Big announcement – as you know, starting Season 7 and all the subsequent seasons of The Walking Dead haven't been the best. So, from here on out, I'm going to rewrite all the seasons to better fit the story. Of course, some/most of the elements from the show will remain, while others will be completely changed or written out. We'll also draw inspiration from the comic while adding my own unique twists.
Anyways, here's the chapter you've all been waiting for.
P.S. Please listen to the song I've posted; I've put a lot of thought into it to add flavor to the overall chapter/reading experience.
Oh, Father tell me, do we get what we deserve?
Whoa, we get what we deserve
And way down we go
Way down we go
Say way down we go
Way down we go
You let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all, oh, go down
Yeah but for the fall, ooh, my
Do you dare to look him right in the eyes? Yeah
Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down 'til the dark
Yes and they will run you down, down 'til you fall
And they will run you down, down 'til you go
Yeah, so you can't crawl no more
Way Down We Go - Kaleo
Chapter 59 - Last Day on Earth
You tread cautiously along the train track, your mind reeling with anxiety, your eyes scanning the desolate surroundings. Michonne takes the lead, with Glenn and Rosita trailing behind you. A few scattered walkers feast on the remains of what you assume were once Saviors, likely casualties from the confrontation that claimed Denise's life. With swift and deadly precision, Michonne's katana slices through the air, carving the undead as she clears the path ahead.
"This is it," Rosita finally breaks the silence, coming to a stop to examine the ground. "This is where she died." She says, her gaze fixed on the dried bloodstain marring the harsh gravel of the tracks. You can't help but reflect on how unremarkable this place seems for someone as bright as Denise to meet such a tragic end.
Glenn's voice pulls your attention away from the bloodstain. "Alright, so he had to start from here." You avert your gaze from the blood, a vivid reminder of the danger Daryl has willingly thrown himself into. This is where he would begin, track Dwight down, and put an end to it.
"He did," Michonne confirms your thoughts, lifting a nearby bush to reveal Daryl's hidden motorcycle. The sight of his trusty ride hidden away beneath the foliage is all you need. This is where it all begins: his hunt for Dwight, and your hunt for Daryl.
"Which way did Dwight go?" you urgently demand of Rosita, but her gaze remains fixed on the bloodstain, lost in her own thoughts.
"Rosita?!" you press, frustration mounting.
Finally, she meets your eyes, her expression contemplative. "Maybe you should let him do this," she suggests quietly. "Let him end it."
Disbelief and anger surge within you. "Have you lost your mind?!" you practically shout, stepping closer to her, your emotions raw and unfiltered. "He left with just a crossbow to face God knows how many of them. He's in no state to make rational decisions right now. He's gonna get himself killed!"
Your words hang in the air, and you can see the tension in Rosita's face as she absorbs your anger. After a tense moment, she waves her hand dismissively. "That way," she says curtly, pointing in a direction.
Without wasting another moment, you turn and begin to move in the direction she indicated, breaking into a jog. The group follows you, the forest growing denser as you push deeper into its depths. The uncertainty and danger that lie ahead gnaw at your gut, but you press forward, determined to find Daryl before he can make a reckless and potentially fatal mistake.
"He doesn't know what he's doing. None of us do. We need to find out more, figure out what we're dealing with," Glenn says softly, attempting to ease the tension with Rosita, his voice laced with worry and reassurance. "Maybe him trying this makes you feel better. Or maybe they keep knowing more about us than we know about them."
He sighs deeply, weariness creeping into his tone. "We got lucky. We got stuck with each other, figured it all out together. After everything we've been through… at least it felt like we did."
You clench your hand around your rifle, his words hitting home. You thought you had it all figured out, didn't you? Believed you were in the process of building that future Deanna talked about.
"We still can," Michonne interjects, her tone resolute. "We'll continue to figure it out. Together."
You don't look back at your group, nor do you slow your pace. As you round a tree, something suddenly whooshes past you. A startled scream escapes your lips as an arrow narrowly misses you, embedding itself in the tree trunk just inches from your face. Everyone tenses up, fingers instinctively curling around their weapons.
Daryl emerges from behind a tree, and Rosita doesn't hold back her anger. "What the hell!" she fumes, but he marches straight up to you, yanking the arrow out of the tree.
"What the hell you doin' out here? You ain't supposed to be here, damn it!" Daryl hollers, his voice a mix of frustration and desperation, his gaze locked on you.
"Me?! Are you crazy!" you scream back at him, stepping to block his path. "What are you doing, Daryl?! What are you doing?!" Your voice cracks, the flood of worry and fear finally breaking through the surface.
"Gotta do it, y'know I gotta make it right," Daryl insists, attempting to sidestep you, but you move in sync with him, blocking his way. He paces in front of you, like a caged animal, torn by conflict. "I already told ya—he tied me up, put a gun to my head! I even tried to help him, and look where it got us."
"You don't have to make anything right," you soothe, your voice softening as you reach out to touch his hand. "This isn't on you, Daryl."
"I know it is," he replies, his gaze revealing the raw rage and pain in his eyes. "I gotta finish this, do what I should've done before."
"And you will. We will." You assure him, your hands running up and down his arms as you step closer, just inches from his face. "But not like this, okay? Right now, we need to go back and figure out what we're dealing with."
"I can't, Alie. Just go back, alright? I'll be fine." Daryl's voice drops to a whisper, desperation etched on his face. "You ain't supposed to be out here."
