'd been in your place."

Eh?

Her brows almost reached her hairline.

"You…do?" The shock was obvious. She had not expected him to even try to understand her reasons. This was not the outcome she had predicted.

The man's brow furrowed deeper. "I ain't as ignorant as you think."

"I didn't—" Samara shook her head, dissipating that thought. It wouldn't do good to start an argument. "Nevermind."

Daryl gave her one last look before he departed and to Samara's utter disappointment, he did not look back once. Then again…what did she expect? That he would jump into her arms? She had refused him, quite adamantly. But he understood. For that she was grateful.

And somewhere, deep within her heart, a spark of hope ignited.


The day had passed relatively smoothly and the sun was beginning to settle. Samara sat in one of the pigeon holes they set up to survey the outside of the prison, rifle and walkie-talkie across her lap and a crooked cigarette between her lips. Despite her alertness, she was bored and in pain. Yesterday's actions had not subsided her ache, instead she woke up with her four-fingered hand swollen, her dislodged arm tingling with pin stabs and her back tenderly rigid. Not to mention the black and blue bruise across her cheek.

A goddamn never-ending cycle of pain.

Hershel had advised her to rest throughout the day, but she could not afford that luxury. They needed every able body prepared and not sleeping away the day. Hershel had given her a tiny dose of painkillers, unaware that Samara herself had her own stash hidden on her person. It was better if the old man stayed in the dark lest he tried to take them away.

Out here in the quiet, Samara had time to think. In the end, it would be better if the group left. Live to fight another day because if they remained, the Governor would mow them down. There were other places, maybe even better places than the prison. This new world of theirs was not stationary. To live they had to keep on moving. That was something the others could not understand. They still held the mentality of when civilization still ruled this earth—a person needed a steady home to be content. Those foundations did not apply anymore.

If the others left, Samara would torch the prison. Just out of spite. If the Governor wanted it so badly, he could rebuilt it from scratch. And if he tried, she would wait and watch. Always in the shadows, she would stalk her prey with absolute patience. And when the time to strike came—days, weeks, months even—he would forever remember it.

Samara was still contemplating if an ambush would be better or picking them off one by one until only the Governor was left standing when she heard a repetitive bang on the stairs. Looking over the railing, rifle in hand, she discovered Hershel waddling up to her nest. Even from her vantage point, Samara could plainly see his exhaustion from the grueling climb.

Fool, he should've waited until my shift ended. He was no spring chicken anymore.

"What is it?"

The old man looked up, the echo traversing like a wave over the empty stairwell.

"It's Rick." Hershel heaved, wiping the sweat from his skin.

As if a switch had been flicked, Samara felt her insides twist and knot. Oh gods…was he dead? Her hands started trembling with anticipation as she descended the stair two at a time to reach the farmer. The demons danced at the edge once more and she was left with a burning sensation in her stomach.

"He didn't hurt anyone, if that's what you're wonderin'." Oh, thank the gods. Despite her relief, Samara almost wanted to slap the old man for making her worry. "I think the only person he's hurtin' is himself." The man looked her deeply and Samara knew she would not like what he would have to say. "He believes someone is talkin' to him through a telephone."

Her brain paused.

"…What?"

Oh gods, he went batshit.

The old man nodded gravely, sharing her disbelief. "Said he heard a phone and when he picked it up, someone was on the other line. A woman. She has a group and said she'd call back in two hours. I offered to wait with him, but he refused. He's slippin', Samara."

No shit.

Samara raked her hair. This was bad. Worse than that. Rick had hit the point of delusion in his grief. A dangerous slippery slope. One wrong step and they might lose him forever.

"We have to do somethin'."

Do what? Everyone dealt with grief in their own way. If this was Rick's path then Samara was reluctant to intervene. Right now, the Kentucky man did not need a helping hand. He needed to sort out his own heart. The loss of a loved one left the mind and spirit in disarray and only Rick could mend those broken pieces. Samara herself locked herself in an abandoned house and contemplated suicide when she realized her husband was dead, and Hershel…well, he pretty much kept his undead family in his shed. Neither Hershel nor Samara's words said would quicken that recovery process.

"I think…it would be best if we left Rick alone until he decides to join us again." Despite the words, Samara still felt like she was abandoning the man to his own demons. There was nothing she could do. Whatever words of comfort she could provide would fall on deaf ears. Rick was, by no means, in any state to listen to anyone's advice. He would, most likely, react violently.

"We can't leave him down there, Samara." Hershel pleaded with her, frustrated at her passivity. "The man is a danger to himself. What if he hurts himself?"

Samara very much doubted that scenario, but if it would appease Hershel's troubled thoughts—"Then sedate him and confine him to his cell."

