Dude, I never noticed that season - 6 from episode 1 to 9 (except for Morgan's - Here's not here) is literally takes place in 36 - 42 hours. For some reason I thought it was a lot longer, but we're just seeing it from different pov. Now all of the sudden, we're on episode 10 - The next world.
Anyways, here we go.
Recap: Chapter 13 - "Are you sure this is not about what you need? If Daryl wasn't here, would you say that, risk your life for them?" You stagger back in surprise, hand dropping from his, taken back by his word. You can tell he immediately regrets it; he presses his eyes closed, letting out a sigh.
Recap: Chapter 18 - "But if you must have morality, then make it only a few, draw a line where you would never cross. For me, it's you and your mother. The two of you I will not risk, the two of you I will protect, and kill for, no one and nothing comes above the two of you, everything else is just another piece on a chessboard." He releases your hands, leaning back in his chair. He reaches for his coffee again, and there is a light in his eyes, and a smirk on his lips.
Take it in while you can
On the edge of it all
Feel the wind
Awake my skin
On the edge of it all
I feel it coming
Hold your breath, don't let go
I feel it coming
Hold your breath, don't let go
I feel it coming
Fire away something calls
On the edge of it all
Face the fire, let it come
On the edge of it all
Hold your breath by Ruelle
Chapter 53 - One Resourceful woman
Waiting is an agonizing test of patience, and sometimes, it's all you're left with.
"This kind of buildup is typical for an infected wound like this," you reassure Denise. She listens intently, her hands trembling slightly as she follows your instructions. The faint scent of antiseptic hangs in the air, blending with the metallic tang of blood as she gently cares for Scott's unconscious form. His breathing remains shallow, his face etched with pain, while his infected leg rests elevated on the bed. "It contains microorganisms, decaying bacteria, and white blood cells that have targeted the infection site."
"So, what comes next?" she inquires, her gaze shifting from the swollen leg to you. Despite losing her first patient a few hours ago, she now appears more determined.
You pick up a syringe from the metal plate beside the bed. "We need to drain it—this is referred to as purulent drainage." Handing her the syringe, you continue, "By draining it, the body has to fight less, which, in turn, can lower his fever and give his body a chance to recover."
She nods, her brow furrowing in concentration as she slowly inserts the needle into the wound. You've been attempting to avoid dwelling on the recent events that have unfolded—the thoughts of Daryl, the resistance against imagining worst-case scenarios. People have begun to return in groups—first Jamie, Merle, and Tobin, followed by Michonne, Heath, and the wounded Scott. Yet, many still remain absent. Many are confirmed dead, and thousands of walkers are split in half.
All you can do at this point is wait. Rick, Glenn, Nicolas, Daryl, Sasha, Abraham—your focus remains on patching up the wounded. But there's a tight feeling in your chest, as if your heart is being relentlessly squeezed.
Denise makes a face, holding a syringe filled with a milky yellow substance. "Do you smell that?" you ask, your expression neutral. "That's normal too."
She starts to speak, but both of you jump as the infirmary door bursts open with a sudden jolt. Jamie stands there, eyes wide and breathless. "Hey, Alie! Rick is here, and he's brought guests."
"What!" you exclaim, your heart leaping to your throat. You don't even fully process the meaning behind his words; all you know is your feet are moving, rushing you out of the room, leaving Denise to her task.
You know it's too early for Daryl to be back, but even with that thought on your mind, Daryl's name is on your lips as you hasten to follow Jamie, a mix of urgency and eagerness propelling your steps. Your eyes naturally seek out Rick, a smile ready to appear on your lips, only for your step to falter as you hear it… the ominous buzzing filling the air.
Your feet slow, and your gaze involuntarily shifts from Rick to the very walls that have provided safety. The growls—the walkers—you now understand what Jamie meant.
"Alie!" You turn to see Rick rushing toward you, Carl trailing closely behind. Other figures follow in their wake. Rick reaches you, pulling you into a hug. The mingled scents of sweat, dirt, and determination cling to him.
"Rick," you breathe, your wide eyes locking onto his piercing blue gaze.
"We're okay—I'm okay," he murmurs, your hand instinctively patting over his body, searching for any signs of injury. His voice remains steady, despite the likely surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. "The herd broke off. They're at the gate—we're surrounded."
Your gaze shifts to the anxious faces of the Alexandrians, seeking guidance from you and Rick. Among them, Deanna's pale face stands out, clearly shaken to her core. Taking a deep breath, you step toward her, your hand reaching out to grasp hers. She meets your gaze with a shattered expression as Rick begins to speak.
"We can hear them," Rick's voice captures everyone's attention. "Half of them broke off, but there's still enough to surround us twenty deep."
Francine interjects, her voice edged with fear, "What do we do now? We're cornered, waiting for the inevitable."