"I can't either." You say, voice betraying your vulnerability. "I can't go back without you." There's a palpable pause, the group silently witnessing the emotional exchange in the background.
"This isn't about her anymore, Daryl," you murmur, your fingers seeking his free hand—the one not clutching the crossbow. Tenderly, you place his fingers against the raised, bumpy scar that marks your inner arm, physical proof of what he's risking. "This is about us, and I can't afford to lose you out here. I can't."
Daryl's shoulders droop, his eyes glistening with suppressed emotion. So you persist gently. "I'm right here with you. I'm here, and we'll do it together. You and me, okay? It's you and me, like always."
There's a moment of pause as you hold his gaze, and in that instant, you can see a subtle shift in Daryl's demeanor as he processes your words. Glenn, observing the shift, steps closer. "Daryl, she's right. We need to get back and figure this out from home. We NEED you. Everyone back home needs us right now," he implores, his voice laden with worry. "It's... it's gonna go wrong out here."
"Come on, sweetheart," you coax gently. "Let's head home."
Daryl exhales deeply, his grip on the crossbow slackening as it slides slightly in his grasp. There's a small nod from him as he finally gives in, and you breathe a sigh of relief, stepping back. Michonne moves in, placing a reassuring hand on Daryl's shoulder as he prepares to retrace your steps back to the safety of home. "We'll square it. I promise—" she starts, but her words are cut short.
Abruptly, a chilling sound of synchronized whistling pierces the forest, echoing from all directions.
Instinctively, you swing the rifle that's been slung over your shoulder, panic surging through you as everyone snaps into defensive positions. The source of the whistles—figures begin to emerge from the shadows of the trees.
The Saviors.
Your heart thumps loudly as you realize they have you encircled. Daryl's hand tightens around your arm, drawing you closer to his side. You're trapped, surrounded, and the ominous feeling of danger washes over you.
The haunting whistle persists, growing louder as the Saviors close the distance, making it abundantly clear that you're severely outnumbered and outgunned, and this is not a fight you can win. The bitter pill of reality sets in, and reluctantly, you lower your weapon, signaling surrender. One by one, the others in your group follow suit.
Emerging from behind one of the trees, a man strides forward, and the whistling abruptly stops at his presence, the silence heavy, almost suffocating. "Hello, hello, hello! Good mornin'!" he calls out with a casual wave, his tone unnervingly jovial as he approaches. "What a fine day we got here, ain't it?"
You study him intently, from his receding hairline to his thick '70s mustache, your eyes following down to his khaki shirt, dark cargo pants, and combat belt where a pistol is tucked in. But it's the gleam in his eyes and the sinister edge to his smirk that sends your nerves into overdrive. "Why the long face, huh?" he taunts as he nears you.
You're the first to speak, your voice filled with a mixture of caution and defiance. "Who are you?"
"I'm Negan, but my birth certificate says Simon. So, whichever one tickles your fancy," he replies, shooting you a cheeky grin, as his gaze flits over your group, playful yet menacing. "And you can consider us your welcomin' committee. Been waitin' for ya." He adds cheerfully, his smirk darkening. Suddenly, it all clicks into place like a puzzle in your mind.
"What do you want?" you demand, though you already suspect the answer. Frustration boils within you as you realize you've walked right into their trap. They knew that your people were ready to defend Alexandria, armed to the teeth, including the guns from the satellite station and the advantage of home turf. That's why they've been waiting, why they captured Eugene, why they attempted to catch Daryl and Rosita. Denise's death was just collateral damage, an unfortunate casualty in their scheme.
"Me?" Simon feigns confusion, glancing at the others with exaggerated innocence. "Well, it ain't about what I want. It's about what you gotta answer for." Your muscles tighten as you lock eyes with him, frantically searching for a way to escape this perilous situation. "Oh, what's the matter, nothin' to say, huh? Cat got your tongue, I suppose," he jeers, his mocking words lingering in the air as your heart continues to race.
It dawns on you that this isn't about immediate retaliation. They're aware of your plan and are banking on it. Now that they have you, it's just a waiting game for them. They anticipate that the others will come, one way or another, perhaps in search of you or unknowingly walking right into the same trap. There's no home field advantage here; it's entirely in their favor.
You open your mouth, attempting to speak, but your thoughts are scattered before you can form words.
"Hiii, Darrryl!" A voice sings mockingly from behind, followed by the foreboding click of a gun. Daryl's hold on your arm tightens, his nails pressing into your skin. Without even needing to turn around, you know it's this Dwight guy.
A tense pause hangs in the air, Daryl slowly starting to turn. But before he can complete the motion, there's a deafening BANG, the forest rocked by a gunshot so close it feels like it's right next to your ear. In that moment, at your height difference, you catch the warm mist of blood across your face. There is a disconnect in your head, as if time momentarily comes to a complete stop.
Daryl's weight sags forward, his knees colliding with the ground, and a guttural scream rips from your lungs. In that same split second, you raise your rifle, your hand involuntarily tightening on the trigger. People around you duck for cover as the gun discharges, its bullets firing wildly into the trees and dirt.
Suddenly, the blunt end of a rifle swings through the air, the hard metal connecting with the side of your head with a loud crack. A searing pain explodes, causing everything around you to slow down and warp. Your ears ring, your vision blurs, and you crumple to the ground beside your husband. The last thing you catch before consciousness slips away is the sight of your friends, forced to their knees, their weapons snatched from their hands.
"Imbeciles! Always gotta take the guns first!" Simon's voice booms in the far distance.
