Hello everyone, how are y'all doing! Back again with another chapter. For those of you watching or rewatching season 8 while reading this story, I hope Daryl's rage makes sense during the fight, driven by the promise he made to Alie in last chapter. He's fighting for her. I thought this could be a good explanation why he kills Morales without a second thought.
Anyways, let's continue with the reading!
Recap: Chapter 51- Une variante - "Yeah," Glenn affirms, tapping his chest pocket to indicate that he had it. "He mentioned to look for a sign, something resembling a biohazard symbol."
You offer a nod, "Enzymes themselves aren't dangerous, but they're stored in liquid nitrogen to maintain their ideal temperature," you explain, trying to summon up the image of the storage system at your old lab's layout. "Once you get in there, look for this big metal cabinet on wheels – you won't miss it. Just open it up, make sure none of the cylinders are leaking, don't mess with anything inside, and roll the whole thing out with you."
Walking through the heart of the fire
It's hard to keep moving forward
Living with my life on a wire again
Nothing in this world makes sense
And few things left feel holy
Lying in valleys with the dead
Everything's barely holding on
No sanctuary
There's no place to hide
No sanctuary
I'm lost in the fight
No Sanctuary by Unsecret
Chapter 69 - Rick's Miracle
Merle stands in the dimly lit hallway of the Sanctuary, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. The distant growls of walkers outside reverberate through the building, creating a constant, unnerving buzz, much like the tension vibrating through his body, ready to spring into action like a cornered wild animal.
It has been a few hours since Rick and the other communities put on a show, storming the Sanctuary and demanding surrender. Negan hasn't been seen since then—dead or alive, unknown—leaving his lieutenants cracking under the mounting pressure. Simon, Dwight, Eugene, Merle, and a couple of outpost leaders are what's left to make the decisions.
The first round of the meeting had been a cacophony of voices. A testosterone-fueled contest of egos rather than strategies, all vying for dominance, each one trying to outdo the other in a pointless show of bravado.
Soon, Merle started to feel it: suspicion and paranoia hanging heavily in the air, the accusing stares aimed at his back. In their eyes, more than Eugene, he was the ideal scapegoat. 'One of them.'
After a few heated hours, they call for a smoke break. It also serves as a pretext to conserve resources—shutting down the generator and the water supply.
Merle has never been book-smart in any sense, but the streets have been his unforgiving classroom. His guts and instincts, honed through years of survival, have always seen him through in and out of trouble. So, he mulls over the situation. He knows there are lots of folks here who got a bone to pick with Negan, from the grunts to the top dogs, all hoping for the Saviors' downfall. But only a handful got the clout to pose a real threat. Real motives.
As he ponders, the hallway door creaks open, snapping him out of his thoughts. Dwight appears, clad in Daryl's leather vest, ticking him off even further. Merle takes another drag of his cigarette, feigning nonchalance. As Dwight walks past, Merle seizes the moment with predatory swiftness. With a rough hand, he grabs Dwight by the back of his neck, throwing him against the opposite door which he'd purposely left ajar.
Dwight stumbles into the room, his eyes wide with shock and tension. Merle follows, a smirk playing on his lips. He kicks the door shut behind him, effectively trapping Dwight in the small, sparsely furnished room.
"Well, well, well, if it ain't the two-face wonder," Merle drawls as he strides in, his eyes drifting to the two shades of Dwight's face. Until recently, since they were assigned to a search party together after Daryl's escape, Dwight had always kept his distance—a standoffish little weasel, his face all screwed up tight. Merle figures it's because of the weird dynamic he has with his little brother.
Dwight instinctively steps back as Merle presses the mechanism on his prosthetic hand, the blade snapping into action with a sinister click. Merle continues, his voice rough as gravel, "Ya know, every last one of 'em in there's pegging me as the traitor. Actin' like I let all that hell break loose out there," he jerks his head towards the glass window, beyond which thousands of walkers surround the Sanctuary. "I mean, I get it. But it sure as hell ain't me, not with Simon breathin' down my neck."
Cornered, Dwight's back hits the wall as Merle advances, standing just inches away. The blade of his prosthetic hand thuds against the wall next to Dwight's head, a silent, deadly threat. Merle's smirk is dark and menacing. "So, who is it then, huh?" he taunts. "Maybe it's the fella who's got himself a mountain of reasons to be sore."
Merle's voice drops to a whisper, mockery lacing his words as he leans closer. "Negan fucks yer girl, torches your face, makes you pucker up to his rear end. Hell, that's gotta sting worse than dying', right? So c'mon, spit it out already."
There's a tense pause. Dwight's face contorts with rage and reluctance, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Fine, it was me," he finally confesses, shoving Merle back. "I'm working with your people. Your family. I know you hate it here, too."
Merle snorts dismissively, his eyes rolling dramatically. "Oh really? What makes you say that? Me, on my knees, lickin' boots—it's my dream come true, ain't it?"
"Then just stay down," Dwight urges, seeing an opening to ally with Merle. "Let me finish this."
"That's all fine and dandy by me," Merle responds, his tone grave as they stand nose to nose. "But back me the hell up in there, then. I ain't goin' down for crap I didn't pull." His voice carries a threatening edge, a clear signal that he won't be the only one to fall.
"Yeah, alright, I gotchu," Dwight nods, his agreement firm.
Merle studies him for a moment, then chuckles. "Who'd have thought you had it in ya? Finally grew a pair, hah." He gives Dwight a smack on the shoulder that lands a little too hard. "'Bout damn time, if you ask me."
Daryl lies on a thin blanket in the corner, his back aching from discomfort, with Alie nestled beside him on his shoulders. The early morning sun sneaks through the cracks of the boarded-up windows, casting dappled patterns of light across the room. Beyond the door, he can hear muffled murmurs and morning activities.
Lying there, Daryl's gaze fixes on the ceiling above, his fingers tenderly combing through Alie's hair. His thoughts wander, lost in the maze of recent events. With only a few classrooms cleaned out, many are forced to share rooms. Scattered around them now are blankets left by others who spent the night on the cold tile floor.
He can feel that Alie is awake; her movements are subtle yet telling of her sleeplessness, even though she'd joined him late. After his and the rest of their fighters' return, a somber procession had taken place, burying their dead in the back of the school and cremating the Walkers they had cleared out. While he went to rest, she spent hours tending to the wounded and patching up people from the fight.
When she shifts to lay on her back, letting out a soft sigh, Daryl turns to look at her, taking in her messy hair and the weariness shadowing her features.
"Whatcha thinkin' about?" he whispers, his voice a groggy hush in the quiet morning.