The shared sense of dread is palpable, an unspoken acknowledgment passed among all present. Fear takes root, murmurs rising as uncertainty is directed towards Rick. "If only you had left the dead where they were, we wouldn't be in this mess! If you had been here, if our men were here… so many of us wouldn't be dead!"
"Enough!" Your voice slices through the panic. "The plan worked," you assert, suppressing your own fear, addressing the anxious eyes turned to you. With a sigh, you step forward. "This isn't Rick's fault—the quarry broke open, and without Rick's plan, maybe all of those walkers and the Wolves would have been at our gate. Rick did that."
Rick's voice is softer this time, his expression unwavering as he addresses the gathering, "I know you're scared. You haven't seen anything like this; you haven't been through anything like this. But we're safe for now. The section of the wall the truck hit seems intact. Either way, the wall is gonna hold. The question is, can you?"
"Yes, we can," you interject, building on his momentum, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. The dead are out there, and we're in here, and we have each other." Pausing, you make eye contact with familiar faces. "You heard Rick—the walls will hold, and so will we. We will survive. We'll do whatever it takes to make it happen."
A resolute voice emerges from the back. "Whatever you need."
It's Amanda, her fiery red hair setting her apart from the crowd. Her two young children cling to her legs. When you tended to her injuries earlier, she seemed distraught, but now, determination radiates from her. "You saved my life and the lives of many others here. I wouldn't be here holding my kids if it weren't for you. Tell us what to do, and we'll get it done. We will survive."
As agreement ripples through the crowd, your thoughts drift to the prison, to Merle's plan—'step number 5 - Have a heroic moment'—you remind yourself. Unplanned as it may have been, your encounter with the Wolves has solidified your position among them, leaving little room for doubt.
You nod, offering a reassuring smile. "I need all of you to hunker down, minimize noise, keep our lights off at night, and ration our food until we're certain we're in the clear." Your gaze turns towards Rick, who seamlessly picks up where you left off.
"The others," he continues, "they'll be back. Daryl, Abraham, Sasha, they have vehicles. They're going to lead the horde away, just like before. Glenn and Nicolas will then walk through those gates." He affirms, matching your resolute tone, "Everything will be alright. It has to be."
Turning to Deanna, you seek her input, but her gaze remains fixed on the ground, her eyes vacant and adrift. Your hand lands on her shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. "Now, let's pull ourselves together. There's plenty to be done."
As the sun begins its descent below the horizon, elongated shadows stretch out like grasping fingers, and the air carries the weight of impending darkness, both literal and metaphorical. A knot tightens in your stomach, and panic simmers like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment.
Daryl should have been back by now. Just twenty miles... a mere twenty miles. Regret courses through you. Why didn't you go with him? To hell with this place and the people you've saved. You should have been by his side. Guilt and worry wage a fierce battle within you, each emotion digging its claws deeper into your heart.
Every passing second feels like an eternity, every heartbeat a thunderous drum in your ears. You find yourself wandering the familiar streets of Alexandria, your steps unsteady and disconnected, as if your body is moving on its own, with a detached, almost zombie-like gait. Trembling fingers bring a walkie-talkie to your lips. Desperation cracks your voice as you call out, "Daryl? Can you hear me? Please, just... say something."
The walkie remains silent, responding only with the hollow crackle of static that mirrors your growing unease. Your heart tightens, and it feels as though the weight of the world is bearing down on your chest. Dread wraps around you, threatening to suffocate you as you continue down the street. "Daryl, please? Are you there?"
Through the fog clouding your mind, a movement catches your attention from the corner of your eye—a sight that hits you like a physical blow. Your steps falter, nearly causing you to stumble over your own feet as you come to an abrupt standstill. Before you, a section of the wall is adorned with names, the black paint spells out a grim memorial for those lost. There, etched into that unforgiving black, stands Daryl's name. It's as if the ground has shifted beneath you, reality suddenly tilting on its axis.
Before you can process the sight, a surge of fury rises, white-hot and consuming, replacing the numbness in one swift motion. A young girl stands there, a paintbrush in her hand, adding another name to the list of the departed.
"STOP!" The word tears itself from your throat, a primal scream that startles the girl. The paintbrush falls from her hand, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. "Who gave you the right to put his name on that wall?!"
"I... they told me... I'm so sorry," she stammers as you close the gap between you, your hands shaking as you point to Daryl's name, as if your touch could erase it from existence.
"He's not dead, do you hear me? He's not!" The words roar from you, and she trembles under your intense gaze. "Now get his name off that fuckin' wall. Right now!"
"Karen!" a voice intervenes and through your tear-filled vision, you see Aaron's familiar figure hastily descend from the lookout post a few feet away, hurrying toward you. "It's okay. Everything is fine, I'll take care of it, alright?" he soothes, addressing Karen first, her eyes welling with tears as she stumbles over an apology she can't find the words for. "Why don't you go home, hah? Check on your mom, see if she needs any help." Aaron suggests, gently guiding her away from the tense scene.