Jamie watches the tense scene unfolding in the Grimes household, his worry intensifying with every passing moment. It's been almost half a day since Alie left chasing after Daryl, and he can't help but regret not insisting on accompanying her and Rosita. Now, all that remains is waiting, feeling the pressure mount with each passing hour.
A few feet away, Rick paces the floor, his frustration and helplessness etched onto his features. Maggie lies on the sofa, moaning in obvious pain, beads of sweat forming on her brow. Aaron releases her hand, making room for Sasha, who steps in to offer her support, while he approaches Rick. His voice is filled with urgency as he speaks in a hushed tone, "She needs a doctor."
Jamie's attention is drawn to Rick's clenched fist. "She has a doctor." Rick says as he directs his attention to the men at the doorway - Jamie, Merle, and Abraham. "And you said they left early?" he questions, his voice strained.
"Yeah, they should have been back by now," Jamie murmurs, pushing himself off the wall, uncertain of what else to say. He casts a glance towards Merle, whose stern facade can't quite hide his own concern.
Alexandria is a pressure cooker, and Rick is under immense stress. Carol had vanished without a trace, half their crew—including their doctor—is out in the unknown. Amidst it all, just as Rick returns from his search for Carol, pregnant Maggie is in severe pain, and it's escalating by the second.
"Rick, Maggie can't wait any longer," Sasha insists, her palm resting on Maggie's fevered forehead. "She's burning up, and the Hilltop is our best bet."
Rick's face contorts with turmoil, and a deep breath later, he makes the call. "Yeah... let's load up the RV."
Merle steps forward, addressing Rick with determination, "I'm headin' out to find our doc. Gonna follow her while there's still a damn trail to follow. I reckon I can fetch her back here in one piece, or maybe even haul her to Hilltop, if that's the plan."
There's a moment of consideration, and then Rick nods. "Go. They've been out there too long, and we need them back here. There might be a fight heading our way."
As Merle strides out of the Grimes household decisively, Jamie follows closely behind. "Merle!" He calls out to him urgently, but Merle's pace doesn't waver, as he heads straight to their adjacent home next door.
"Merle—Goddamn it!" Jamie continues to follow the older Dixon down into the basement, pausing briefly at the bottom of the stairs to catch Merle gearing up. "It doesn't matter what Rick says, she gave a direct order for us to stay put."
"Well, not to me, ain't it." Merle retorts, his voice laced with defiance.
"Come on, man," Jamie implores, knowing he has to try to reason with Merle. "We need to stick to the plan. You know I can't let you leave." He observes Merle as he sits, lacing up his sturdy boots.
"Ya can't let me leave?" Merle's voice drips with sarcasm as he meets Jamie's stare. "Please. You ain't no damn soldier no more, Brooklyn!" His voice rises with each word. "Just think for a sec what might happen to her out there. To Daryl, man."
Jamie understands the turmoil that Merle must be feeling; Daryl is his brother, and Alie is his kin. But he too feels the weight of the situation; Alie is family and Rosita, despite the novelty of their relationship, is still his girl, and it only adds another layer to the pressure he's feeling.
"We both know we didn't get this far because we were thinkin'," Jamie counters, knowing at the end of the day, he's a soldier who trusts Alie's leadership since the very beginning. "She got us here because we followed her, and we believed in her. Now she says stay, that's what we do."
"I'm gonna go fetch her back." Merle declares stubbornly, coming to stand face-to-face, his resolve ironclad. "She might be needin' us right now. She could be in some real danger."
Jamie's tone mellows, "She has Daryl, Rosita, Michonne, Glenn."
But Merle's determination is undeterred. "Out of my way, boy," he demands, their faces inches apart, the air thick with tension.
Jamie lets out a defeated sigh and steps aside.
But just as Merle moves past him, he acts on impulse, seizing the opportunity to take him down. His legs sweep under Merle's, and the two tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Jamie's strong bicep locks around Merle's neck as they wrestle on the floor.
"You promised her!" Jamie roars, his voice filled with frustration. "In that burned-out Woodbury house! You promised!" He knows that Alie had given him an order to keep Merle in place by any means necessary, and he's determined to do just that. And like Abraham, Merle is a formidable opponent, and Jamie understands he can only come out of this unscathed if he catches him off guard.
"Ah! Damn you!" Merle gasps, his face turning red as he struggles against Jamie's chokehold. "Quit playin' dirty and throw down like a damn man!" he chokes out.
"Nah, I'm good. I'll put you to sleep right here if I have to," Jamie mutters, a smug tone underlining his words, his legs locked around Merle and one arm gripping his prosthetic arm to keep his knife pinned. "Come on, man! You promised, just give in."
A relentless scuffle ensues, each man trying to gain the upper hand, with groans and gasps filling the air. Eventually, Merle's hand taps against Jamie's forearm, a universal sign of surrender. Jamie releases his grip and immediately rolls away from beneath him, knowing that a punch might be coming next. To his surprise, Merle remains still, the duo panting heavily from exertion.
"We follow her lead," Jamie murmurs in ragged breaths, settling a few feet away on the hard floor. "She said stay, we stay. Who knows, she might be on her way here."
Merle shifts, rolling his head to look at the younger man. "24 hours. If they ain't back by morning, then we go after 'em."
Nodding, Jamie concedes, "Alright, you've got a deal."
"You sure got yourself a nasty choke, Brooklyn," Merle massages his sore neck, a mischievous smirk forming. "Sleep with one eye open, 'cause payback's a-comin'."