"Maybe it's time I take over," she murmurs, her eyes fluttering shut in a gesture of defeat. "Consider Rick's plan a fail."
Daryl understands the gravity of her words, what she plans to do. Propping himself on his elbows, he turns to face her. "But the plan's workin'. We just gotta see it through, just one more day, sweetheart." He insists; in one more day, they go back to the Sanctuary, demand their surrender, end this.
She shakes her head, the movement tired yet resolute. "I should've pushed harder, convinced them of my plan. Now... now we've lost too many. Our friends, Eric, Gabriel... they're gone because I didn't fight hard enough." she says quietly, reaching for the folded letters lying at the edge of the blanket beside her head. She passes them over, pressing them into his chest. "The Kingdom has lost all its soldiers, and I can't even start to think what Ezekiel's going through. But this also means we're short on fighters. If the Saviors want to put up a fight, we don't have the numbers to force their surrender anymore."
He knows what she's saying; it's all right there in the letters he read last night. "Rick's out there now, tryin' to win back the Scavengers, get more people on our side," he counters, hoping to dissuade her from the drastic measures she's considering. "Just wait it out a bit," he murmurs softly.
Alie exhales another heavy sigh and pushes herself into a seated position, sweeping her short hair back from her face. "That's another thing. Rick's been gone too long; I don't like it. He should've been back by now."
Daryl had expected Rick's return the previous night too. But given that Rick went alone, on foot, it's possible he got tangled up with the Scavengers—a situation Daryl believes Rick can handle just fine. After all, the Scavengers have now seen their force and numbers, and with the Polaroid pictures Rick had taken of the Saviors, it would be in their best interest to ally with them.
"These Scavengers, I don't trust them, not one bit to watch our backs out there," Alie asserts, pushing herself up from the ground. "Tomorrow will be day two, the end of Rick's plan. We need to prepare with the mindset that the Saviors will not surrender, so we're ready for it," she declares, gearing herself up for what may come.
"Where ya goin'?" Daryl asks, pushing himself up into a seated position, watching his wife smooth out her wrinkled shirt and make herself somewhat presentable.
"Gotta check on my patients," she replies, sliding her boots on. She bends down, pressing a kiss to the top of his head—a familiar gesture before she departs. As she swings open the door, she comes face-to-face with Michonne in the hallway, Judith perched on her hip.
"Hey, have you seen Carl?" Michonne questions.
Alie shakes her head. "No, but he's a teenager, and this is a high school. I betcha he's out there, exploring." she suggests, reaching out to rub Judith's peachy cheeks.
Meanwhile, Daryl's gaze drops to the letters now in his lap. He unfolds each one, his eyes scanning the three individual handwritings, re-reading the words from the previous night. The voices of Alie and Michonne blend into the background as he absorbs the written updates from their scattered group.
.
Dear Alie,
The plan is working. We are doing this. We're winning. It's been a hard fight, and we've lost people—brave people who gave their lives to make sure we won. By the time it was over, there weren't any Saviors left standing. All of it, it's scarier than I thought it would be, but we're doing it. We have to. The sacrifices are real, and we need to make it right for them.
The rest of the plan is still a go, I'm heading there now. The Sanctuary is surrounded, trapped, cut off from their supplies. In two days, we'll meet everyone to end this, to win it all.
Everything we've done, we've done together. We've fought every step of the way to this place, to this moment, to who we are, to each other, and to now. We're so close, Alie. This could be our last fight.
Have faith in us.
-Rick
.
Dear Alie,
We beat them, but things got complicated. Jesus took prisoners and brought them back home. Now, we're holding them outside our gate until we decide what to do. Until I decide.
-Maggie
.
Alie,
We took the outpost bit by bit, and we thought we'd won. We were gathered in the open, when they ambushed us. It was over in seconds. Ezekiel, Jerry, and I—we're the only ones who made it back.
-Carol
.
Daryl's fingers tighten around the letter, frustration coursing through his veins. She's right, and he knows it. Without the Kingdom's soldiers, they no longer have the numbers. Damn it! Just yesterday, he had stormed into battle, vowing to win this war for her, to ensure she'd never have to go to such lengths. He had promised her one thing, just one damn thing.
As he rises, the sound of their conversation infiltrates his thoughts. He yanks his shoes from the foot of their makeshift bed with a force that echoes his inner turmoil. Michonne's voice drifts through the air, tinged with doubt. "You were right, to make the call you did, us being here..." Her voice trails off as Daryl tugs on his ankle ties with forceful determination, his shoulders tight.
Michonne continues, her voice laden with worry, "But part of me feels I should've been out there, you know, on the front line. And now... it's like there's a siren going off in my head." As Daryl stands, ready to leave, he catches sight of Michonne standing with his wife, her fingers gently running through Judith's wispy hair. "I can't turn it off," she admits.
No way. He won't let it come to that. He's determined to see Rick's plan through, one way or another. "I get it," Alie responds softly as he brushes past the door. Both women glance at him, pausing their conversation momentarily, but as he strides past, he hears Alie's voice following him, "It's been a day and a half, all this waiting, all this not knowing... I just want this to be over."
The hallway bustles with activity, people clearing out rooms while others maneuver around with brooms and cleaning supplies. Daryl marches with purpose toward the exit.
He pushes past the double doors, heading for one of the garbage trucks left outside of Alexandria by the Scavengers after their first fight, now repurposed for hauling trash. However, he never makes it to the truck before he hears his name being called.
"Hey, Daryl!"
He halts, turning to spot Tara perched atop the school bus, their newly designated lookout post, with Cyndie standing on a secondary bus beside her. "Wait up!" she calls out, then quickly exchanges a few words with the younger woman before she descends down the hatch swiftly.
Daryl waits as Tara jogs towards him. "Hey dude," she greets him when she comes to a stop in front of him, catching her breath. "Ah, I just wanted to say you were right about Dwight." She rubs the back of her neck, a gesture filled with intent and anxiousness. "He did give us what we needed, but when this is over, he's mine," she declares, her voice dropping to a softer, more determined tone. "It's gotta be me, for Denise."
Looking into her eyes, Daryl sees a reflection of his own anger and frustration. He knows all too well the weight of personal vendettas. "Maybe you ain't gotta wait so long," he suggests, hinting at the plan brewing in his mind, knowing he could use the extra hand.
"What do you mean?" Tara steps closer, her interest piqued.
He nods towards the dumpster truck parked nearby, his expression set with resolve. "Let's go make sure we win this," he states firmly.