"Dr. Alice…" Aaron's voice is gentle, and he turns to face you, his eyes carrying genuine concern. "These walls, the names... they're meant to help the community mourn, to find a way to move forward, to remember—"
"He's alive," you interject, your voice raw, your fists clenched at your sides. "And he's still out there. I know he is, okay?"
Aaron nods fervently, taking a step closer to you. "Yes, absolutely. Anyone who knows Daryl understands what he's capable of, especially out there."
You maneuver around him, making your way toward the wall. Your fingertips graze the damp black paint, the texture cold and slick beneath your touch where Daryl's name stands. There, you can feel it, just on the other side of that wall—the growls of walkers vibrating in the air, a dissonant chorus mere inches away.
As you withdraw your hand, the paint leaves a faint smudge on your skin. You glance around, searching for something to wipe it away, but Aaron's reassuring grip finds your shoulder. "Let me," he offers, producing a worn rag from his back pocket.
For a moment, a heavy silence envelops you both as you watch Aaron work to scrub away the offending mark. Eventually, he speaks up, "That day at my garage," Aaron begins, glancing back at you. "Before my first trip with Daryl, you spoke about Eric's life being on the line if something happened to Daryl out there." He recalls the day you had threaten him and his husband. "You said that if I understood what you were trying to tell me... It took me a while, but I get it now."
You don't respond directly, but you listen attentively, your gaze distant, the growls of the walkers serving as an eerie backdrop. "You tried to warn me that day, to make me see the potential consequences." Aaron's tone grows melancholic. "You knew I'd do something reckless, didn't you? Like walk into a barn full of people armed only with my good intentions," Aaron continues with a somber sigh. "You understood that Daryl wouldn't abandon me, even if it put him at risk... You were trying to make me realize it, to make me understand the stakes by putting my husband's life on the line, hoping I'd be more cautious."
He releases a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping. "All of this, it's my fault," he admits, his voice laden with regret. "Daryl wanted to keep searching for survivors, but I was curious about a cannery we spotted. That's where we got ambushed by the wolves, and I lost my backpack… inside was all my pictures of this place…" His fingers trace over some of the names on the wall. "I was naive, too eager... but I get it now."
His words offer you no solace, no sense of relief. They don't change a damn thing. "We've all made our choices, Aaron, now we just live with them," you respond, your voice heavy with unshed tears. "And you can start by removing his name." With those words, you turn from him, eyeing the lookout post, knowing all you can do is wait.
The moon hangs high in the night sky, casting its pale glow that blankets everything below in muted shades of gray. From your perch atop the lookout post, the darkness is both overwhelming and oddly comforting, a veil that conceals just as much as it unveils. You've been stationed here for what feels like an eternity, the minutes stretching and elongating, each moment drawn out by the slow, guttural growls of the walkers lurking beyond the gates.
Your gaze remains fixed on the scene below—a horde of decaying figures, their movements lethargic yet relentless. The squeak of metal against metal interrupts your thoughts, drawing your attention as you look back to watch Maggie ascend the ladder to join you. Her rifle is slung across her shoulder as she settles beside you. Side by side, you both observe the grim tableau in front of you, sharing a silence that carries volumes—an unspoken understanding that binds you together.
"Maggie, it's getting late. You should probably get some rest, you know you have more than just yourself to consider now," you gently suggest, aware of the lateness of the hour, but you can't help but wonder if she's even managed to eat.
But instead of responding, Maggie's facade shatters. She turns to you; her shoulders shake as sobs wrack her body. She reaches for you, her touch desperate as she clutches at your hand, her words coming out in gasps between tears. "I tried to get out there on my own, but… Alie, please, you have to do something."
"Maggie," you plead, your grip on her hand tightening.
"It's been a whole day, and Glenn hasn't returned. He's just a couple of miles away, and he told Michonne he'd give us a signal," she cries, her voice broken by her anguish.
Instinctively, you draw nearer, wrapping an arm around her. She clings to you, her grasp desperate and unyielding. "Daddy always said you're resourceful," she manages to say amidst her tears. "Please, think of something. I need to know if he's okay, hurt, or... or if he's gone. I just need to know."
Your heart aches for her, understanding her torment all too well. "I get it, Maggie," you murmur, your thoughts drifting to Daryl, somewhere out there, his fate as uncertain as Glenn's. "The waiting, the not knowing... it's torturous. But remember, you're carrying a life inside you now, and for the sake of that little one, you can't let stress overwhelm you—it's dangerous." Gently pulling back to look at her, though her features are barely discernible in the dark, you add, "Glenn is a survivor. He's brave and strong. He'll find a way to show you that signal, just as we'll find a way to get out too."
