This chapter feels like an homage to Shane and Dale, and their yin and yang relationship.
I don't know why, but I cried writing this chapter. I'm such a big baby.

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you

No, I don't wanna fall in love
No, I don't wanna fall in love
With you

What a wicked game to play
To make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do
To let me dream of you

Wicked Game by Ursine Vulpine

Chapter 31 - Domino Effect

"What in God's name are you doin' in there?" Hershel hisses, and his hands shake as he struggles to process the gravity of the situation before him.

"My job," you reply, frustration lacing your voice. "What the hell do you want from me, Hershel?" The atmosphere in the room is thick with tension, and Hershel looks visibly distraught. However, your expression remains stoic and unyielding.

"As a doctor, you took the Hippocratic Oath. You swore to protect life. Yet, you're puttin' 'em down in there like an animal!" Hershel's voice is firm, his words heavy with moral conviction.

"I have to protect those who can make it, and for those who are beyond saving, I am giving them a merciful death," you respond calmly, even though your insides feel tight, as though one wrong move could shatter you.

"Think about what you're sayin'." Hershel shrieks, pulling his mask off his face. "You're playin' God with people's lives." You bite your lip under your own mask as you watch Hershel's face contort with emotion. You know that he is a good man, kind and devout. But you are exposing the harsh reality that keeps the zombie world at bay, shattering the illusion that everything will be okay. And now, Hershel is confronting the darkness.

"Alright, that's enough," Rick interjects, stepping between the two of you. You turn to face him, your expression resolute as you meet Rick's masked gaze with an unwavering stare. Charles stands nearby, leaning against the door with his own face covered, silently witnessing the unfolding drama.

It's a domino effect. The chain reaction begins with a single event: a rift between you and Herschel. Initially, Herschel agrees to self-quarantine with the other healthy residents in the administrative section of the prison. However, when Doctor S falls ill, Herschel abandons his post to come and assist you. Although you feel relieved to see him, you still try to keep him out. Despite your protests, Herschel refuses to leave you to handle the situation alone, proving himself to be a good man through and through.

Together, the two of you work to establish strict protocols for how to approach the sick. When you enter Jamie's cell, you act without hesitation, hooking up a glucose bag and administering some of your last bit of antibiotics and pain medication through the drip connected to his arm. But when Herschel walks in and sees what you have done, you can see the disapproval etched on his face. He wants to say something but holds back, knowing the relationship you share with Jamie. His silent reproach does not escape your notice; you understand all too well what he is thinking. With your medical supplies dwindling, Herschel expects you to ration what you have left for the children and elderly members of the group.

If this were the world before the apocalypse, you would agree with Herschel's sentiment. Jamie is young and strong, and his chances of survival are higher than most. However, life is no longer as it once was. You can't risk Jamie's life, and you are not about to make that call. As a doctor, you were faced with a moral dilemma, and you know that you have been compromised.

The first verbal altercation between you and Herschel erupts when you begin distributing your remaining medication to the young and strong members of the group. While you understand where Herschel is coming from, you know the reality of the situation. The Spanish flu is a harsh and unforgiving virus, and without modern medicine, the chances of survival are slim.

In your mind, it makes more sense to use your remaining supplies to help those who have a real chance of making it. With half of your supplies already stolen by an unknown thief, the situation is dire. But Hershel remains unwavering in his beliefs. Even when Glenn, his own son-in-law, stumbles into your death row, sweating profusely with a fever, Hershel's position does not budge. It's clear that he still clings to his belief that the weak and vulnerable should be prioritized over the strong, even when the odds are stacked against them.

The second disagreement between Hershel and you occurs when you implement a mandatory lockdown for all sick individuals. Hershel's disapproval is palpable as he hisses at you, accusing you of treating the sick like prisoners trapped in the dark confines of death row. Despite his objections, you stand firm, arguing that the safety of everyone, including Hershel himself, is at stake. You know that if one of the sick individuals were to die and turn into a walker, the danger they posed to those who were also sick and unable to fight back is too great to ignore.