"That would make it even worse."

Samara sighed, wary. This conversation was going nowhere. "What do you want from me, Hershel? You came to me for a reason."

"I want you to speak to him."

"…I can't."

Confusion marred his features before a spark of understanding lit up his faded blues.

"Because of Lori?"

Samara felt her discomforts accentuating. Her dislocated arm now pounded with soreness.

"I don't think what he needs right now is to see me since the last time he did, I was covered in Lori's blood. Besides, I don't know what to tell him. 'I'm sorry I had to kill your wife for the baby'?" That isn't even his. "We can't just chat over how she died like a couple of Gremlins. No, Hershel. Rick will come to us when he's ready."

He had too. Might not be today or tomorrow, but he will eventually.

But Hershel did not seem to share her thoughts.

"That might be too late. We're pressed for time." The man's entire body seemed to sag a few inches as tired shadows casted over his face. Since yesterday, Hershel seemed to have aged five years, his wrinkles more prominent on his features. There was an exhaustion about him that exposed the sadness and fear in his soul—the future was uncertain and he was afraid for his daughters.

"I know and we have to do what's best." Samara sighed, sharing the man's fatigue. She, too, was wary of what the future held, but she could not back down now. "If Rick can't go on, that doesn't mean we can't. You, Glenn, Daryl, Tyreese…You have to be strong. You can't let the others panic. They need hope that we'll get through this and that can't happen if they see your crack. It's bad enough that our leader broke, we can't have the others follow."

Those four had to carry this group. Already people looked to them for guidance and strength. They had to be the rock in the storm, and guide them all to the safe shore.

"What about you?"

"I'll be here, following your lead." She said firmly, before Hershel got any strange ideas. "I'm good at that. You won't see me breaking so easily."

Hershel nodded, understanding. It took a while for the man to descend the stairs, but Samara listened to the clang of his prosthetic with an air of uncertainty. What will happen with this group, she wondered sullenly.

The last of the sun's rays vanished behind the glass window, leaving Samara in the semi-dark to ponder this troubled dilemma.


Her steps were usually as silent as a mouse's. A habit she picked up since the world turned upside down. Useful in every situation, but right now Michonne's legs would not cooperate. They dragged and shuffled, but it did not seem to bother the woman. In fact, she could not even hear them past the turmoil in her mind. Her thoughts were aflame, her mind a bee's nest giving her no respite. Yesterday's destruction had set forth an avalanche of emotional suffering and Michonne felt like dying. There was no escape from it no matter how much she tried to ignore it, and she desperately had.

She knew that monster had been there, raining bullets upon them. Could have almost felt those spidery fingers on her skin once more and it had taken everything in Michonne's power not to lose control. The urge to rush headlong and cut that bastard's head off had been so tempting that she almost stepped into the fray, dooming herself.

And once it was over, she was met with casualties sparking the woman's hatred to levels beyond comparison. Anger had crawled into every nook and cranny of her being, filling her with a charred, soul-sucking wrath that it even frightened herself. With no one or nothing to vent it one, Michonne had had to bottle it up and keep a straight face. She could not break down at this dire hour. She needed to be strong, a pillar, even though inside she was withering away into a husk.

And it was starting to show. Day by day, she was weakening. She ate less, barely slept, and preferred the company of her own demons than the reassuring presence of friends and lovers. There were dark bags underneath her eyes, her constant state of hyper-vigilance was to the point of both physical and mental exhaustion, and the memories…they haunted her with no respite.

And she was so tired of it.

Michonne could not do it alone anymore. Yesterday, she had almost fallen into Tyreese's arm and never let go just for the fact that he gave her a reassuring smile. Ever since she came back from Woodbury, the mere sight of him had her running. She could not endure his affections, not after what happened. She was tainted now. If he knew…what if he pushed her away? She could not fathom that anguish. Michonne would rather turn cold and unfriendly and maybe then he would understand that he was not welcome. She'd rather Tyreese think that she was a bitch than to know the truth. It was too painful. She will never recover from it. This depravity will forever be on her mind, sometimes all too blatant and sometimes hidden, but always present. If he learned the truth, they will never be the same and she dreaded that moment.

In those moments of nihilism, Michonne wanted nothing more than for him to comfort her, to hold her in his arms and protect her from herself. Michonne wanted to share her burdens before they toppled her and she never recovered, but she resisted. She would not burden others with her sorrows.

—All of that reached its peak.

Her dragging feet stopped. Like a moth to the flame, she stood outside his cell, feeling every nerve afire. The desperation inside her was close to the spilling point, only quelled by the sight of him.