"Alright, we've got a full boat. Let's meet the man!"
The cacophony of voices surrounds you, yet it all feels distant, muffled by the overpowering ringing in your ears.
"Pissin' your pants yet? Boy, do I have a feelin' we're getting close. It's gonna be pee, pee pants city here real soon."
The darkness surrounds you, and you find yourself on your knees. You wonder, 'Why are you on your knees?' puzzled by your own position. But the ground beneath you is cold and unforgiving. Every inch of your body throbs with pain, a sensation like you had taken a direct bludgeon from a hammer to your skull. You fight to focus, the ongoing dialogue around you a jumbled mix of words and emotions that seem to slip through your grasp.
"Which one of you pricks is the leader?"
"It's this one! He's the guy."
Pain pulses in your head, and you're almost certain you've got a concussion. Your grasp on time is fragmented, disjointed streams as you have been fading in and out of consciousness, struggling to piece together what brought you to this moment.
"Hi, you're Rick, right? I'm Negan. And I do not appreciate you killing my man. Also, when I sent my people to kill your people for killing my people, you killed more of my people. Not cool."
Your mouth feels parched and dry, while the glaring beams of headlights from the vehicles around you cast a blinding halo, creating unnerving shadows that play tricks on your eyes. As you sway unsteadily on your knees, a firm grip steadies you up. You turn to see Abraham at your side, his gaze fixed on something ahead. Following his unwavering stare, your vision clears enough to discern a tall figure before you.
The man exudes a daunting presence, clad in a leather jacket, nonchalantly pacing around, wielding a bat with casual swagger. Panic courses through your veins as your mind fights to rewind, piecing together the fragmented memories of the past few hours.
"So now, I'm going to beat the holy hell outta one of you."
Suddenly, memories surge back like a torrential flood, bursting through the fog shrouding your mind. You remember chasing after Daryl through dense woods, the eerie whistle, and the deafening gunshot that still seems to echo in your ears.
Daryl.
It WAS Daryl.
The realization rips through the fog, and everything becomes painfully clear. You look around with a renewed gaze—your family and friends are here, all on their knees, vulnerable.
You strain to catch Daryl's gaze, his eyes locked onto yours from the other end of the lineup. There is a silent exchange of emotions, bloodied and battered, yet despite his injuries, there's a fierce intensity in his eyes, a mix of fear and determination.
Memories continue to flood in, the pieces of your ordeal forming a cohesive picture. You recall being locked in a van with Daryl, gasping for air as it grew stifling. Michonne's comforting whispers and the gentle touch of her hand.
You don't know how long you've been in there, but the darkness suggests it's been at least a few long hours. You remember the van door swinging open, hands yanking you out by your hair, and then the utter chaos. Daryl had lunged forward, pulling you close to shield you, but it was short-lived. Screams fill the air, and you were tossed aside as men gang up on Daryl, overpowering him to the ground, delivering a brutal fist to his face. Someone lifted you up—Abraham— who ushered you to kneel by his side.
And then there was a name—Negan.
The man standing before you is Negan. This is the man you've heard so much about in the past few months.
"Jeeesus, you look like shit. Maybe I should just put you out of your misery."
"NO! MAGGIE!" A piercing scream slices through the air, snapping your attention back to reality. "NO! Please don't! Please!" Glenn cries out as he's violently pulled back into line. Just like that, the last pieces of the puzzle snap into place in your mind, revealing the direness of the situation.
Negan chuckles, his tone wavering between amusement and authority. It feels like he's admonishing a group of misbehaving children, yet the underlying menace is unmistakable. "Don't aaany of you do that shit again," he scolds. "I'll shut that shit down, no exceptions! The first one's free; it's an emotional moment, I get it."
Your heart races as he moves gracefully, his steps slow as he takes his time. "Thought you were safe, hah? But the word is out, and you most definitely are not safe." He sneers, his sly smirk directed at everyone present, but it feels like his words are a personal attack. "It sucks, don't it?" Negan continues, his words slicing through your illusions like a knife, shattering the sense of security you thought you had. "The moment you realize you don't know shit."
Then, he begins to whistle, that same haunting tune from the woods. The world seems to blur, the persistent ringing in your ears growing louder. "I simply cannot decide…" he muses, taking a step forward. "But I've got an idea." With deliberate intent, he points the bat, letting it hover menacingly, and you watch in horror as he begins his sinister rhyme, moving it from person to person.
"Eenie... Meenie... Miny... Moe."
Your heart pounds in your chest like a drum as the cruel tip of the bat points directly at you, counting past you by. You really did think you were safe, didn't you? You had hoped for more from life, all those lofty dreams— saving the world, finding a cure, rebuilding a future… having a family—all seem bitterly ironic now.
Then, with a chilling finality, "You are it," you hear the words right above your head, and the world around you dissolves into a nightmarish haze. Your gaze slowly follows up from Negan's boots in front of you, the ringing in your ears still haywire, but then you realize it's not you at the receiving end. Instead, Abraham lifts his head defiantly in the bat's trajectory.
"Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy's other eye out and feed it to his father. And then we'll start." Negan's chilling proclamation hangs in the air like a death sentence, and your body tenses as he raises his bat high above his head. Abraham's last defiant posture only adds to the tension in the air. "You can breathe. You can blink. You can cry. Hell, you're all gonna be doing that."