It's frustrating to feel as though you are the only one who sees the gravity of the situation, but as you stand toe-to-toe with Hershel, you realize that he is not going to back down. His stubbornness is a part of him clinging to the world before, how things used to be, and he is not going to change his mind simply because you have presented a logical argument.

The final straw is drawn when you find yourself reluctantly carrying out an act of mercy killing. The heavy moral implications of such a decision aren't lost on you. But as you witness the anguished face of Ms. Jackson – a woman with a failing heart who had been among the group that migrated from Woodbury – and feel the weight of her trembling hand clasping yours, bloody tears streaming down her cheeks and words choked off by the flood of her own blood, you know that you have reached a breaking point.

The decision to end her life is not an easy one, and your hand trembles as you prepare to take the final step. You know that there is no turning back once the deed is done, and the weight of the moment bears down on you immensely. Despite the gravity of the situation, you wait until the last possible moment to grant her mercy.

Unable to talk, she clings to the cross on her neck, and though you are not a religious person, you brush her hair back and pray for her as your tears stream down your face. With your fingers still in her hair, you align your wrist with her ears and press the button on your hidden blade. The blade extends with screeching force, and the knife slices through her ear canal into her brain with a sickening crunch. At that moment, you feel a part of yourself die along with her.

As your father's voice echoes in your head, your body goes cold yet steady, a whisper of his deep voice murmuring that morality is nothing more than a social construct and that sometimes, you must do what is necessary.

When your next patient faces the same fate, you don't flinch or shed a tear, and you carry out the mercy killing without a second thought. Herschel is the only one to react, almost having a heart attack when he stumbles upon what you are doing. He immediately calls Rick and Charles, and as he drags you out of your makeshift sick bay by the arm, you let him.

"Dr. Hershel," Charles's deep voice chimes in, cutting through the deafening silence. "Dr. Hart knows what she's doing. Whatever she's doing in there, it's because it's necessary," the soldier's words come as a desperate attempt to defend you.

But Hershel shakes his head in adamant disbelief. "Rick, this can't be the way," he protests, turning to the former leader. "What she's doin' is wrong. Wrong in so many ways."

"He's right, Alice." Rick speaks up in soft agreement. "We can't pull the trigger just because they're dying. It's not right." Ever since he held your hand outside of that dilapidated pharmacy, there has been mutual respect between you and Rick. After the governor's reign of terror, there is now a level of trust as well.

"You know what's truly wrong?" you retort, taking a step forward. "Dying a slow, agonizing death, drowning in your own blood, pissing and shitting yourself as you lose control of your own bodily functions. Where is the grace, the dignity, the honor in that?" You shake your head in disbelief, wondering why you're even out here arguing when every second counts.

Hershel looks at you pleadingly, his voice trembling with emotion. "They know what's happenin' to them," he says. "They can all see what you're doin'. It puts fear in 'em, deep in their soul. But it's not just their bodies we gotta protect; it's their humanity too."

You may see the world for what it truly is, but that doesn't mean you're blind to the immorality of it all.

Hershel's words hang heavy in the air, his desperation and hope evident in his voice. "I still think there's a plan," he says, turning to Rick. "We can't let this world win. We must work to keep our humanity."

You want to scream at him, to ask him what humanity means when you're burning dead bodies out in the back, and the smell still clings to you.

"You think this is a test?" Rick says, a flicker of hope in his words. You know he's trying to hold onto something, anything that would give him a reason to keep going, to build a future for his son. You've seen him focus on his crops, putting on the same rose-colored glass that Hershel wears, pretending that the dead aren't walking the earth.

Hershel nods, his fatherly voice ringing out in the stillness. "I think life is always a test, and we're bein' tested now."