You stride down the corridor with renewed determination, the hallway buzzing with activity. Everyone pitches in to clean, focusing on one side of the school's corridor. The cafeteria at one end and the nurse's office at the other mark strategic points, while the classrooms in between are converted into living quarters, especially given the uncertain duration of your stay in this facility.
Your thoughts are scattered, tension coiling in your shoulders, yet your gaze casually drifts, scanning for your husband, hoping to share a brief break over lunch. Regret gnaws at you for not advocating more fiercely for your own plan, allowing the memories of Glenn and the rush of emotions to influence the strategy. Now, many are gone—Eric, who's been there for you in your darkest hours, and Gabriel... oh Gabriel, who seemed so dead set on blindly following. It's all just more weight on an already heavy conscience.
You barely slept last night, not only because of the unforgiving hardness of the floor but also due to the relentless scenarios playing through your mind. Another restless night has taken its toll, leaving you drained.
Your morning has been a whirlwind, with people constantly seeking your guidance while you juggle supervising and tending to your patients. The wounded from the recent battle needed their bandages changed and stitches checked—tasks you had meticulously performed just the night before. Fortunately, the raid on the outposts after the fight brought in plenty of antibiotics and pain meds, easing some of your burdens.
You meant what you said to Daryl: you have to prepare with the mindset that the Saviors will not simply give in. You must be ready for all possible outcomes. Tonight, you'll prepare your explosives. If the Saviors don't surrender by tomorrow, the consequences are on them.
With this resolve, you pause by the open double doors of the cafeteria, observing the ongoing work. The scene inside has drastically changed since yesterday: tables and chairs are stacked in a corner, the space cleaned, all signs of decay and dust gone. A few Alexandrians stand on one of the tables, solemnly painting the names of the fallen on the cream-colored walls—a memorial similar to those on Alexandria's outer walls.
In the center of the room, supplies are amassed—a mountain of provisions brought in last night, the spoils of war, just as Rick had said. Beatrice, Katy, and Amanda are busy inventorying, sorting through towering stacks of canned food, hefty bags of rice and corn, and the unmistakably large tribute of Hilltop sorghum. In the far corner, away from the food, large canteens of syphoned fuel are lined up against the wall, its pungent odor permeating the air.
"Alie!" Your name slices through the buzz of activity. Turning, you see Tobin approaching, half his face covered by a scarf and his hands clad in work gloves. "We got the water running, and two bathrooms up and working," he reports, standing before you and pulling off his mask to wipe his sweaty brow. "And Scott, he used to be an electrician. He's checking out the generator now. With any luck, we'll have power by tonight."
"Oh, that's great," you reply with a sigh of relief, grateful for the prospect of not having to ration water or conserve the dwindling supply of candles. "Thanks for the heads up, Tobin. Really good work." He nods in satisfaction and turns to leave, but you reach out to stop him. "Hey, before you go, have you seen Daryl?"
"No," he says, shaking his head before continuing on his way. You hum thoughtfully, turning towards the exit, wondering if Daryl is out volunteering for perimeter watch.
Stepping out of the double doors into the afternoon sun, you halt at the front entrance. There, Rosita is deep in conversation with Sasha and Cyndie by the school buses, the two holding rifles in hand, clearly on watch duty. Rosita's body language exudes frustration, and it dawns on you that, apart from your brief chat with Michonne earlier, you haven't seen anyone else from your core group today.
"Hey," you call out, approaching them. They turn to face you, tension evident in their expressions. "Where is everyone?"
"Your husband," Rosita starts instead, her tone thick with annoyance as she enunciates each word pointedly, "just busted through the Sanctuary's building."
"What?" You question, your eyes darting between the others for confirmation.
"Yeah, that's where everybody's at. Me and Michonne drove over to check things out," Rosita continues, stepping forward, her finger raised for emphasis. "Daryl, Tara, Morgan—and now Michonne too—decided to do things their way. Drove a truck right through their building, let the walkers flood in." You stand there, stunned, as Rosita vents further. "I tried to stop them, to stick to the plan and wait it out. But nooo, no one wants to listen to me." With a frustrated huff, she strides past you, leaving you to process this new development.
There's a momentary pause as Sasha and Cyndie exchange worried glances. "Now what?" Sasha asks softly.
"I don't know," you admit with a sigh, feeling the onset of a migraine as you pinch the bridge of your nose. Maybe this rash action will force a resolution, maybe now the Saviors have no choice but to surrender. "We just gotta wait and see, I guess."
The scene in the hallway is almost dreamlike, despite the earlier unease. You refrain from questioning Daryl or Tara about their actions upon their return, understanding why your husband deviated from the plan. Now, you find yourself seated on the clean floor among your people, soft conversations murmuring through the corridor. Glowing candles are strategically placed every few feet, away from the windows but catching the faint glimmers of the streetlight filtering through the school's high windows. Laughter occasionally punctuates the air, adding warmth to the scene as everyone enjoys their dinner.
Across from you, Daryl leans back against the wall, his booted leg resting snugly between your thighs, finally sharing a meal with you as you had hoped earlier. Both of you hold the military-grade, ready-to-eat meals, your spoons scraping against the brown packaging. The label on yours claims it contains a Mexican-style chicken burrito, though the contents look nothing like the description.
The plan for the generator fails through—Scott reports needing a new spark plug, which he suggests could be scavenged, or with a little tweaking, tap into the streetlights for source. Thanks to Virginia's underground power grid for semi-urban areas like this, the streetlights will likely remain functional for some time.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a soft giggle. Glancing up, you see Judith clambering over Amanda, who carefully guides the toddler away from the candles. Judith stumbles over to you, cheeks rosy and eyes gleaming with excitement. In one hand, she clutches an open bag of chips, and in the other, she extends a single chip toward you.
"For me?" you ask with a smile as Judith extends the chip further. You open your mouth, and as she feeds you the chip, you playfully pretend to chomp on her hand, making a gurgling noise. She yelps with the sweetest giggle, causing laughter around you. You glance across at Daryl, who watches the scene with a soft look on his face. Judith pulls out another chip and aims it towards you again, but the moment is abruptly shattered.
The blaring sound of a car horn—specifically, the school bus horn used as an alarm from your watch post—echoes through the empty school, startling everyone. The sweet moment evaporates; you leap to your feet as chaos erupts. Judith is swiftly lifted from the ground, candles blown out, and people scramble in anticipation of an attack. Your dinner is tossed aside as you grab the rifle that had been resting beside you, rushing to follow Daryl, who is already through the double doors, gun raised. The rest of your core group follows close behind.