Your body feels almost paralyzed in the moment, and a scream involuntarily rips from your throat as the bat descends with brutal force onto Abraham's head with a resounding "BANG!" Instinctively, you cover your ears and squeeze your eyes shut, desperate to block out the sickening sound and the scene that's unfolding inches away.
Negan's voice cuts through the chaos, laced with sadistic glee. "Oh look at that! Takin' it like a champ!"
The world around you becomes a symphony of horror– the chilling thuds of the barbed bat making contact with flesh and bone, muffled but still audible, even the guttural groans.
"BANG!"
"BANG!"
"BANG!"
There is a splat, and you're jolted when you feel the warmth of blood splatter across your face, the metallic scent of iron thick in the air. Your fists clench tightly as you weep, overwhelmed by an overpowering sense of helplessness. Each merciless blow from the bat sends shockwaves through your trembling body, and you flinch with every bone-chilling "BANG!"
Negan's laughter reverberates in your ears, a sickening sound that grates against your frayed nerves. "Oh my goodness! Look at this!" he mocks, out of breath from the force he's exerted. Slowly, you open your tear-blurred eyes to witness him flaunting the gore-drenched bat, showering Rick's face with blood splatter. "You guys, look at my dirty girl!"
As your gaze slowly drifts downward, you confront the harrowing brutality of what remains of Abraham. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, and tears flood down your cheeks as you behold the lifeless, disfigured form of the man who had believed in you, who had chosen to follow you.
Negan continues, though you're unable to look away… Abraham… The memories of his hearty laughter, cigar between his lips, vibrant hair, his face flushed with mirth. And then there is you, standing somewhere in the North Carolina woods, with Abraham on his knees as he was just moments ago, crushed and despondent after discovering Eugene's deception about the cure, floods your mind.
"I'm not going to promise you some magical cure, but the mission is far from over; it has merely taken an unexpected turn. You still have a doctor, and you still have a destination. So, join me, Sergeant Abraham."
Those were your words, that's what you had said, and now look, look what you did. Where you led him. There's nothing left of Abraham but a twitch of his fingers, the final remnants of nerve activity.
"Sweetheart. Lay your eyes on this," Negan teases, shifting his attention to Rosita. He revels in her silent tears, his voice laced with sadistic delight. "Oh damn. Were you… were you two together?" He croons, feigning surprise, his gaze briefly flickering back to Abraham's lifeless body. "That sucks. If you were, you should know, there was a reason for all this—Red, and hell, he was, he is, and will ever be Red! He just took one or six or seven for the team!"
Negan inches closer, thrusting the bat almost touching Rosita's face. "So, take a damn look." When she doesn't, he yells, anger spiking, "TAKE A DAMN LOOK!"
Everything happens in a split second, as your gaze is torn away from Abraham's lifeless form just in time to witness Daryl launching himself at Negan with a desperate, primal fury. Before you can fully comprehend the chaos unfolding, your world unravels in an instant.
Saviors descend upon Daryl, overpowering him to the ground. Any emotions you may have felt – the agony, horror, and despair – are obliterated in a flash of sheer panic, consuming everything.
You find yourself on all fours, every fiber of your being tensed, the outer world reduced to a smear of colors and sounds as your focus narrows on your husband. All you see is Daryl, your world.
"Oh no," Negan drawls, his voice oozing with mock concern, a finger pressed to his jaw where Daryl's punch landed. "That? Oh my! That—Is a no-no. The whole thing—none of that shit flies here!"
A man with half his face covered in scars, presumably Dwight, steps forward, pointing Daryl's crossbow right at him, at your husband's head. The impending threat hangs heavily in the air, and a rising sense of dread chokes the breath from your lungs.
"Do you want me to do it? Right here—"
He doesn't get to finish his question. The scream that tears from your throat is a shock even to your own senses, a raw and primal terror. "WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!" you scream, the world around you a whirlwind as desperation floods your senses. You crawl on all fours toward Negan, your fingers scrabbling in the soil, your voice rising in a frantic plea. "Wait! Please! He didn't mean to do it! He didn't!"
But your approach is abruptly halted by an unknown Savior, roughly grabbing the back of your hair, dragging you back to the lineup. The sharp pain is nearly unbearable, but you don't relent, kicking, and screaming as you fight back, nails clawing at the hand, eyes locked on Daryl.
With a casual wave of a finger, Negan signals for your release, the pressure on your hair eases, and you immediately seize the opportunity to crawl forward, looking up to meet his gaze for the first time.
Negan's reaction is one of surprise, as if he's just noticed your presence all together. "The hell—Where the hell did you just magically pop out from, huh?"
"Please!" you plead, now on your knees before him, your voice cracking with emotion. As you raise your hands, you notice they are smeared with blood, flesh… and brain matter. A nauseating realization sets in, that you've crawled through Abraham, or what's left of him in the dirt. There's an almost audible snap in your mind, a silent scream catches in your throat. Your fingers tremble like leaves as you muster every ounce of your will to concentrate on the scene unfolding before you, acutely aware that Daryl's fate may hinge on your actions. "P-P-Please," you stammer, "It was j-just a mistake."
"A mistake? I can't let that son of a bitch make me look like a total pussy in front of my men, now can I? That's not how we roll, not in the slightest." Negan asserts, stepping toward you, his imposing height casting a long shadow over your trembling form. "Reputation is everything out here."
You shake your head, heart racing, tears flowing uncontrollably, adrenaline coursing through your veins. "He's just... we just lost our friend, and he got emotional and impulsive, that's all. He made a terrible mistake. Please, don't do this," you gasp out your words.