"If this is a test, you're both failing hard," you say, your voice tight with emotion. "We can't hold hands and sing kumbaya. We have to act, control everything that happens in there because all it takes is one wrong turn, and this will all go south." You can't afford to be idealistic, every decision you make could mean the difference between life and death.

Charles nods in agreement, and you feel relief knowing that at least someone understands your perspective.

"You're a bright and resourceful young woman." Hershel says, his tone optimistic. "But you gotta make the right choice, 'cause this can't be it. This can't be what survival's all about. We gotta be able to live with ourselves after."

When Rick nods in agreement, you feel a surge of anger and frustration rise up inside you. "You don't think I know that?" you hiss, taking a step towards them. "You think this is easy for me? I'm putting my feelings aside because survival means making hard decisions. And those decisions ain't hard for me because the right choice is the one that keeps us alive!"

Your words seem to hit Rick like a ton of bricks, and you watch as he stumbles back, his shock and confusion written all over his face. "Shane," he whispers, drawing the attention of Hershel. When you look towards Charles, he mirrors your confused expression, but you both sense that something significant has just happened.

Rick's eyes remain fixed on yours, and for a moment, you can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. "I had a friend… his name was Shane," he says, his voice distant and lost in memory. "He said those exact words to me once. He was a survivor, made the hard calls even when others disagreed with him. We didn't see it at the time, but he was right to make those calls."

As Rick looks from you to Hershel, it's as if a battle between light and darkness, what he wished the world was and what it actually is. You can see the hope and idealism in Hershel's gaze, the belief that there's still some measure of goodness left in the world. And then there's you, the voice of reason and practicality, the one who understands that sometimes the hard choices are the only ones that can be made.

In the end, you know that you're not the leader of this group anymore, and besides Jamie, all the sick are their people. Ultimately, the decision is up to them.

But it seems like your words have triggered something in Rick, and he looks up at you with a resolve and determination that you hadn't seen before. "Do what must be done," he says firmly.

"Rick!" Hershel's voice booms, clearly devastated by Rick's words, and stepped up to argue with an urgent fervor.

"I'm sorry, Hershel," Rick apologizes, but his words leave no room for argument. "Figure out a way to work with her, but she's in charge in there," he adds, shaking his head before taking a step back.

You don't wait a second as you turn towards the makeshift infirmary, their eyes boring into your back. "Come on," you say softly to Hershel. "We don't have time for this, every minute counts." Despite how tight his shoulders are held and the grief in his eyes, he follows.

After all, morality is for the weak, a social construct for the herd. The rules have changed, and survival is the only thing that matters. In this world, there's no black or white, only shades of gray.

As the cold shower cascades down your weary body, tears stream down your face, mingling with the constant flow. You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle the sobs that rise up from your chest. You feel exhausted and emotionally drained, with defeat and heartbreak etched deeply into your bones. As a doctor, you have seen firsthand the devastation of diseases, watched helplessly as countless lives slipped away. But you know what you did today, what you were forced to do, has left you forever changed.

Throughout the day, you have held your emotions in check, focusing solely on the task at hand, running from one prison cell to the next. It is almost dawn when Daryl and his team return with the much-needed antibiotic, and as you catch sight of him through the glass window of Death Row, something inside of you shatters. Your entire being has been waiting for this moment, for him to return to you safely.

But when he stands in front of the glass, you can't bring yourself to meet his gaze. The man you love, so hard and rough around the edges, yet kind and compassionate at his core. You can't help it as shame and disgust threaten to overwhelm you, wondering if you are even worthy of touching someone like him after what you did. When he catches sight of your tear-streaked face, he almost tries to break through the door to get to you. With a heavy heart and teary eyes, you beg him to wait until you can clean and decontaminate before he sees you again.

As you dry off and get dressed, your face swollen and eyes puffy from the tears, you realize that you have lost 17 people and had to mercy kill 7, including Doctor S. You have maintained absolute control throughout the ordeal, and everything has gone according to plan, except for a few who turned into walkers while locked in their cells as you and Hershel got overwhelmed by the sheer number of the sick.