As you draw her back into a hug, her tears stain your shoulder, and all you can do is stroke her hair, whispering reassurances you don't even feel yourself. Beside the walkers, for a moment it's quiet, just the two of you, until it's interrupted by the creaking of the ladder once again, signaling another presence.
Both of you look over, watching as Rick graces the platform. His eyes shift between the two of you, silently absorbing the emotional scene he's just walked into. Maggie pulls away, her gaze lingering on you for a brief moment as you offer her a reassuring nod. "Get some sleep," you urge her gently. As she turns to leave, there's a fleeting exchange of glances between Rick and her. He places a gentle hand on her shoulder as she passes him, vanishing down the ladder, leaving you alone with Rick.
Rick takes Maggie's place beside you, his eyes following her until she disappears from view. Then, he shifts his attention to you. "You know, I'm with Maggie on this," he begins. "We need to figure things out. For Daryl, for Glenn, for all of us."
"You heard?" you ask, curious about how long he had been listening. "About her being pregnant too."
Rick nods, the lines on his face deepening with concern. "Yeah, I didn't want to interrupt. She needed someone who understands... female support," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.
He looks back out at the sea of walkers, determination cutting through the weariness in his eyes. "Out there, it's always a fight. But our people are survivors. Daryl, Glenn, everyone—they're fighters. They know what they're up against." He nods as if to convince himself, "the radio… maybe there's a technical glitch, you know. Maybe they're just out of range… anything is possible."
Your nod comes automatically, even though you're aware that both your walkie-talkies are charged overnight, and you had been able to communicate with him from further distances before.
Rick continues, "there are a few cars parked down the block," he points out beyond the walkers, as if you could see through the darkness. "If we could find a way to get out, lead the walkers away... we could make this place safe again."
You listen to Rick's soft voice as you keep your gaze fixed on the moon, and the very mention of leaving brings back a flood of memories. You think of Woodbury, sitting on the remains of burnt rubble, waiting and wondering about Daryl's safety. "If we can get out of here," you declare, your voice resolute, "I'm going after him."
"If you can find a way for us to get out, we can handle the rest." Rick responds, turning his attention to you fully. " We'll go after our people together, bring them home."
You let out a contemplative sound, turning your focus back to the sea of walkers below. The moonlight reflecting in your steely eyes, determination burning through you.
The weight of weariness presses down on you as you emerge from the house, the remnants of a sleepless night evident in every step. The previous hours were spent restlessly lying on Daryl's side of the bed, enveloped by the faintest scent of him that still lingers. The burden of uncertainty and grief has left you drained, a haze of fatigue dulling your thoughts.
As you step onto the porch, intending to make your way to the infirmary, your attention is captivated by a familiar figure. You pause in your tracks, your eyes fixed on Deanna. She stands with her back to you, quietly observing the Alexandrians as they go about their tasks.
"Deanna," you call out softly, the unexpected sight of her so deep in thought making you wonder how long she's been there. She turns, and what surprises you is the lightness in her demeanor, so different from the heavy days that have preceded. It brings back memories of your early days in Alexandria, filled with optimism.
She greets you warmly, "Good morning."
Your reply carries a touch of confusion, "Good morning?" Your eyes drift to a long-rolled paper she holds. "What's that?"
A chuckle escapes her lips as she hands it to you. "For you. Plans for our expansion." As you unfurl the paper, you see a detailed blueprint of Alexandria's proposed expansion. The precision of Reg's meticulous lines and annotations are accompanied by Deanna's handwriting, telling a tale of two dreamers.
"You know, I could see it from the moment I met you," Deanna begins, her gaze steady as she looks at you. "That ambition in your eyes, the way you wanted to take this place." You're momentarily taken aback by her observation, but then you remember – this is Deanna, always the sharp eyed poker player. "I told Reg that you'd be a challenge, but he disagreed. He had a feeling about you, a conviction that you were the future of this place." Her eyes wander to the blueprint, the bridge between the past and the possibilities.
"Well, look at you now," she continues, her tone a mixture of tenderness and resolve. "All their eyes are on you." Her voice remains gentle but firm. "They need you. They need you and Rick more than they ever needed me. Maybe my dreams were pie in the sky, but Reg... He believed in you. Even the day we lost Aiden, he stayed up all night designing that laboratory for you."
A sigh escapes your lips as you roll up the blueprint, the weight of Reg's memory and Deanna's newfound hope settling in your chest. "Reg was someone special— and I promise you I will do my best to honor his memory." You say, holding the rolled paper in your hand, you and Deanna stand there, a seamless transfer of hopes and dreams, a passing of the mantle from one leader to another.
"You know, your dreams," you begin, holding her gaze, "It wasn't pie in the sky. This place will always be your legacy, Deanna. Every life that will thrive here for generations to come will be because of you."
She offers you a somber nod, her fingers brushing a chain holding a silver wedding band at her neck. "You're an exceptional leader, Deanna, and an even better mother." you tell her, your words laced with genuine respect. "I'm grateful to have met your family and shared a meal at your table."