Negan crouches to your level, leaning on his blood-soaked bat, locking eyes with you. His proximity is stifling, and unexpectedly his hand reaches out, his fingers skim your tear-streaked cheek. You hold your breath, every fiber in you stiffens at the gesture, strangely soft compared to his otherwise menacing demeanor. "Hot diggity damn, would ya look at those eyes," he murmurs with a sly smile, as he scans your face, your wide, glossy brown eyes shining gold under the glare of the headlights. "I'll bet my left nut you could charm the devil with them." After a brief pause, he withdraws, leaning back. "But I already told you people, first one is free, and then what I say, 'I would shut that shit down, No exceptions!'"
The weight of his words settles over you like a crushing wave. The ringing in your ears drowns out all else as desperation consumes you. "P-please, please, have mercy. I'm begging you, please just spare him," you plead.
Negan sneers, his smile growing wider, visibly enjoying your distress. "Mercy, you say?" he mocks, his tone dripping with malice. "Now, I don't know what kind of lying asshole you've been dealin' with, but I'm a man of my word. First impressions are important."
There is absolutely no way you would stand by and watch Daryl be beaten to death, not while you still have breath in your body.
"Yes, you're right," you frantically nod, your words escaping in gasps as you tremble. "You're right, so just punish me, then. Please. I'll do anything," fear drives you to utter whatever it takes.
"Alie," Daryl's strained voice pierces through the chaos, and you glance at him. His face contorts with pain as he gazes at you from the dirt, several men still pinning him down, the crossbow still trained on his head.
"Shut up!" you hiss at him, your tone losing its edge as your desperation deepens. "Just shut up," you plead in a whisper.
You turn back to Negan, his silhouette looming through your teary vision, backlit by the car's headlights. "I'm asking, no, I'm begging, please. Whatever you must do, I'll take it," you whisper, desperation pouring from your voice. He seems to ponder your plea, his sadistic amusement evident.
Negan hoists Lucille, the blood-soaked bat, displaying it to you. "Even Lucille's wrath?" he asks, and you take in the horrifying sight – blood, flesh, and strands of red hair tangled in the barbs – fresh tears stream down your face as you choke out your response, your voice barely audible. "Yes."
That's what you've always said, isn't it? Even in the letter you wrote to him when you lost him. That's what you said. You'll die for him. Well, here you go, prove it.
"I can be brave because we have something worth fighting for, worth going to war for, worth dying for. And then that realization struck me so easily, effortlessly, like breathing, how I would die for you in a heartbeat and truly mean it.
I wouldn't even blink. Not once, not ever.
God, I love you, Daryl Dixon."
Negan chuckles, whistling out air like he's impressed by your apparent willingness. "Man, oh man. Tell me, sweetheart, who in the hell are you to him?" He gestures towards Daryl.
"I-I'm his wife," you stutter, your voice trembling.
Negan raises an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by your claim. "His wife?" he echoes, sounding both mocking and incredulous. He leans down, gripping Daryl by his hair and yanking him up. Daryl grunts in pain but remains stoic. "You actually nabbed that? How the hell did you pull that off? … You know what, don't even bother answering. World's gone to hell, and choices are, well, they're tad bit limited." He releases Daryl, laughing softly, and steps back, pacing around like a predator, mulling over your fate as his fingers dance over the bloodied bat.
He pivots, his gaze extending beyond you. "You see, Rick, this right here is a masterclass in groveling. Take notes, buddy, take damn good notes," he remarks, and an overwhelming dread settles as he positions himself in front of you with his legs slightly apart. The weight of Lucille, the blood-soaked bat, hangs over you like an impending guillotine. "I need y'all to understand I'm not an unreasonable man. When a lady drops to her knees and begs, who the hell am I to say no?" Negan theatrically adjusts his grip on the bat. "You ask, and I shall deliver—one big, wet kiss from Lucille, comin' right up."
"Wait, listen," Rick's voice shakes, his desperation palpable as he tries to reason with Negan. "We understand the point you're trying to make. We messed up, but you don't want to do this. She—She's a doctor, a scientist. She—"
"Rick, enough!" You interrupt him, turning your head slightly to meet his wide, moist eyes. The shared fear, helplessness, and desperation reflected in his expression mirror your own. "This is my choice," you murmur, your voice cracking. "You've done enough. Now just shut up."
Negan laughs at the exchange. "Yeah, Ricky. Shut up," he mocks. "You've done enough. Now it's my turn." He hoists the bat high over your head, his smirk firmly in place. "Brace yourself, sweetheart," he says softly to you. "Since you asked so damn sweetly, for you, I'll make it quick. One big old bang."
A gut-wrenching scream, primal and raw, erupts from Daryl, echoing the sheer terror you feel. He thrashes, fighting against his restraints, only to be overpowered. The Saviors restraining him forcefully push him back down, and his agonized cry reverberates in your ears, only to be drowned out by
Your mind feels detached, a layer of numbness enveloping your senses, as if you're watching the horrifying scene happening to someone else, perhaps in a movie. You glance at your husband; his face is flushed, veins on his neck and forehead protruding as his features contort with pain and desperation, his tearful eyes briefly connecting with yours.
"Could somebody please shut this guy up? He's ruinin' all the damn fun," Negan commands tersely. A Savior seizes Daryl by his hair, forcing his face into the dirt, securing him with a knee pressed to the back of his neck.