Outside, the scene is frantic. A familiar van, its sides fortified with scrap metal, barges through, the brakes screeching just before the line of buses. It barely stops before Rick springs from the vehicle. Covered in sweat and grime, his eyes wide with urgency, he marches toward your group. "They got out!" he yells breathlessly.
You stare at him. "What?"
But Rick grabs your shoulder, his grip tight, almost shaking you. "The Saviors!" he explains, his voice trembling as if he's shaken to his core. "They got out, somehow. The snipers... they're all gone."
Instantly, you pull away, eyes wide, hand snatching your walkie-talkie from your hip. "Morgan, do you copy? Morgan?" you call into the device, but only static answers back. You wait a few seconds, but Morgan, who is leading the snipers, is silent.
The tension is palpable as Daryl grips his rifle; his expression grim. When you look at him, he begins in a troubled voice, "We were—I was tryin' to force 'em to surrender, leave 'em no choice."
"What are we gonna do?" Sasha asks, eyes darting between you and Rick, searching for a plan.
"First, we need to warn Maggie and Ezekiel." You state, thinking how they're in higher risk.
"Already done. Jerry and Carol are heading there—" his answer is cut off by a voice cutting through the heavy air.
"Rick!"
It's Michonne, sprinting towards the group from behind the school, eyes wide with urgency and sword in hand. She looks like she's been running full tilt, drawn by the horn. With a clatter, her sword hits the ground as she throws herself into Rick's arms. The embrace is fleeting; she pulls back quickly, her hand caressing Rick's bearded cheek, though her face is etched with worry rather than relief.
"The Saviors got out," Rick informs her gravely. The news nearly makes her stagger back, her distress evident as she bends over, taking deep breaths and clutching her stomach as if punched.
Looking up with a strained expression, Michonne drops a bombshell that sends a chill through everyone. "I think… I think Carl is missing," she chokes out, her voice tight, tears welling in her eyes.
"What do you mean, missing?!" Rick gasps, his gaze flicking from your confused face to the rest of the group.
"Amanda said she saw him earlier. He was with Judith—they were hand painting in the art classroom," Michonne explains, each word heavier than the last. "After that, he took some supplies and left, and no one has seen him since."
"Oh my god, what if he went out and they caught him?" Rosita interjects, and a wave of shock sweeps through the group, freezing everyone at the horrifying possibility.
Rick's demeanor shifts dramatically, staggering back as if the ground beneath him is spinning. He takes a deep breath, his voice on the edge of breaking. "Are you sure he's not here?"
Michonne nods vigorously, tears streaming down her face. "I've searched everywhere—the entire building, the athletic fields, the woods. He's NOT here, and it's not like him to just disappear."
Taking a deep breath, you step forward, striving to be the voice of reason. "Okay, okay. Don't panic. Let's just think this through," you urge, your voice steadier than you feel. "If they have him, they won't hurt him. They would want to use him—to make us surrender." The realization dawns heavy and cold—if Carl was indeed caught by the Saviors, he would be the perfect bait. "And there's only one place they would take him."
"Alexandria," Rick breathes, his eyes widening with the realization. And just like that, all hell breaks loose.
"Rick, wait!" you shout as he charges back towards the van, Michonne swiftly following with her sword back in her hand, sheathed and determination etched into her face.
You start barking orders as Daryl, Tara, Sasha, and Rosita rush towards your old sedan parked nearby. "Cyndie! You're in charge!" Your voice echoes across the lot as you swing open the school bus door, just as Rick's van roars out of the lot.
"Wha…Me?" she trails.
Inside, you quickly retrieve the backpack stashed under the driver's seat, packed with supplies for emergencies—rapid fingers verifying the ammunition, stun grenade, and smoke grenade nestled inside—supplies found in one of the outposts.
"You got this. Get everyone ready, and make sure we have eyes everywhere," you instruct Cyndie when you step back out, who nods, wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights, before sprinting back towards the building to rally support.
"Come on!" Daryl yells from the driver's seat, wrenching the car around with screeching tires. You sprint towards the vehicle, slinging the backpack over your shoulder and clutching your rifle. You slide into the empty backseat next to Sasha and Rosita.
The atmosphere inside the car is thick with anxiety as Daryl floors the gas pedal. You brace against the back of his seat, the car jerking forward under his intense focus, trying to catch up to Rick's van rapidly disappearing into the distance.
Tara turns from the front seat, her eyes searching yours for answers. "Do you think they got out because of what we did?" she asks, her gaze shifting between you and Daryl, whose hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
"It doesn't matter," you respond firmly, cutting off the conversation before it can spiral. You know Daryl is likely beating himself up over it, and rehashing the actions now won't help anyone.
After that, silence falls over the car, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional screech of tires as Daryl keeps pace with the fast and furious van ahead. Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously, your mind racing through potential scenarios awaiting you in Alexandria. Before you realize it, the familiar neighborhoods begin to pass by your window, signaling your rapid approach to what might be an unplanned battle or a desperate rescue.
"They're takin' the backroad." Daryl's voice snaps you back to the present. You lean forward between the passenger seats to see Rick's van veering onto a backroad leading into Alexandria.
"Probably a safer bet. If they're here, going through the front could be suicide," Rosita remarks beside you, her eyes scanning the darkened, deserted road lined with half-built, abandoned houses encircling the community. But the scene quickly shifts as the back outer wall comes into view, along with an unwelcome surprise under the glow of streetlights.
Two cars, manned by a few Saviors, block the road ahead. "Hang on tight!" Daryl grits his teeth and slams on the gas, accelerating to keep pace with Rick. Gunshots tear through the night as Rick returns fire, his rifle protruding from the window, bullets ripping through the air.
Tara instantly follows Rick's lead, rolling down her window and aiming her machine gun outside. The car fills with the cacophony of gunfire. You catch glimpses of Saviors scattering out of the way, still exchanging fire, as you duck down when a bullet pierces the side mirror.
Rick's van plows through the half-heartedly positioned cars blocking the road and smashes through Alexandria's wall. As your car zooms past the breach, you happen to peek out the side window, and it's there you lock eyes with Dwight, who leads the blockade.
That brief instant—that flick of a second seems to move in slow motion, as his expression shifts. With gun still in hand, he turns on his own people. Bing, Bing, Bing—his gunfire is rapid and decisive as he guns down the Saviors taking cover beside him.
Daryl slams on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt behind Rick's van. Disoriented but swift to react, you and the others spill out of the car. Rick is already moving, with Michonne at his side, her sword ready, gleaming in the dim light.