When Bob, an army medic, walks in with the antibiotics and offers to take over, you breathe a sigh of relief. Before you walk out, you grasp Hershel's hand, and you can see the sorrow in his eyes. When you whisper your apologies, you know he will never be the same again either.

Dragging your feet, you make your way back to your prison cell, your wet hair tied up in a bun, your skin clean but raw from scrubbing. As soon as you come into view, you see Daryl sitting on your bed, his knee tapping impatiently. The moment he sees you, he jumps to his feet and strides over to embrace you. His presence is warm and strong, like a protective shield, and you feel safe in his arms.

Daryl holds you close, pressing you deeper into his neck. "Hey, it's okay," he tells you. "You did what you had to do." You can't fight back the tears as you realize that someone must have already told him about what happened. You imagine that it was Rick or Charles who told him to come and see you at the gate when he arrived.

As he leads you to bed, you have no strength left to resist. You haven't slept all night, nor have you eaten anything except for the oatmeal you had before the first sign of the virus, not that you had the appetite after burning all those bodies. As Daryl settles onto the small prison bed beside you, you rest your head on his chest. He is dirty and grimy from the day's trip, but you don't mind. In fact, it's almost comforting not to smell the scent of the disinfecting soap you used.

"I killed them," you whisper, your voice filled with shame. "They were already dying, but I made it quick." The blood of those you had to mercy kill still seems to stain your hands.

Daryl begins to speak, his voice soft and soothing. "There was this ol' man, Dale. He was with us early on. Got bit by a walker on Hershel's farm," he says, pulling you even closer to him as his fingers gently caress your hair. "He was sufferin', and I had to put him out of his misery."

You look up at him with tear-stained cheeks, and he continues, "Ain't nobody's hands are clean no more. I'm sorry it had to be you, sweetheart."

"This can't just be it, Daryl," you echo Hershel's words, grabbing his other hand that's resting loosely on your waist and pulling his knuckles to your lips. "It's gotta be about more than just survival. I want us to live." The idea of just surviving day by day, fighting to stay alive, seems unbearable. You want more than that, you want to have a real life, like the one you dreamed of in your youth.

"And we will," he promises you, his eyes filled with determination. "We'll find a way to live." As you lay your head once more upon his chest, you sense the rhythmic beat of his sturdy heart, soothing you like a tender lullaby. You realize that with Daryl back in your life, you now have so much at stake, and you will do anything to protect that.

Charles stands frozen, staring at the menacing tank that sits on the front yard, his mind filled with paranoia warning him of impending danger. "I told you so," it whispers to him. Soldiers line up by the governor's side, and part of Charles wonders if he should go talk to them, as a fellow jarhead. But then the paranoia flares up again like an alarm, urging him to get out, get his people, and leave. Just as he is about to act on this instinct, the governor swings his sword at Hershel's neck.

Heart pounding and with his AK14 slung around his shoulder, Charles sprints towards the entrance of the prison with only one person in mind. Daryl moves towards the door as well, almost comically in sync. Face to face with the hunter, Charles almost pushes him out of the way to get to the cell block where he knows Dr. Hart is sleeping.

"I got her," Daryl tells him, and with a hesitant nod, Charles backs off and turns towards death row, where Jamie is also sleeping. Panic sets in deep inside him, and just as if that panic is personified, there is a sudden BOOM, and the whole building shakes. But Charles doesn't pause, doesn't stop. He turns towards the entrance of death row and almost slams into a very gray-looking Jamie, who is still not fully recovered from the flu. Jamie's AR15 is lifted, but when he sees Charles, he lowers it instantly.

"What's going on?" Jamie asks.

"The governor is here, and we're under enemy attack," Charles says, turning back the way he came, and Jamie rapidly follows. "You know the drill: evacuate and ensure the safety of Dr. Hart. Engage only if necessary."

"Yes, sir," the younger man replies.