Deanna's smile is tinged with nostalgia, but as the moment lingers, you shift the conversation towards an unfiltered honesty. "But the truth is, the world has changed, and your style of leadership is not suited for this new world," you admit, not wanting to sugarcoat the harsh truth. "This reality is a game of chess where every move on the chessboard counts."
"Fortunately for us, you're one hell of a chess player," she chuckles, the sound rich and surprising in the tense moment. "Of course, the DA's daughter strikes again," she adds then teasingly. "So, what's the game plan now? What's our next move?"
"I'm still piecing that together," you respond, a touch of exasperation evident. "For now, we need to lay low, keep our activities minimal... Hopefully, the horde will move on."
She hums as her eyes scan the expanse of Alexandria, a shadow of concern clouding them, "Never have I witnessed so many walkers congregated like this."
"This's actually kinda normal." Your thoughts drift to the past, memories of the dead pressing against your walls resurfacing. "It was the same at Fort Benning, and the prison. The undead would constantly pile up at our gates, drawn by the living. They're attracted to..." Your words trail off as realization strikes like a lightning bolt.
"Oh—my—fuckin'—God!" You exclaim, turning to Deanna, eyes wide with sudden understanding. "Deanna, you're..." lost for words, you impulsively yank her petite form, slapping a jubilant kiss on her cheek. "Thank you!"
"Goodness," she stammers, touching her cheek in surprise and amusement.
You shove the rolled paper back in her hand before you charge forward, every cell in your body ignited with a sudden surge of understanding. "RICK!" Your urgent call echoes, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity, especially Jamie and Merle who are perched on the lookout post. "RICK!"
"Alie!" Without missing a beat, Jamie is on the move, gracefully scaling down the ladder, with Merle closely on his heels. Your sudden eruption of urgency appears to be infectious, prompting a few more Alexandrians to join the pursuit.
Merle grumbles, trying to match your pace, "What's gotten into her?" His tone is equal parts confusion and concern.
But you're too focused on your thoughts to answer, weaving past the trees and shrubbery, finally reaching Alexandria's small cemetery. Rick is there seconds after, pulling off his work gloves as he emerges from the crowd, pushing through the gathering audience. "What's going on—" he begins, but you cut him off.
"Do you remember when we went inside the prison to get Lori the surgical knife?!" You grasp the front of Rick's shirt, desperately trying to make him understand the intensity of your thoughts. "Do you remember how we did it? We fed them—we fed them the guts from Daryl's deer hunt."
Recognition dawns in Rick's eyes, yet he struggles to fit the pieces together. "Yes! Yes! I remember! But what's your point?"
"We do it again. We use the same strategy and give the walkers what they're here for: food," you assert, nodding towards the corner of the cemetery where the ghastly sight of the fallen Wolves catches Rick's gaze. "We have the bodies of the Wolves. We can use them to our advantage. Toss them over the walls on both sides, pulling the walkers in even directions, just enough to create an opening at the gate."
Rick's brow furrows in thought, "You think it'll work?"
"Why the hell not—the bodies are pretty fresh." you state, confidence radiating. "Let's run a trial." Your turn to your right-hand man, aka your gruff brother-in-law. "Merle?"
Merle, sizing up the situation with his ever-skeptical gaze, shrugs, "I reckon it's worth a shot." He begins moving towards the pile of bodies. "Brooklyn, lend a hand, will ya," he orders, nodding at Jamie. Rick quickly steps in to assist as well. Together, they lift one of the bodies; the onset of Rigor mortis making the bodies stiff and unwieldy.
Grunts and strained breathing fill the air as the men laboriously haul a body, securing it, and pulling it up with a rope onto the lookout platform. You're not much help with the physical task, but you follow up the ladder, overseeing the operation taking shape before you.
Merle's hunting knife slices into the deceased, the blade meeting the resistance of lifeless flesh, the process both grotesque and painfully necessary, while Rick approaches the task with a kind of grim determination, sleeves rolled up.
"Brooklyn, lookin' like you're 'bout ready to toss your lunch, huh?" Merle chuckles, always one to find humor even in the direst of situations as the three kneel over the body.
Pale-faced and queasy Jamie admits with a shudder, "Dude, I might just hurl."
Members of your core group watch with a mix of hope and understanding from below, unable to follow up the ladder, since the platform can't support the weight. From below, Maggie's eyes shimmer with hope while Michonne offers quiet support, squeezing her hand. The Alexandrians, still coming to terms with their grim reality, oscillate between horror to morbid fascination.
You can feel the tension building as you wait for the first gruesome act, and with blood-stained hands, Rick rises, unceremoniously tossing the intestines of the deceased down to the ravenous walkers below.