"Daryl, please, I'm begging you, stop." You gather every bit of yourself for him, leaning forward, tears streaming down your face, as your fingers claw into the earth, the need to touch him overwhelming. "Please, sweetheart," your voice cracks, "stop, for me." Through gritted teeth, you whisper, barely audible, "Just close your eyes, don't look." Tears mix with the grime and blood on your face. "Everything will be alright. I promise. We'll find each other again. I swear it."
Lifting your head, you meet your fate—Negan, wielding a bat drenched in blood. Your body trembles uncontrollably, terror unlike anything you've ever experienced coursing through your veins. This is your end. This is it. You always knew death was inevitable, perhaps by a bite or a bullet, but never like this. Your heart palpitates, and your vision wavers. 'Don't pass out,' you urge yourself, your fingers digging into the soil to anchor you.
Time warps, each second stretching out endlessly, as your life flashes before your eyes—a flood of thoughts and memories rushes through your mind, a final reckoning of your life, the choices you've made, and the moments you've lived.
"The world as it is, anything could happen, and I don't want to die before I become a mother."
You can feel the stitches itching in your upper arm. Did you foresee this moment? Those haunting Polaroid pictures with crushed heads — was that the universe trying to show you what lay ahead, offering a glimpse into your future? Had your luck finally run out?
In that momentary limbo, even if it's only a few seconds, your mind seeks refuge in a place of safety. The lines between reality and your own mind blur, your psyche fracturing under the weight of impending doom. Above Negan's menacing bat, the night sky is adorned with twinkling stars. Your mind transports you to a memory—a time when you went camping with Daryl, hunting in the Georgia forest.
The stars shine just as brightly, and you can almost feel the cool night air on your skin, hear the rustle of leaves underfoot and see the faint flicker of a campfire. You sit between Daryl's legs, your arms resting on his strong thighs, cradled on each side.
"It's beautiful out here," your voice echoes in your memory.
"You should see it up in the mountains," he replies. At that instant, you are there. "The stars...it feels like you can touch 'em if you just reach for it."
"Take me out there one day?"
But as Negan brings the bat down, every muscle in your body clenches for dear life, your world spiraling into chaos. You're ripped from your memory like a flash from a bright camera, and everything is washed out in blinding white light.
A new memory takes hold.
You're a young child, clutching your father's hand tightly as you skip through the grand atrium of the district attorney's building, the dark marble floor firm beneath your feet. People part like a sea for your father, his presence commanding respect and power. In this memory, you're untouchable, safe in the shelter of his authority.
As the bat makes contact with your head, you flinch, your body tensing in ABSOLUTE terror. But there is no bang, no barbed wire tearing through your skin. Instead, you feel only a light tap as Negan playfully taps your head. His laughter fills the air.
"Hot damn!" Negan roars, his voice dripping with amusement. "You really meant that shit, huh! Hell, darlin', you've got lady balls the size of a freakin' wrecking ball!" You open your wide eyes, meeting his gaze as he leans down, his breath brushing against your face. "And I gotta say, I'm lovin' every bit of it!"
With a wave of his hand, they release Daryl, and he gasps for air, dirt clinging to his sweat and tear-streaked face. He's pulled back to his original place in the lineup, but you hardly notice. Your mind and body betray you, warmth spreading between your legs as a dark patch grows on your pants.
Negan notices, his laughter growing louder. "Ooh, would you just look at that pee-pee pants!" he mocks, but it sounds distant, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. "I fuckin' told ya, didn't I? I said, 'You're gonna piss your pants,' and lo and behold, here she is, pissin' 'em."
Your body drops into a seated position, contorted into an odd and uncomfortable stance on the rough dirt. The ground beneath you feels unreal, like the surface of an alien world, and you gasp for deep breaths of air as you crumble within yourself.
His footsteps move past you. "You're damn lucky I don't like killing women, not unless it's absolutely necessary. Now, men, I can waste them all day," Negan declares, addressing the people behind you in the lineup. "Otherwise, you would've been this close to seein' some real messed up shit."
And just like that, the scent of a cigar, one deeply rooted in your memories, wafts through the air, as if your brain is conjuring it up at this surreal moment.
"I need you… to know me," Negan says, pausing with his back turned, the bat raised as he feigns being lost in deep thought. "Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah, wastin' men. Back to it then!" he muses, and with unexpected speed, he brings the bat down. There's a deafening BANG, and Maggie's horrified scream feels distant, echoing, as if it comes from another world.
"Buddy, you still there?" Negan chortles. "But you just took one hell of a hit! I just popped your skull so hard, your eyeballs just popped out!"
There's a gurgling, and soft whispers follow. "Meggie... I'll find... you."
You don't need to see the scene to understand who it is; Maggie's shocked weeping confirms it. You hold your body tight, the horrifying rhythm of the bat continues, "BANG!" after "BANG!" Each strike resonates deeper within you until you whisper, almost like an afterthought, just a breath of air, "Daddy..." you call out, words you haven't uttered since you were a child.
In front of you, the blinding beams of the RV's headlights pierce the thick darkness. The fog, like a living entity, snakes and swirls, shimmering and shifting, blurring the boundaries between the real and the imagined into one.
From the weaving mist, a familiar figure emerges, his silhouette advances. Each step is deliberate, measured, and unhurried, savoring each moment of his approach. Every footstep falls in sync with Lucille's bang over Glenn's head.
.
It's him. David Hart. Your father.
.