It doesn't take them a long time to reach the entrance, and Charles feels immense relief when he sees Dr. Hart looking confused and her face swollen from sleep. "Where is your rifle?!" he asks, noticing that her hand is empty, except for the machete at her hips.

"It's at the eastern guard tower," she answers. Jamie crouches down by the entrance, taking formation, and just as Charles is about to chastise her, there is another BOOM, another fire from the tank, and debris starts to fall from the ceiling.

"Alright, stay alert, stay focused, and let's move out!" Charles gives the order, and just like they had done during the fall of Fort Benning military base, Dr. Hart grabs onto the back of his tactical vest while Jamie pushes out.

It has been a long time since Charles has been deployed to an active war zone, but as they move outside, bullets fly in every direction and the chaos outside brings back memories. As Charles watches the tank slowly moving forward, crushing Rick's Garden – the same garden that Charles had helped dig, weed, and plant – he knows that the prison is lost.

The air is thick with smoke and the sound of gunfire, but Charles keeps his wits about him. He has trained for a moment like this, and he is not going to let his training go to waste. Tapping the trigger of his gun with lightning-fast speed, he fights alongside the group.

Suddenly, Charles feels Dr. Hart let go of his vest, the weight of her arm leaving his back. It happens so quickly that he instinctively pulls back, diving after her and yanking her back to take cover behind a nearby car.

"Daryl!" she screams, fighting to break free. Charles notices that the hunter has stepped back, separating from their chain of formation. Daryl is instantly back to her side, lowering his gun and taking cover. Charles lets her go, finding it difficult to watch her as she literally throws herself at Daryl.

"What are you doing?" The panic in her voice is palpable. "No, absolutely not!" she protests when she sees the look on Daryl's face.

"Don't worry. I'm right behind you, sweetheart." Daryl says, his hand on her cheeks. "Gotta help Rick, get Carl and the baby outta here."

"Daryl!" She shakes her head, gripping his leather vest, her knuckles white.

"They're my people. I can't just leave 'em like this. I can't," Daryl says, ducking his head lower as bullets start hitting the car. "Don't worry 'bout me. Got Merle watchin' my back. We're right behind ya."

When the hunter looks up at him with a pleading look, Charles knows what he is asking him. "I got her," he says with a nod, he always has her.

"Head east, 'til ya hit a big damn tree. Can't miss it." Daryl says to the soldier and turns to the doctor, who already has tears in her eyes. "We're right behind you," he reassures her.

"Daryl, please," she whispers, teary-eyed, and launches herself at him, fiercely pressing her lips to his. Charles looks away, feeling a tightness in his stomach.

"I love you," Daryl whispers, pressing his forehead to hers. "I'm right behind you, sweetheart."

With a nod, Daryl backs back, pulling her finger off his vest. Without wasting any more time, Charles grabs her, pressing her head down from the flying bullets, and moves forward to catch up to Jamie, who is also taking cover behind a school bus.

"Jamie, clear ahead," Charles gives the command, and with a nod, the soldiers move in formation.

As Charles moves forward, Dr. Hart stumbles after him, looking back at the man she left behind, her hand gripping his vest tightly. His heart thumps in his chest as he dodges the hail of bullets, their target being the fence that lies just ahead of them, close enough to take cover in the woods beyond. Suddenly, he sees a bullet whiz dangerously close to the doctor's head, and his heart almost stops.

Out of nowhere, a woman appears, firing in every direction with panic in her eyes. Charles assumes she had been hiding and is now firing wildly at anything that moves, including him and the doctor.

Suddenly, he hears it before he feels it - a loud "woosh" followed by a sharp pain in his neck. Charles feels a warm trickle of blood running down his back as he stumbles forward, his legs giving way as he falls to the ground, taking the doctor with him. As they hit the floor, Charles feels his strength disappearing away.

Dr. Hart's scream is more deafening than the gunfire. There is blood splatters all over her face from the bullet that pierced his neck, and she rises to her knees beside him, her eyes wide with fear, lips trembling.