The response is immediate and chilling. The walkers, driven by a frenzied and insatiable hunger, surge forward in a twisted dance of limbs and moans. Their growls escalate into a deafening chorus of manic cries as they go for it like moths to a flame. Rick's face breaks into a half-smile, an expression of grim satisfaction as he sees the plan unfolding successfully. "It works," he mutters.
"Hell, it's like throwin' 'em a Sunday roast," Merle chimes in, his tone darkly humorous as he also observes the chaos unfolding below.
"Rick," you call out, your voice holding a sense of readiness.
Rick nods, stepping over the wolf's body. With that, he takes charge, rattling off orders, "Everyone, gear up, we're moving in thirty minutes. We'll make the most of daylight."
You nod, determination steeling your voice. "Merle, you're with me. We're going after Daryl."
Rick doesn't miss a beat. As you descend down the ladder, he continues barking out orders, ensuring everyone knows their part in the plan. "Spencer, Jamie, Rosita, you're on the left lookout. Tobin, Aaron, Tara, take the right. Remember, timing's crucial. Michonne, you're with me."
As you rush home, his directives become a distant echo. Your mind is laser-focused on one thing: Daryl.
The moment arrives in a blur, and you find yourself positioned at the gate, dressed in black. Your boots are tightly laced, a rifle is slung over your shoulder, a flare gun is securely tucked into your waistband, and a machete is firmly gripped in your hand.
As you stand there, you mentally review the plan one more time. The objective is clear: reach the cars, following the same route that Daryl, Abraham, and Sasha took, lead the walkers at least 10 miles away to save on daylight, instead of the original 20. Rick and Michonne will divert to rescue Glenn and Nicholas, while you and Merle will go after Daryl and the others.
Beside you, Merle stands, his prosthetic knife ready. Your hand reaches out, making contact with the cold metal of his prosthetic arm. The softest of glances is exchanged, a silent conversation held within those fleeting seconds. His nod is firm. "Stick to me, alright?" he speaks, his voice brimming with confidence. "It's gonna work."
You nod, glancing to your right at the steadfast duo of Rick and Michonne, both ready for a run. You lift your eyes to the platform above, where Jamie and the rest of the group are waiting, the atmosphere thick with anticipation.
"Everyone get ready—we have to time this right," Rick's voice cuts through the air. In perfect choreography, the group on both sides of the platform lifts the bodies, hoisting them above the walls ready to be released. Around you, Maggie, Carl, and a few Alexandrians are ready, guns raised just in case any walkers manage to breach the gate.
Time seems to slow. You crouch slightly, muscles tight and ready to spring into motion, awaiting Rick's signal. "Three... two... one..."
In unison, the bodies are released, and immediate frenzied growls fill the air as walkers flock to the offering, pulling them away from the gate. And just like that, the gate, under Heath's direction, creaks open, its sound both a signal and a battle cry. "GO!"
Driven by adrenaline, you dash through the opening, your path ahead clear, as the walkers remain distracted.
Michonne leads the charge, her katana whistling through the air as she cleaves through any stray undead. You're hot on her heels, your machete dealing with any walker that gets too close. Merle is at your back, hacking away with deadly purpose.
"Keep pushing! Almost there!" Rick hollers, his hatchet making short work of any walker in his path. Ahead, the familiar sight of the SUVs parked in a line offers a glimmer of hope. Just a bit more to go.
Suddenly, a flurry of events unfolds all at ones. A string of green balloons rises to the sky, catching your eye. And amidst the pandemonium of growling walkers and Rick's shouts, a distinct sound emerges—the ominous creek of something large, like a tree, about to give way. In mid-stride, you swivel, zeroing in on the noise's origin.
The world seems to pause as the old church's steeple, the one the Wolves hit with the truck during their attack, tips and begins its inevitable descent. The impact is seismic, a deafening boom that reverberates through the air, as the tower crashes onto the Alexandria wall with a shattering force, creating a breach through the perimeter. Dust and debris fill the air, the world transforming into a haze of chaos.
As panic sets in, your mind goes completely blank, with only survival instinct leading as you find yourself sprinting to the cars. Merle's voice is a distant backdrop to the chaos as you dive into the driver's seat. The world around seems to blur, your trembling hand going for the keys tucked behind the vanity mirror.
"And look at the mess we're knee-deep in now, 'bout to herd thousands of walkers. If this whole thing goes belly up, this place could be gone in a flash. What's the plan then? Back on the road, with a pregnant lady in tow."
Daryl's voice echoes in your mind, a haunting reminder of the stakes as you grip the keys tightly, aware that not just the safety of your community, but your future rests on this pivotal moment.
With a roar, the engine comes alive beneath your touch, just as Merle jumps into the passenger seat. You step on the gas, the car surging forward out of the parked space. Adrenaline courses through your veins as you grip the steering wheel, Merle's loud voice filtering in through the chaos, his body leaning out of the side window.
