Sick
A lot of things were happening at once. Ingrid had just heard a voice exclaim, "Oh, shit," and, turning around, saw a cluster of obviously-not-Walkers staring at the group. There was no time to occupy themselves with their new guests, however; Hershel was going to bleed out if they didn't do something about his leg. Rick and the others hauled the unconscious veterinarian onto a platform and began the race back to their own cell block, the prisoners following.
Ingrid watched in numb silence as the group raced against time to tend to Hershel's injury, with Rick meanwhile in a heated argument with the prisoners, who weren't about to play nice with the group.
They didn't know. How could they? They'd been in jail this whole time. They hadn't been exposed to the outside- for all they knew, the apocalypse hadn't happened. But it wasn't her responsibility to handle the prisoners. She was all too happy to stay behind and help with Hershel; she wasn't about to be stuck in a dark, confined space with a bunch of convicts. No, thank you. Ingrid instead helped Carol keep pressure on Hershel's bleeding leg, while the others who remained behind scrambled to make treatment easier.
Time ticked on. Ingrid paced the cell, torn between worry about Daryl (stupid, she knew) and concern for Hershel. After a tense exchange between Carl and Lori, there followed a terrifying moment when Lori gave Hershel mouth-to-mouth, after which he started, scaring everyone in the cell. Carol and Glenn had gone on some unknown expedition, and all they could do now was sit and wait.
At long last Rick and the others returned, with two of the prisoners in tow. Rick had a cold expression on his face, and as he laid down the ground rules, Ingrid found herself shuffling up to Daryl. "Everything all right?" she murmured. He grunted something in response.