"No, no, no, no, Charles!" she cries, her hand pressing hard on his neck to stop the bleeding.

Every single day, she reminded him why he loved her. She would sit outside on the prison bench or on the steps, engrossed in a book while the sun hit her face. Her black hair would shine like the Milky-Way, her skin smooth with a hint of tan, and her pink lips would be slightly bitten as she read something complicated that he couldn't even pronounce. Her dark eyebrows would pinch lightly together as she concentrated, making her heartbreakingly gorgeous to him, though he knew he might be biased.

But her outer beauty wasn't why he loved her; it was everything else. Her sharp mind, easy humor, witty personality, and kind soul made her sincerely special. She was so capable and a natural-born leader in ways that he, a soldier with years of experience, couldn't even imagine. Yet all he wanted to do was protect her and stand by her side.

Charles knew he wasn't over her, no matter how much he tried to act like her presence didn't affect him. Every day, she was within arm's reach, but she never looked his way. It was always about Daryl, as if he was her inner compass and her eyes always pointed towards him.

He knew they had gotten back together the moment he saw her. He didn't need Jamie's big mouth to confirm it. The way her eyes shone, and her smile could make the stars blind... he had never seen her so radiant and happy before.

The pain he felt was indescribable. He had experienced heartbreak before, had been divorced and even lost his children, but this was different. It was as if someone was slowly slicing a thin piece of his heart every single day.

To watch the woman he loved love someone else so fiercely and in a way he didn't know was possible was excruciating. He told himself to be happy for her if he truly loved her, but actually doing so was easier said than done.

He had hoped to find a flaw in Daryl, something that would make him believe that he wasn't the right man for her and give him a reason to fight for her. But the more he observed the hunter, the more he realized that he had no chance. Daryl didn't blink, and whenever she was around, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

Charles knew this was it. She would never be his.

"Alice," he whispers her name for the first time out loud, choking on his own blood as he looks up at her. "My Alice," he repeats. He had never said her name out loud before, always her last name or title. In the beginning, it was because of respect. As a soldier, titles and ranks were all he knew. But as he got to know her, as he fell in love with her, he was afraid that if he said her name, he would confess his love right there and then.

"Look, you're going to be okay," she says, her voice shaking as her hands tremble. "I'm going to take care of you. You're going to be okay," she repeats over and over, but he know deep down that it's not true.

"I love you, Alice," he confesses, his voice breaking as he struggles to speak through the blood filling his lungs. Despite his fading vision, he forces himself to stay conscious a little longer to express his love for her. "You're the reason I kept going," he whispers weakly. "Promise me you'll stay strong."

She lets out a heart-wrenching sob, nodding her head as tears stream down her face. He knows his time is up, his ticket punched. Charles looks up at her, taking in the redness in her honey eyes and the tears falling from her face in waves. He is grateful that it's her face he sees as his last sight, her hands holding him as the darkness encroaches like a tunnel vision.

"I..." A smile plays at his lips as he tries to voice his love for her once again. "I... love..." But his words are broken and raspy.

God, how he loves her.

What a life he has lived.

Maybe in the next life, she will be his, and she will choose him.

It's as if a heavy blanket has fallen over you, enveloping you in a profound sense of disconnection and dissociation from your surroundings. You feel like an observer of your own life, watching from a distance, while everything happens around you. It's as if you're trapped in a movie, a passive bystander to the chaos of the world.

Perhaps, you're still in Iraq, where the war rages on, and the constant sound of gunshots is the soundtrack to your life. The idea of waking up from this dream is tempting, but deep down, you know it's not true. The moment is jarring, with warm blood on your hand and your best friend's lifeless eyes staring back at you. As you pull the chain off his neck, the weight of his dog tag in your hand is a tangible reminder of the reality you face.