"Alie!" Rick's voice cuts in as he pulls out with another car, Michonne already in his passenger seat, shooting flares from her side window. The vibrant red streaks paint the heavens even in daylight. Despite her efforts, the nonstop gunshots coming from the community punctuate the air too loudly, overpowering the impact of the flares in diverting the walkers' focus.
"Alie, I've got to go back!" Rick's declaration is frantic. "Lead away as many of them as you can!"
Your scream of protest is desperate. "Rick!"
He looks straight at you, determination hardening his features. "I have to get to my kids. GO! JUST GO!" Without awaiting a response, he makes a perilous U-turn, driving through the walkers like bowling pins, back toward the heart of the chaos.
"Merle, brace yourself!" You scream as you push the pedal to the metal, the tires screeching against the dirt as the vehicle skids and spins in circle. Your hands manipulate the wheel, burning donuts on the ground.
Merle's body hangs halfway out of the car, his grip on the handle unyielding, his body angled outward, screaming at the walkers, "Come on, ya ugly fucks! Come at me!" His torso sways with the car's motion, but his intention is clear. "Hey, over here!" He bellows, banging his prosthetic arm against the car's metal exterior. "You wanna a bite; you piece of shit? Try me!"
As the horde of undead reacts to his calls, you hit the brake, one hand still gripping the steering wheel, you lean out of the window and fire a flare into the distance ahead of you. The brilliant red streak arcs through the air, as you blare the horn and bang, providing the horde a target, leading them on a chase.
As you drive further, you can't help but glance over your shoulder at the sight of the community fading into the distance. You wonder if Rick made it in— you know the gate was closed, but he probably jumped through the breached wall.
Even though your heart aches, you know what you have to do, draw as many walkers away as possible, giving your friends, your family, a fighting chance.
The car moves forward with deliberate pacing, the trail of walkers in pursuit, their relentless moans creating an eerie backdrop to the tension inside the vehicle. Your focus is locked on the road ahead, yet your mind is consumed by an inner struggle, a moral debate that rages within you. Beside you, Merle's good hand traces over the aged lines of an old map spread across his lap.
"We're gettin' close to 'bout ten miles," he observes, glancing up. "If we veer onto the southern highway, we can loop 'em through 495 and then double back." He pauses, when he catches your contemplative expression. "Oh, I see how it is," he teases, a wry smile touching his lips, an eyebrow arching up. "You ain't plannin' on headin' back, are ya?"
Your father's voice murmurs in your mind. "Draw a line where you would never cross. For me, it's you and your mother. The two of you I will not risk, the two of you I will protect and kill for. No one and nothing comes above the two of you; everything else is just another piece on a chessboard."
Your line isn't just drawn; it's etched, indelible. Everything else, everyone else, comes second to Daryl. But there's a tug at your heart, echoes of laughter, shared meals, a reminder of the people you've grown to care for, the bonds you've formed, and the potential for a future you've longed for—the one that included kids and a peaceful life.
You let out a shaky exhale, "logically, we should head back, right? We still have fuel, and we can try to lure more walkers away and take back our home."
"You know me," Merle's gaze remains steady, a hint of his old gruffness in his tone. "When I told ya I ain't gonna step on your toes, I damn well meant it." He pauses, as if in deep thought. "Daryl's my flesh and blood, and If it was up to me, I'd be haulin' ass to find him, no questions asked. But now we got Brooklyn in the mix, trapped in that mess… So, what's it gonna be?"
"What if Daryl's in danger and I'm not there... But what if Daryl's fine, and we lose everything we've built there?" you wonder aloud.
"Well, whichever way you leanin', decide fast. That exit's ain't waitin' for us." Merle remarks bluntly as he points at an exit sign approaching fast.
You've always prided yourself on your logical thinking and your ability to make tough choices—that was who you were, or at least, who you thought you were. But as the 495 South exit sign looms closer, you realize this was never even a choice to begin with. The car's tires smoothly navigate the turn, leading the relentless horde of walkers with you on the roundabout.
"How many flares left?" Your voice is steady, focused.
"Just the one," he grunts, showcasing the final flare cartridge as he inserts it into the red flare gun. The road stretches before you as the car merges onto the highway, revealing a mostly empty path scattered with a few abandoned vehicles.
Merle's hand extends out of the window, and with that Dixon aim, he fires the shot into an abandoned vehicle. As the interior blazes, the walkers' focus are momentarily diverted, and you press on the gas pedal, the car accelerating.
You execute a sharp turn, looping back in the direction you came from. Your actions speak louder than words; instead of turning left towards your community, you choose to turn right, the car's wheels gripping the road as you follow the trail Daryl took. Merle's laughter fills the vehicle, "Damn, doc, you're as cold as ice."