Your attention, however, is torn as you spot Dwight jogging towards you, only to be interrupted by a gunshot that causes him to stumble, clutching his arm where a bullet grazed him. "Tara! Stop!" you scream, lunging to intercept her.
"He's mine!" Tara shouts back, her anger palpable. Dwight ducks away, his hand pressed against his wounded arm, retreating into the shadows. Tara doesn't relent, chasing after him, gunfire continuing unabated.
"Just leave her," Daryl insists, grabbing your arm as you try to follow, both Tara and Dwight disappearing into the darkness. "They're here, so get ya gun up." He taps your rifle upward, redirecting your focus to the looming threat ahead.
Just then, more gunshots echo through the night, too distant to be Rick. Without hesitation, you sprint towards the sound, driven by the fear that it might be Carl, out here alone, trying to defend Alexandria.
Daryl and Sasha lead the charge, darting between houses with Rosita at your side, heading towards the town center. Suddenly, a deafening BOOM shakes the air—a house across from you erupts into flames. The blast nearly knocks you off your feet, its sound reverberating through like thunder.
More explosions rock Alexandria, grenades raining down amidst the pandemonium. Another loud bang follows as a heavy truck crashes through the main gate, its metal-on-metal grind adding to the terrifying clamor.
Negan's voice booms over a bullhorn, his words indistinct but unmistakably his. Ducked down, your hands work swiftly through the backpack, locating the smoke grenades. With a quick pull of the pins, a dense cloud of smoke billows out, providing cover.
Daryl's grip on your hand tightens, urgency mirroring the battles you've faced only days ago, as you seek refuge behind a nearby car. The smoke thickens, obscuring your view as enemies close in. Uncertain of Rick's or Michonne's whereabouts, you brace yourself for the imminent firefight, shrouded in smoke and darkness.
Then it begins.
Gunfire and explosions rattle the streets as the Saviors advance through the community. The burning houses cast a hellish glow, turning Alexandria into a war-torn battlefield. Each shot reverberates through you, ringing in your ears as the air fills with the acrid smell of gunpowder. Visibility diminishes to mere shadows through the thick smoke, and you fire at any hint of movement.
Daryl keeps you moving, never lingering too long in one spot. With Rosita and Sasha close behind, you retreat strategically. Utilizing the blinding flash of a stun grenade and the cover of smoke, you fall back, fully aware that this standoff won't last long before being overwhelmed. A wave of relief, however, washes over the tension as Rick appears with Michonne, supporting a visibly worn and injured Carl, weaving between the smoldering houses not far from your position.
"We got him, we gotta go!" Rick shouts urgently, guiding Carl with his arm draped over his shoulder. You launch your last stun grenades to cover your escape, rushing to join them.
"Down there," Carl gasps, pointing towards the sewers with labored breath. Reacting instantly, Daryl strides forward and wrenches open the heavy metal lid of the sewer entrance. Just as you're about to follow, a sudden rustle of footsteps from behind makes you and Sasha spin around, rifles raised, only to find Tara emerging from the smoke.
"Oh my god, it's me! It's me!" she cries, hands raised in surrender. You can't help but scoff at her sudden appearance, shooting her a pissed off look.
"He's not dead, if that's what you're thinkin'. He got away." She mumbles, referring to Dwight, as Rick descends into the sewer first, reaching up to help Carl down, followed by Michonne.
"We'll talk later," you state as Daryl claps a hand on your back.
"Come on," Daryl urges. You quickly sling your rifle over your shoulder and take Daryl's offered hand for support as you descend into the dim, musty underworld. One by one, the others follow, with Daryl securing the entrance by closing the lid behind him.
Inside the dank, stifling air of the sewer system greets you, filled with the smell of decay and damp mildew. You follow Rick through the labyrinthine tunnels, and as you round a bend, you're met with an unexpected sight.
"What the…" In a small, candle-lit enclave, an unfamiliar man sits, holding a very familiar military-grade, ready-to-eat meal in his hands. Startled by your arrival, he jumps up, the food momentarily forgotten.
Your eyes narrow in confusion as Carl nonchalantly waves at the man, while Rick assists him forward. Following closely behind, you scrutinize the stranger—a South Asian descent, with dark hair and deeply melanated skin framed by large brown eyes. He looks torn, simultaneously ready to bolt and utterly frozen in place.
Rick, however, appears unfazed as he carefully lowers Carl onto a cot tucked in the corner. You swiftly move to Carl's side beside Michonne, noting his paled complexion and the damp shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.
"What happened? You got shot?" you ask exigently, reaching to lift his shirt, but Carl's hand shoots to clasps over yours, halting you.
"Dad..." Carl whispers, his gaze locked on Rick, who returns the look with palpable worry. Carl exhales slowly, his eyes closing briefly, before he removes his hand, allowing you to gently lift his shirt.
Your breath catches at the sight of the bite on Carl's ribs, stealing the air from your lungs. You cover your mouth, stifling any noise that threatens to escape. Looking up, you find Rick, his expression that of a man watching his world shatter. His mouth moves, words stumbling out almost disjointedly, struggling to reconcile the sight with reality.
"I-I don't…" he stammers, his voice trailing off, speaking more to himself than anyone else.
"I wasn't sure if you'd make it back in time," Carl murmurs, smoothing his shirt back down. "Just in case, y'know... I wanted to make sure I could say goodbye to everyone." He adds, his voice weak as he extracts folded notes from his back pocket.
Michonne's hands tremble as she takes the letters, her eyes shifting from the paper to you, profound horror etched across her face. Beyond the immediate conflicts, wars, and deaths you've faced, the real threat lurks out there, forgotten until now.
Carl reaches for his father's hand, attempting to ground him in the present. "I got bit, Dad. Was tryin' to bring someone back... the guy we saw at the gas station before." He explains, nodding towards the South Asian man who watches on with a lost expression. "He wasn't gonna make it out there alone. Thought Alexandria'd be empty, and he could stay here till I talked to you."
Turning his attention to you, Carl's breathing labors from the exertion of speaking. "Alie, this is my friend, Siddiq. He's a doctor too."
Despite the grave atmosphere, a small smile plays on Carl's lips as he introduces you. "Siddiq, this is Doctor Alice."
Those words seem to trigger something in Rick. His wide-eyed stare lands on you, desperation mingling with a fleeting glimpse of hope. "Alie…" he breathes, as if the mere invocation of your name could somehow restore what has been lost. "Y-you can do somethin', r-right? Yeah, y-you can." he falters, nodding fervently as you slowly shake your head, the reality too grim to soften.