Numbness washes over you as you stare into Charles's unblinking eyes. The commotion and violence of the prison fade away, leaving you trembling, gasping for air, and uncertain of what to do next. The echoes of gunshots and banging continue to ring in the distance.

The color red overwhelms your senses as you look down at your blood-stained hands, Charles's dog tags also coated in crimson. The woman in front of you is a stranger, a member of the Governor's group, but you can hardly register her presence. The grief and rage inside you are all-consuming, a storm that threatens to tear you apart.

All you see is red. Everything is red. Red. Red. Red. Red. RED!

Your hand instinctively moves towards the familiar weight of your machete, a weapon that has become an extension of yourself in this world of the undead. The woman's words, tears, and gun mean nothing to you in this moment. Consumed by your pain and desire for revenge, you are in a daze.

"I didn't mean to…" the woman pleads with you, her voice trembling as she attempts to explain herself. "I didn't mean to shoot him," she says, her eyes filled with regret. But you cannot hear her or see her. Your grief has taken over.

You take a step towards her, your machete glinting in the light. The woman backs away, raising her gun in warning. "Don't come closer," she says, her voice strained. "I will shoot, I'm warning you, I will shoot." She weeps. You keep moving forward, fueled by your grief, and nothing else matters.

The woman's gun is trained on your head, her finger on the trigger. "Please don't make me do this," she begs as the weapon shakes in her hand, but you do not stop. You raise your machete, ready to strike, and she fires. The gunshot rings out, and in that same instant, you are tackled to the ground with full force. Your body hits the dirt with a thud, and pain shoots through your limbs. For a moment, you are disoriented and confused. Then, another bang rings out, and you see the woman fall backwards, her gun clattering to the ground beside her.

The shock of the moment jolts you out of your daze, and the pain from the tackle reminds you that you are still alive.

"Are you outta your goddamn mind?!" Merle's voice cuts through the chaos, pulling you up and his eyes searching around for the rest of your group. "Brooklyn?" he yells out urgently.

"Over here!" Jamie calls out, his voice faint in the distance. You see him trying to cut an opening in the fence, his hands working frantically to make an escape route.

But then, the sound of bullets fills the air again, and you know that you are not safe yet. Merle ducks down, pulling you with him as he raises his gun and takes aim at the attackers.

"We gotta move, now!" Merle shouts, his eyes narrowed in determination. "We can't be campin' here for too damn long, not with these assholes breathin' down our necks."

When there is a gap in the hail of bullets, Merle grabs you by the back of your jacket, pulling you forward as you move towards the fence. But as you approach, you come face to face with Jamie, who is fighting off a group of walkers that have stumbled in through the opening he just created.

Merle gives you his back as he takes on the gunfire that seems to come from one side, and you swing your machete with anger and grief at the walkers coming at you the opposite side. But the numbers of walkers are growing, drawn to the loud noise of the gunfire, as they slowly bleed towards the prison.

"Get that Doc outta here, I'll hold 'em off and buy you some damn time," Merle says to Jamie, his eyes focused on the last few remaining gunmen of the Governor's people, pausing in between to swing his hand blade at a walker in his way.

"No, we're getting out together," you say. Jamie, still sick and exhausted from the flu, grabs hold of your hand, but you yank away from him, refusing to leave without Merle.

Merle doesn't look at you; his focus is solely on the walkers that are closing in. "Brooklyn," he howls at Jamie, his voice strained with urgency. As if taking an order, the young soldier moves to grab you again.

"Merle, you stupid asshole, we're getting out together!" you scream, your eyes blazing with fire as you glare at the young soldier, daring him to touch you. Using your anger and rage as fuel, you swing your machete at a nearby walker.

As Merle continues to fight off the walkers with deadly precision, he turns to you and laughs. "Step number 5, remember that? The heroic moment," he says, his voice laced with humor. In the background, the gunfire rages on, and there's a loud boom as the tank goes up in flames.