With shaky fingers she pushed aside the drape used for privacy and entered his darkened cell. She could hear his deep breathing, sound asleep on his back. He looked so peaceful, even in this troubled times. Tyreese had the quietest slumber Michonne had ever seen. While some fussed and snored, he sat still as a statue sometimes giving the impression of a corpse and his slumber was as deep as a bear's. Michonne had always found this particular trait of his charming.

Her feet pushed her forward until she hit the edge of his bed. With no more restrain, Michonne crawled next to him, laying down on his side. While somewhere in the back of her mind, the touch repulsed her, she knew this was Tyreese who would never hurt her. This was a good man.

Tyreese loved her, he was not him. He would never beat her. Abuse her. Humiliate her.

Rape her.

Tears pooled at her lids and spilled over her cheeks, wetting Tyreese's shirt.

As if sensing her misery, Tyreese woke like a spark. At first confusion marks his features at the body next to him, but the little light in his cell uncovered his visitor's identity.

"Michonne?" He wondered groggily, barely understanding. "What are you—"

He never got to finish as Michonne grabbed a handful of his shirt and silently sobbed. The dam broke and Michonne was too exhausted to care anymore. She just wanted to purge all her sorrows from her body.

In the darkness, Michonne could not see the sadness and futility across Tyreese's features. He too suffered knowing that there was something heavy plaguing Michonne's heart and that there was nothing he could do to help his paramour. Watching from the sidelines as she repetitively rebuked his loving arms, chose isolation and rushed headlong into auto-destructive behaviors. Knowing that she was suffering without any way of knowing how to help, as day by day passed and she progressively got worse.

But now, Tyreese let the woman cry her eyes out. Rain or shine, he will never leave the woman behind. If Michonne ever felt like the world was slipping from underneath her, he will be there to keep her upright. He will shoulder her burdens in her stead and help her through this dark forest she was traversing without direction. Even if she never revealed her demons, Tyreese will try to help her in any way possible even if it was only through a hug or a cup of coffee.

His arms wrapped around her gingerly and held her close to his chest. Only now he noticed how much he had missed the warmth of her body. She fit perfectly against him.

This he vowed, he will walk alongside her until she finally saw the light again, no matter how long it took.


Sweat dribbled down his skin. Rick's pupils were so dilated that they almost sucked in the blue of his eyes. The tension was almost palpable in the dim boiler room and the fear pungent. His nails had sunk into his palms and he could feel a faint wetness about, but it did not derail him from the voice on the other end of the phone. It sounded so familiar now as if a veil had been drawn aside for the light to shine in and it scared him to the bone.

"H-How do you know me?"

His throat was dry and his voice trembled with anxious anticipation. There was a foreboding feeling blooming in his gut and he felt like retching. He almost wished the person on the other end would never answer, but the morbid curiosity would not let him hang up the phone.

"Because we know you, Rick." The woman with the twang answered. A pleasant voice, soft and gentle, but the static in the phone morphed it. "The people you were talkin' to today—that was Amy, Jim, Jacqui."

His heart clenched as the fog pressuring his brain lifted. That voice…he knew that sweet voice. How could he have not recognized it sooner?

"Lori…?" The tears pooled in his eyes. "Lori is that you?"

The static increased as the tears gushed forth.

"What happened, Rick?" She sounded so sad, mournful for his own despairing state. "Baby, what happened?"

All that anger, all that fear and loneliness, the denial and desperation broke him down. They morphed together into a ball of anguish that completely tore his heart in half. Rick bawled with nobody to hear him but his deceased wife. His body sagged to the ground, having no more will to keep himself upright. The only thing keeping him sane was clutching that phone handle until his fingers hurt and turned white.

"I loved you." He sobbed, his voice jagged. She needed to know now, before he lost her again. "I couldn't put it back together. I-I made a deal with myself. I would keep you alive. I'd find a place, and then..." He had been afraid. Of getting hurt once again. "I couldn't open that door. I couldn't risk it. I was gonna keep you alive. Carl, the baby and then..." By then it had been too late. Everything had crumbled to pieces around him. "I thought there'd be time. There's never time…But I love you." And he always will despite everything. "I should have said it."

So many things he should have said, so many things he should have done, but Time waited for no one. Now, the only things left were memories and regrets.

"Rick, you listen to me." Lori's voice broke and wavered. "You have a baby. Our baby. And Carl. And the others. I love you, Rick." The static became so loud that Rick could barely hear anymore. "You have…be there…them. Rick? …Ri…ck? …R…"

The line went dead.

With heavy limbs, the man rose to his feet and gently put the handle down, no longer needing it.

The silence that ensued was profound.