Salt-and-pepper hair, once so familiar, is neatly swept back, just as you remember it. His tailored suit and Italian shoes sharply contrast against the desolation of the night, as he comes to stand before you.
A whisper in the furthest reaches of your mind cautions you. He's gone. He's been gone. This isn't real.
"Oh, mia figlia," his voice washes over you, laden with an overwhelming melancholy. His hand, seemingly solid and warm, reaches out to lift your chin, gently cradles your face to meet his gaze.
"Dad," you choke out, tears silently streaming down your face, your body trembling as you look up at his towering presence.
"What do I always say?" he asks, echoing a lesson from the past, his fingers moving to wipe your tears.
You breathe out your answer, voice faltering, "Never blink. Not once, not ever."
His eyes search yours, "And what did you do?"
A sob catches in your throat, "I blinked," you admit.
Behind you, Negan laughs, his body stretching at an odd angle, the bat in hand dripping with blood and brain matter. "I bet you thought you were gonna grow old together. Sitting around a table at Sunday dinner, happily ever after," he sneers, almost out of breath. "No. Doesn't work like that, Rick."
Your father kneels and pulls you into his embrace, as tangible and comforting as any memory from your past. "It's going to be alright, my sweet girl. Daddy is here. I'm right here."
You shut your eyes, blocking out the world. The ringing in your ears is the only sound you register, and the warmth of your father's touch is the only sensation you allow yourself to feel.
"I'm gonna kill you," Rick manages to say, his voice strained with tears.
"What?" Negan tilts his head, feigning confusion, as he leans in closer. "I didn't quite catch that. You're gonna have to speak up."
Rick's gaze is unwavering, despite the tears. "Not today, not tomorrow, but I'm gonna kill you," he promises, however, for you, this scene is just a distant echo. You're elsewhere, removed from the immediate horror. It's Rick's turn to be tortured, and you wait for everything to be over, one way or another.
You sit on the cold floor of your bedroom, your ears still ringing from the chilling aftermath of recent events. Voices float up from the lower level of the house, but you barely register them. Your gaze remains fixed on one of Daryl's shoes that he had carelessly left tossed aside. Memories of your return to Alexandria is a blur, your mind seemingly protecting itself from the horrors you faced. You had numbly taken a shower and changed clothes, but the sensation of dirt and blood still lingers on your skin.
Your thoughts are still trapped in the woods, on your knees, surrounded by the Saviors, and the last sight of your husband. Negan had taken Daryl, and his words echo in your mind.
"Dwight, load him up. I like him. He's mine now," Negan had said, his gaze briefly locking onto you with a smirk before turning back to Rick, continuing his psychological torment. "He got guts, unlike somebody I know. But you still want to try something, 'not today, not tomorrow'? I will cut pieces off..." Negan had paused, glancing at Daryl in the van. "The hell is his name?"
Simon, the right-hand man, had supplied after a beat, "Daryl."
Negan had smiled broadly, relishing the power he held. "I will cut pieces off Daryl and put them on your doorstep… or better yet, I will bring him to you and have his wife do it for me."
Now, it feels like you're trapped in that moment, locked into a nightmare. Your reaction to the idea of Daryl's death had made him the perfect hostage. Something Negan could hold over Rick, something he could use against you, or even worse, something he could use to turn you against Rick.
When you hear more voices coming from downstairs, muffled yet escalating, you slowly get up. Barefoot, you walk down the hard floor of your home. You can hear Jamie's muffled voice, attempting to mediate the situation, followed by Merle's abrasive tone.
As you reach the living room and round the corner, both Jamie and Merle look towards you, the atmosphere tense and awkward. You silently scrutinize Merle's appearance, noticing that he's dressed as if he's preparing to head out, with a rifle and a bag over his shoulder.
Merle lets out a sigh and steps toward you. "I made ya a promise, and I'm tellin' ya straight up," he begins, his voice growing firmer. "Imma go get Daryl back."
Your face remains impassive as you retort, "You can't. There are too many of them to take on by yourself."
"I'll sort it out," Merle asserts, fire in his eyes.
"You can't!" Your words burst out almost like a scream, your frustration boiling over. You advance toward your brother-in-law, anger and worry lace your words. "You'll get yourself killed, and you're going to get him killed too."
"He's my brother!" Merle shoots back, defiantly. "What's the matter with y'all?!"
Your reaction is almost automatic. In a flash, your hand connects with his cheek, the slap ringing through the room. Merle's head jerks sideways from the force. You breathe heavily, your anger and hurt palpable. "How dare you say that to me? As if I don't care? As if I wouldn't do anything for him. Anything." Your voice cracks, and Merle slowly turns to look at you. "What about me? Am I not your family? Were you just bullshitting me this whole time?"
You step back from Merle, your hands aggressively yanking the straps of the rifle off his shoulder. Tears of fury blur your vision. "I need you here, and Daryl would want you here with me. Please, I can't lose anyone else today."
Suddenly, the familiar aroma of a cigar wafts through the air, and a comforting hand rests on your shoulder. You glance up to find your father, his stalwart presence instantly grounding you. His features are set in his steely stern expression, but his eyes burn with rage. Your fists ball up at your sides, filled with a newfound determination. "We'll get Daryl back, but we can't be reckless."
Your father leans in to whispers in your ear, his voice filled with tenacity, "They have no idea who you are, or what they've awakened." A slow sinister smirk grows on his lips. "They're going to rue the day they ever crossed us."
You repeat his words as if you're just his vessel. "They're gonna regret the day they ever fucked with us."