"No, no way, I'm not leaving you!" You scream, your voice cracking with emotion. Jamie's arm shoots out, gripping around your waist tightly, pinning you back to his chest. Your legs kick out in protest, but he holds you firm and drags you. "I'm not leaving him!"

Merle turns towards you, his eyes meeting yours with a sense of urgency. "Just go," he urges, his voice low and intense. "Let me be the goddamn hero," he continues, his focus now on the walkers who are closing in around him.

Desperate, you look around, only to see Charles' lifeless body being devoured by two walkers. The visceral reaction inside you is overwhelming, and you fight the urge to vomit. "Come on, don't do this to me, don't fucking do this, Merle," you plead, tears streaming down your face as Jamie drags you towards the fence. "I can't lose anybody else. You got my back, and I got you, right? How are you gonna watch out for me if you die here?"

Merle watches your tears fall with regret in his eyes, slowly lowering his weapon as he leans back against the tree that has been his cover. "Ain't gonna make it, Doc," he admits, slowly pulling his jacket aside to reveal a bullet wound on his abdomen. His eyes drift towards the dead woman lying at his feet, the same one who had shot Charles, and it hits you like a bolt of lightning.

A wave of shock and horror washes over you as you realize that Merle had taken the bullet meant for you when he tackled you. Tears stream down your face as you stare at the wound, shaking your head in disbelief. "I'll fix you up, I'll find a way," you promise, reaching out to him again. "But you can't die here, okay? You can't. You're my family now, and I need you."

Merle was not someone you ever thought you could feel fondness towards, but he grows on you like fungus. Maybe it's because no one has ever really been on his side, no one has ever watched out for him. But ever since the day you stood up for him in front of everyone, he has been making efforts towards you. Despite all the wrongs that have been done to him - the abuse from his father and all the crap life has thrown his way - he has been taking a chance and reaching out to you, trying to make a connection.

"Well, shoot, when ya put it that way..." he says with a faint smile playing on his lips as he stumbles towards you. You grab his hand tightly, pulling him with you towards the opening.

You know he has always been the kind of guy who wants to die on his own terms. Only Merle can kill Merle, but he is entrusting that decision to you now, even though he knows it might not end well. As you feel the warmth of his blood soaking through his clothes, you are glad that he is taking that chance with you.

As you make your way out of the fence, Jamie meets you, his strong arm sliding to support Merle. You realize that you are the only protection they have as the three of you move forward. Scanning the horizon, your heart sinks as you spot hordes of walkers migrating towards you from the east. You know that heading in that direction would be unwise and unsafe.

"We have to go north," Jamie says with a firm voice. "That was Charles' plan, trust me, that's where we must go."

With a nod, you follow Jamie's lead as he guides you and Merle towards the north. Glancing back, you search for any sign of Daryl, but all that meets your eyes is Charles' motionless body. A new flood of tears hits you, realizing what you are leaving behind, and you slowly bring the dog tag that was still in your hand to your neck, its surface soaked in his blood. You slide it around your neck, biting your lip.

As you fight off the walkers, desperate thoughts of Daryl keep creeping into your mind. You know he is capable, and if Merle is here, he must be out too. You try to reassure yourself, but the worry eats at you from the inside. He had told you to head east, but you now realize that it's not a safe option. You know you need to find a way to let him know where you are.

Moving deeper into the forest, an idea suddenly pops into your head. You remember the first time Daryl took you hunting and how the two of you had made love in the cozy confines of a small tent in the woods. You also recall the unique symbol that Daryl had used as his tracking system while hunting, a letter V with a slash through the middle of the letter, to make sure that he didn't get lost.

With determination, you turn to a nearby tree and carve the symbol into its bark, hoping that Daryl will see it and know where to find you. "Find me, Daryl," you whisper to yourself. "Track me." The worry still lingers, but you cling to the hope that Daryl will find you soon.

Notes:

Hershel and Alice kind of gave me Shane and Dale vibe, with the whole what's wrong and right thing.