"Rick," you whisper, your voice strained with emotion, tears brimming in your eyes as you behold the man before you, staring at you like a lifeline, as if you could fix the unfixable.
But Rick moves with desperate energy, stumbling over the cot in a frantic plea. "Please! P-please just, j-just listen, okay?" he begs, tears carving paths down his cheeks. You recoil slightly, heart shattering under the weight of his plea, but Rick's grasp is quick, his fingers clamping around your wrist. "Think of something, okay. Y-you can do it. There's gotta be something."
"Rick, please!" you cry out, overwhelmed, as you press back against the sewer wall. "You know there's nothing I can do."
"No! No!" Rick's denial is visceral, his grip tightening painfully, his nails digging into your skin as he refuses to accept the truth. "You haven't even tried! J-just try! Please! Try!" His voice is thick with desperation, his eyes red, dissociated yet hauntingly clear as he stares at you.
"Dad!" Carl interjects, struggling to rise, only to be overtaken by a coughing fit. Michonne reaches to support him, while Daryl steps forward, his hand firmly landing on Rick's arm that holds you.
"Rick," Daryl pleads softly, his gaze earnest, tugging gently at him. "It's a bite, brother. It's a bite."
At that, Rick's tension breaks. His hand releases your wrist as if suddenly aware of what's happening. Daryl pulls you to his side, giving you a moment to recover as Rick's gaze wanders, taking in the dimly lit space filled with the somber faces of those who understand the gravity of the moment.
"It's my boy," Rick sobs, the words torn from deep within as he collapses back beside the cot, leaning to embrace his son. "My son. It's my baby boy."
Tears mingle between father and son as Carl clings to him, whispering, "Dad, I'm sorry."
Above you, another explosion shakes the sewer, the sound of the Saviors' continued assault on Alexandria vibrating through the ground. Rick's head snaps up, dust and debris filtering down from the ceiling. "It's them. They—they did this," he says, desperate to find a target for his grief, to make sense of it all.
"No, Dad," Carl whispers, his voice weak but insistent as he looks from his father to Michonne, then back to you. "It was just an accident. It just happened."
Rick's head drops, the fight draining out of him as a heavy silence settles. You sit a foot away, nestled into Daryl's side, your tears silently spilling over as he holds you close, offering the only comfort he can in the bleakness of the sewer.
The irony gnaws at you. You had wanted to blow up the Sanctuary, fought for it, and now it's them bombing Alexandria. Your face has been buried in Daryl's chest for what feels like an eternity, his fingers threading through your hair in a futile attempt at comfort. You try to focus on his heartbeat, using it as an anchor while each explosion rattles your bones.
Time blurs, slipping by too fast, yet each second feels excruciatingly prolonged, as if you want to stretch it out for Carl's sake. You can't bring yourself to look at Rick, who sits in silent agony, whispering and weeping with his son, whose life ebbs away with each passing moment. The defeat and loss radiates from him, echoing in the faces of everyone around you. This shouldn't happen; it's not fair for any parent to bury their child.
In eerie synchronicity with your thoughts, the space suddenly darkens. You lift your head, wiping away silent tears to see everyone looking around, snapped out of their own thoughts by the extinguished candles. The only illumination now comes from the dim glow outside, filtering through the bars of the sewer opening down the tunnel.
"It's quiet," Sasha says, her voice breaking the heavy silence. She looks up, listening intently. "It's been quiet for a while now."
Rick's face is a portrait of despair as he addresses the group. "We gotta get him out of here," he says, looking down at Carl. "It can't be here."
"Yeah, kinda stinks in here," Carl attempts a weak joke, trying to lighten the somber mood.
You pull back as Daryl stands to help, moving to the other side of the cot where Michonne is. Together, they lift Carl gently, his strength clearly waning. Everyone hovers close as they guide him back to the entryway. Daryl is the first to climb up, sliding the lid open and pulling himself out with ease. One by one, the group is pulled up, with Rick carefully lifting Carl into Daryl's waiting arms.
Outside, the world is an inferno, flames illuminating the night as if it were day, with scattered walkers shambling aimlessly. Sasha and Rosita scan the area, ever alert. You approach them, tapping Tara aside too. "Let's give Rick a moment. Can you guys get Siddiq to the car? We need to get him out safely, and the fire is drawing walkers," you whisper.
"Yeah," Sasha replies solemnly. Stepping forward, she gestures for Siddiq. You move aside as Siddiq bids a quiet farewell to Carl, shaking hands like men, with words too soft to hear. Rosita, Sasha, and Tara quickly give Carl tearful hugs, the moment feeling hurried as he leans heavily on his father. With a final glance backward, they guide Siddiq to the car.
"There," you point towards your laboratory nestled in the heart of the community—the former church's brick exterior mostly intact despite being marred by explosions and smoldering damage. Michonne moves to the other side to support Carl as you take the lead, gun raised. Daryl covers the rear, keeping the trio tightly huddled together.
Moments later, you push open the double doors of the church. Inside, the damage is unmistakable: grenade blasts have shattered the once-beautiful stained-glass windows, charred the wooden floor, and left your workstation in ruins, with the books reduced to ashes. Despite this, it offers a semblance of refuge as Rick and Michonne guide Carl towards the small stage in the far corner, where a preacher's podium once stood.
You linger by the entryway for a moment, catching Daryl's eye as he ascends the steps. A heavy breath escapes you as you stare at him, hot tears falling down your cheeks. Your hand rises to your mouth, stifling a scream that threatens to break free, as you finally accept what's happening.
Daryl steps forward, pulling you into his embrace. His face betrays the weight of the moment, his tough exterior cracking. You stand with him, torn between giving them a moment and your duty inside. As a doctor, you know Rick would want you there.
"Oh god," you murmur, pulling away from Daryl, "I should probably be in there." You acknowledge out loud, more to yourself than to your husband. You wipe your cheeks, steeling yourself for what's to come. With a squeeze of Daryl's hand, you leave him to keep watch.
Inside, you approach the stage, kneeling beside Michonne. Carl looks ghostly pale, his eyes sunken, his forehead feverishly hot to your touch. You grasp his wrist, feeling his erratic heartbeat beneath your fingers. He's fading… doesn't have long now.
Carl's eyes lock with yours, and you feel the weight of helplessness settle in your chest. "Oh, Carl," you whisper softly, withdrawing your hand from his forehead to hold his gaze, uncertain of how to console a young boy nearing the end. "I'm so sorry. I wish... there was something I can do."