"Are you sure this is not about what you need? If Daryl wasn't here, would you say that, would risk your life for them?" Charles's question echoes in your mind. He was right. When it comes to Daryl, cold, calculated logic takes a backseat to the heart. After all, just a day ago, Daryl had made the exact same decision. "I ain't risking it. You can't ask me that!"He had screamed at Rick through the walkie-talkie when he thought you were in danger with the Wolves. He had abandoned his mission, the safety of others around him.
Your voice, firm yet tinged with emotion, breaks the quiet. "I could go on without a roof or walls, but not without Daryl. He's the line I won't cross." There is a pause, before you add, "Jamie is strong, a soldier, and Rick—Rick has faced worse. We have to believe they'll pull through."
"You ain't gotta explain to me, sweet cheeks. I can live with it," Merle nods, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You lead, and I'll follow ya."
The car continues its journey in silence, the steady hum of the engine punctuating the quiet. Your mind churns with thoughts and plans. "We can start off at the 20-mile mark they left off, see if you can track them," you think aloud.
"If I remember correctly, they were s'posed to ditch them walkers on highway 642 and split there," Merle chimes in, his fingers tracing the map's lines. "They'd have taken a detour to get back. I reckon if we take that right comin' up ahead, we might just cross paths, stickin' to their original plan."
You let out a soft hum as you heed Merle's advice, slowing down the car when you approach the upcoming turn. But as you turn, your body tenses as your eyes fall upon an unexpected sight.
"Hold up there," Merle warns, a distinct edge in his voice, his hand reaching for the gun holstered at his side. Your gaze fixes on the scene unfolding ahead—a group of bikers, armed and positioned in a formation that effectively blocks the road, their backs turned toward you.
Your fingers tighten around the wheel, the leather groaning under your grip. The bikers turn back in unison, their attention caught by the engine's growl. You ease up on the gas, bringing the car to a halt a safe distance away, keenly aware of the charged standoff.
"That sure as hell ain't no welcomin' committee," Merle murmurs, echoing your sense of foreboding. Your attention, however, is drawn beyond the bikers. Standing beside a large diesel truck are Abraham and Sasha, although Abraham's attire seems peculiar. Your heart leaps into your throat at the sight, relief and concern warring within you. But where is Daryl? Or his bike? Before you can even settle in your relief, dread washes over you as your mind begins to conjure the worst-case scenarios.
Merle squints, cocking his head. "Wait on a damn minute, is that Red? What the hell's he wearin'?"
The apparent leader of the bikers, a man with dark hair, steps forward with a swagger. His voice drips with smugness, and his words are punctuated with a cocky laugh, "Well, well, well! Looky here, ain't this a real sweet surprise, fellas?" He twirls a pair of pistols for emphasis. "Looks like fortune's smilin' on us today."
You lean towards Merle, your voice hushed, "What's our move?" But before Merle can form a response, the situation detonates, cutting him off.
Literally detonates, as an explosion rocks the scene. Instinctively, you duck your head, the concussive force echoing through the air. You slowly lift up to catch the aftermath of scattered body parts, the smell of burning tires, the sight of smoky ruins as remnants of the bikers played out like a scene from a war movie.
Pushing through the haze, you step out of the car, Merle closely following. Then, like a beacon amid the devastation, Daryl emerges from the side of the truck, an RPG launcher held firmly in his grip.
In that moment, as your gaze meets his, everything else blurs into insignificance. Heart pounding, you dash toward him, navigating through the debris and remnants of the explosion, as you launch yourself at him.
"Alie?" His voice is laced with disbelief as he catches you. "What the hell you doin' out here?" he says, scrunching his face as you smother him with affectionate kisses.
Pulling back slightly, laughter bubbles up from within you. "What do you mean—looking for you. You were gone over a day."
As you go back to hug him again, Daryl flinches slightly, drawing your attention to a damp spot on his shoulder. A fresh cut stains his vest, but he gently tilts your face back toward his, whispering, "It's just a scratch."
From a few paces behind, Merle's voice chimes in, his casual demeanor contrasting the grave situation. "Glad to see you're still in one piece, brother," he remarks, nudging aside a charred limb with his boot. "You had her sweatin' bullets, I tell ya."
Before the exchange can continue, Abraham interjects as he steps forward, "not tryin' to interrupt this little heartwarming reunion, but can someone explain what the hell's goin' on?"
Merle's eyes rove over Abraham's attire, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Well, you can start with that fancy outfit you're sportin', Red? What the hell did ya do? Rob a colonial reenactment?"
Abraham glances down at his outfit, a hint of pride flashing in his eyes. "Gotta admit, it's got a certain, uh... commanding presence, don't ya think?"
Merle laughs. "Sure, if you're plannin' on goin' musket-to-musket with some walkers."
For a moment, you're absorbed in their banter, the playful exchange a brief respite. Yet, as your focus shifts back to Daryl, reality anchors you once more. "Excuse me, gentlemen," you interject, stepping forward. "We've got a crisis back home. We need to move. Now."