"I know," he accepts quietly, managing a weak smile that's profoundly heartbreaking. "Maybe one day, you could. You could find the cure, y'know. I believe in you." His words catch in your throat, each one laden with a weight that makes your heart sink further.
You turn away, unable to meet his earnest gaze. Tears blur your vision as he continues, his voice growing fainter. "It's gotta stop, Alie… all this fighting." His hand shifts in yours, so that instead of his wrist, it's his hand you're holding now, urging you to face him. "It's not supposed to be like this. I know you're hurting. And ever since Negan came into our lives, you've changed, hardened. But please don't let him turn you into something you're not."
His earnest gaze implores you to listen, his voice breaking as if holding back tears. "You're kind, smart, and people—they feel safe and hopeful around you," he insists, pleadingly. Reluctantly, you meet his gaze, seeing in his blue eyes a reflection of Rick's, who watches the exchange with a resigned expression.
"You can't blow up the Sanctuary," Carl presses on. "You can't. That's not who you are. There are families in there, kids—kids that you wanted to protect, to heal the world for. People who could've been one of us, but they found him first."
"Carl," your voice cracks, heavy with emotion. "The world doesn't work that way. I wish it did—I really do. But things aren't as black and white." You pause, grappling with how to explain the harsh realities of the world to a 14-year-old who's seen far too much, done too much, yet not lived long enough to understand the nuances of gray in between.
"But it could work that way. You can make it work that way. My dad will help you, and you could help him," Carl insists, straining to make his point heard, each word a gasp, his strength fading by the second. "It could be like back at the prison, when we took in the people of Woodbury. We all pulled together, looked out for each other." Carl's plea is impassioned, his weary voice piercing the solemn air with a hope that seems too bright against the shadows of his own life. "You said, 'We fight not because we hate what's in front of us, but because we love what's behind us, what still could be.' Didn't you? What else are we fighting for, if not that? What's the point of any of this if there's nothing left at the end?"
There's a heavy pause as he catches his breath, squeezing your hand, while you consider his idealism. "I want you to win, to find peace, to find another way. Rebuild, figure out the cure. Do it for Judith, for your future kids, and for all the children in the Sanctuary." When you remain silent, lost in your own turmoil, he pleads more desperately, "Alie, please."
"Okay. Okay," you sigh with a nod, leaning in to comfort him, brushing his long, sweaty hair back. "I promise. I won't put any of those innocent families at risk. I'll try to find a middle ground, figure it out. And afterward, I'll work hard, alright? It's gonna be okay; don't you worry about that."
Carl exhales a sigh of relief, his eyes flicking to his father with a small triumphant smile, then back to you. "Good," he murmurs, his voice weak yet filled with hope. "I wish I could be there to see it." His gaze drifts upwards, lost in a memory. "You know, before Mom died... she told me I was gonna beat this world. I didn't. But I'm happy to know, maybe Judith will."
Caught in the moment, in those words, an idea—a desperate, last-ditch effort to find some meaning in this tragedy—strikes you. You glance at Rick, your stomach churning with the enormity of what you're about to propose. "Maybe you could," you begin hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe not in the way your mom had in mind." You hold Carl's gaze, the words choking in your throat. "I want to ask you something."
"Go ahead, ask away," Carl encourages, his expression open and gentle.
"You were bitten," you begin softly, the words bitter on your tongue. "I could... I could take samples... if you allow it. If you're willing to let me." You ask, the implication hanging heavily in the air, punctuated by Michonne's sharp intake of breath at the suggestion. "So one day we can make all this make sense… make it mean something."
But Carl remains calm, almost amused by the simplicity of the request in the face of such complexity. "Yeah, of course," he breathes out simply, a soft, tired chuckle escaping him. "Take it, whatever you need. Take it from me."
When you glance up, Rick's face is buried in his hands, his shoulders tense with grief and the weight of your request. Yet, he does not object, instead allowing Carl to lead with courage. In this act, as in all things the boy has done, Carl offers a piece of himself in the hopes that it might one day contribute to a cure. This selfless gesture, perhaps his final one, cements his legacy as someone who could indeed "beat this world," not through survival, but through the lasting impact of his choices and beliefs.
"Okay," you murmur to yourself, nodding slightly as you process what you're about to do. "Okay."
Taking a deep, steadying breath, you rise and survey the charred remnants of the room, hoping against hope that what you need will miraculously appear.
Thinking fast on your feet, you make your way towards the side door that leads down to the basement. At the top of the stairs, you pause, noticing smoke curling up from below. Undeterred, you pull the sleeve of your military jacket over your mouth and nose, shielding yourself from the smoke, before descending into the darkness. Fortunately, the fire hasn't reached the lower level yet.
Inside the dim storage room, smoke seeps in through broken windows, casting an eerie glow from the flames outside. You rush to the large metal shelf, pulling out boxes containing unused petri dishes, labels, and syringes—tools from your former experiments. Your eyes water, a cough catching in your throat, as you scan the room for anything else useful, aware that collecting samples is one thing, but storing them properly is quite another challenge.
Then you spot the metal cabinet holding your chemicals, left behind but invaluable now. "Enzymes themselves aren't dangerous, but they're stored in liquid nitrogen to maintain their ideal temperature," you recall explaining to Glenn once, preparing him for what to expect when raiding the NIH building.
Eagerly, you approach the cabinet, slipping on protective gloves hooked to its side and opening the heavy lid. Inside, large torpedo-shaped cylinders are hooked onto a railing, arranged alphabetically, per Eugene's organizational style. Carefully, you uncork one, sliding your hand to retrieve the sealed flask of enzymes sitting in liquid nitrogen.
You leave the flask of enzymes behind, the heavy empty cylinder safely capped and tucked securely against your chest, while simultaneously balancing the boxes containing your tools. What you need is the liquid nitrogen to freeze your samples until it's time. You ascend the exit stairs quickly, coughing and gasping for clean air.
At the top, your pace slows.
Rick is hunched over Carl, murmuring softly to him, while Michonne tenderly strokes the boy's hair. Carl, gathering what little strength he has left, reaches for the sheriff's hat beside him and hands it to his father. "For Judith," he says, his voice weak but filled with poignant resolve.
Rick's face, streaked with tears, lifts to meet yours as you approach. Hat in his hand, he slowly scoots back, making space for you. Michonne leans down to kiss Carl's forehead before moving beside Rick. You place your items on the ground and kneel next to Carl.
It seems Carl has convinced them to leave the room for what's to come because Rick and Michonne slowly get up, backing away, yet unable to truly depart. "It's okay, Dad," Carl murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring. "Everything's gonna be okay."
Rick nods, his tears unabating, but he manages to muster a facade of strength. "Goodbye, son," he whispers, his voice breaking.
"I'll be with him," you offer quietly, understanding he shouldn't be here to witness the end. Rick's eyes meet yours, nodding slowly as he steps back further. You watch them reluctantly leave, their figures silhouetted against the fiery backdrop. Turning your attention back to Carl, he looks up at you with those big, trusting eyes, his breathing shallow but seeming at peace.
With that, you begin, moving gently around Carl to untie and unlace one of his shoelaces, occasionally glancing up at him. Returning to his side, you carefully unbutton his plaid shirt sleeves, methodically rolling them up.
"How you holding up?" you ask, watching as each breath becomes more laborious for him, the darkness around his eyes seemingly deepening.
"I'm still here," he mutters weakly. Working swiftly, you tie the string tightly around his bicep to restrict blood flow as you prepare to draw a sample. Focused entirely on the task, you find a vein and carefully insert the needle, drawing vacutainers one after the other with Carl's blood as you monitor his condition closely.
Once done, you release the makeshift tourniquet from his arm and begin preparing your labels before placing your samples into the liquid nitrogen. However, at that moment, you notice Carl's hand shifting towards the familiar pistol equipped with a homemade suppressor attached to his hip. Your response is instantaneous; your hand shoots out and grasps his wrist, stopping his movement.
"No, you can't," you whisper, your voice tight with emotion, realizing he might not have fully understood the extent of your earlier request.
"Oh, Carl." Gently, you stroke his hair with tenderness. "It's a bite. For me to collect accurate samples, you'll need to turn." You explain the harsh necessity: premortem blood samples are only the start—you will also need postmortem samples and, crucially, samples after he turns, including brain tissue.
Carl emits a weary chuckle, a somber acknowledgment passing across his features. "Of course," he whispers, closing his eyes in a sigh of resignation. When he opens them again, his eyes are pleading. "After... it just can't be Dad," he murmurs.
"Of course not. I'd never let that happen. I'll be here, every step of the way," you promise, your voice steady despite the daunting task ahead. You know that when the time comes, you will never let Rick put a bullet in his walker son. You will be there to grant him peace, as you wish you had done for his mother. "I'll do it."
Carl exhales slowly, his eyes fluttering shut once more. You take his hand in yours, squeezing it gently, trying to offer some solace in these last moments. The dim light from the flames outside filters through the remnants of a once-beautiful stained-glass window, casting a warm, golden glow over his pallid face.
All the grief you've experienced until now falls over you like a mountain, shrouding you in dark thoughts as you watch his young face, prematurely aged by the trials he's endured. The dusty ashes around him seem to shimmer in the firelight, lending the scene an ethereal, fragile quality.
Now, there's nothing left to do but wait for what will happen in the moments to come.
The muffled gunshot still rings in your ears, dissipating slowly into the morning air as you walk out of the church, head bowed, your movements sluggish and haunted. Your hands, smeared with blood, tremble as you clutch the cylinder to your chest, Carl's gun dangling limply from your finger. Tears streak your reddened face, your shoulders slumped in defeat, and your gaze remains fixed on the ground ahead, avoiding the sight of Rick sitting on the steps, his grief manifesting in loud, heart-wrenching cries. Michonne stands a few feet beside you, her whole-body rigid, shoulders shaking with her own silent tears.
The gun slips from your finger and clatters to the ground, but you can't muster the energy to pick it up. You push forward, descending the steps, each movement heavier than the last, dragging yourself down the street. The dying flames flank you from the burning houses, flickering like ghastly spectators, casting eerie shadows on the broken asphalt, while Rick's sobs form a mournful backdrop to the rising sun and the pervasive scent of smoke.
Almost instinctively, your feet carry you to what was once considered home—a brief walk you've taken countless times before from your lab. You stare at it; the house stands half-devoured by flames, the remnants of dreams and memories smoldering within its charred walls. This was the place where you imagined a future filled with laughter and love, dreams of raising your kids. A home that once held the echoes of Jamie's laughter and Merle's shenanigans.
Through the shimmering flames, your mind conjures an image of Deanna, as vivid as if she were standing on the porch just as you last saw her, holding Reg's blueprints, filled with dreams of the future. Her gaze meets yours across the smoky divide—she smiles at you, gentle and maternal, almost real enough to touch.
A sob catches in your throat as the reality crashes down—this was supposed to be the beginning, not the end. Carl's death, the burning of Alexandria, it all seems to signify the inevitable demise of all you had hoped to build. It's all gone. All of it. Lost as the smoke rising into the sky.
Hugging the cylinder even tighter, tears cascade down your cheeks, a sob loud and raw tearing through you, a physical manifestation of all your pain. The world around you blurs into a haze of ache and smoke until a sudden bang snaps you back to reality. You flinch as a bullet whooshes past inches from your head, striking a walker that had unknowingly crept up on you.
Turning, you see Daryl lowering his gun and rushing toward you. "Hey—hey, it's okay, I gotchu. It's okay." He assures you, gently prying the cylinder from your grasp. Your bloody hands hover uncertainly in the air as your body is wracked with sobs. Daryl pulls you into his chest, your bloodied hands pinned between you, and you let go of the pent-up grief. His words of comfort are muffled against your ear, though you can barely hear them over your own cries. Gently, he guides you away, keeping you close, his arm securely around you. He leads you back to where you left the cars, back to where the others await.
.
Dear Alie,
I still remember the first day you came to the prison, with Charles and Jamie. My dad said to me then that finding you was a miracle. His miracle. I didn't realize it at the time, but how true his words were.
I still remember my mom following you around the prison. I was so angry at her then, and Dad kept his distance… I didn't realize how alone, scared, and pregnant she must have felt, and your presence made her feel safe. Not just for herself and the baby, but for the future too. You gave her hope when she needed it the most.
You have always had a way of bringing light to those around you, making them believe that things can be better. You could go back to being that person, Alie. You can still be who you were, who you are. You could be everyone's miracle, including the people in the Sanctuary building.
My dad is going to need you now more than ever. Losing me is going to hurt him, it's going to break him. He'll blame himself, like he always does. Please take care of him. And Judith and Michonne too. They're going to need you as much as he does.
Take care, Alie. Find peace and be happy.
Thank you for being my miracle too.
- Carl
.
Notes:
I know some of you might be upset about Carl's death. Why save Merle and Sasha and not do the same for him, especially since the comic was based on his point of view? But if I did, the story would deviate too much from the show, and I also wanted his death to have meaning.
