The forest finally gave way to patchy fields and narrow backroads, but by then, Joe was barely conscious.
Andrea half-dragged, half-carried him, her arm locked under his to keep him upright.
Each of his steps was a stumble, each breath a wet, rattling sound that terrified her more than any walker could.
Amy followed close behind, Julian strapped to her chest and Grace clutched in her arms.
Her eyes were wide with panic but she refused to break down. They had to keep moving. They had to.
When they reached the small van in a ditch, Andrea almost cried with relief.
She laid Joe gently against the side of the vehicle and smashed the driver's side window with her elbow, ignoring the sting of glass in her skin.
Sliding inside, she tore through the wires beneath the steering column.
"Come on, come on…" she muttered, her voice shaking as she worked.
The engine coughed but refused to catch. She slammed her palm against the wheel. "COME ON!"
The van roared to life.
She scrambled out, rushing to Joe. His body swayed dangerously as he coughed up blood.
Amy caught his arm, and together they heaved him into the back.
Andrea jumped into the driver's seat while Amy climbed into the passenger side, twisting around to keep her eyes on Joe.
He lay on his side, facing Amy and the babies, his gaze hazy but locked on them.
His eyes began to droop.
"Stay with me!" Amy's voice was sharp, desperate.
Joe's lids fluttered, then snapped open.
His expression hardening into something so cold and unyielding that it froze her heart.
"If I die," he rasped, blood bubbling at his lips, "don't hesitate."
Amy shook her head violently, tears streaming.
"Promise me!" he demanded, voice breaking but fierce. "I need to hear it."
Amy swallowed a sob. "I promise," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Andrea's own vision blurred as she gripped the wheel tighter.
Julian and Grace began to cry softly, their tiny voices somehow louder than the roaring engine.
"I love you," Joe said weakly, and then his body slumped, finally losing the last trace of strength still in his body.
Amy panicked, her hands hovering over him, until she saw the faint rise and fall of his chest.
They reached a small, abandoned town as the sun reached its peak.
Andrea screeched the van to a halt in front of the first intact house she saw, sprinted to the door, and kicked it open.
Clear.
Amy and Andrea dragged Joe inside, laying him on the floor.
Amy grabbed the babies and set them aside on a blanket while Andrea tore through her pack for what little Hershel had taught her to use.
She stitched the bullet wound as best as she could, ignoring Joe's occasional groans.
Then came the machete.
Andrea froze, staring at the handle jutting from his chest. "Amy… I…"
Amy met her eyes, nodded once. "Do it."
Andrea gripped the handle, took a steadying breath, and pulled.
Joe's eyes snapped open with a guttural sound, his body arching in pain.
Amy pinned his shoulders, whispering frantic reassurances until the blade clattered to the floor.
Andrea immediately checked the wound... it had miraculously missed anything vital.
She stitched it closed while Amy flipped him to sew up the back.
Finally, they bandaged his chest with strips of curtain fabric and propped him up with a couch cushion.
Amy's trembling hands stroked his face as Andrea collapsed by her side, too drained to move.
Sleep took them both, eventually.
...
The soft whimpers of Julian and Grace stirred Amy from her uneasy rest.
She fed them in silence, her mind swirling with fear for Joe, for her sisters, for what future they even had left.
A sound broke through her thoughts... low, pained groaning from behind her.
Amy froze.
She set the babies down carefully and reached for her knife.
The sound grew louder, closer. Her heart pounded.
She turned to see Joe's fingers twitch, his face contorting as though in agony.
He groaned again.
Amy's hand trembled on the hilt of her knife. She didn't think she could do it—not to him.
But she had promised.
She lifted the blade. Her breath caught.
A hand shot out, gripping her wrist with surprising strength.
Amy gasped. Joe's eyes cracked open, dull but alive. "Amy…" he rasped.
Her knife clattered to the floor as she collapsed over him, sobbing into his shoulder.
...
When Andrea returned, supplies in hand, but no antibiotics, she entered to find the main room empty.
Panic surged through her as she tore through the house, calling for them.
She skidded to a stop at the doorway of a small bedroom.
Joe lay on a bed, pale but alive.
Julian and Grace rested on his chest, tiny fists clutching at his shirt.
Amy was curled at his side, her face pressed to his shoulder, her arm draped protectively over him.
Andrea's breath hitched. Tears welled and spilled as she stepped inside silently, setting her pack down before sinking onto the bed beside him.
She pressed a trembling kiss to his cheek, then rested her head near his, closing her eyes as relief washed over her.
Outside, the world was still cruel and uncertain. But for this moment, in this small, fragile bubble of safety, they had him back.
And that was everything.
...
Andrea awoke in the dim light of dawn, the room quiet save for Joe's labored breathing and the soft sighs of Amy and the babies.
She sat up carefully, stretching the ache from her limbs, and glanced at Joe.
His skin was clammy, his face drawn tight with fever.
They needed antibiotics. Soon, or he wouldn't survive.
She adjusted the strap of her pistol, grabbed her knife, and slung her nearly empty pack over her shoulder.
She took one last look at Amy... still curled protectively against Joe.
Then slipped out the door into the silent, dead town.
The first house was empty.
Dust-choked air and overturned furniture, the stench of rot lingering faintly.
Andrea moved through with practiced precision, opening cabinets, drawers, and closets.
A few cans of food and a half-full water bottle went into her pack, but nothing else.
The second house was worse. Two walkers lingered in the kitchen, gnawing at a long-dead carcass.
Andrea didn't hesitate... two quick thrusts of her knife to the skulls, one after the other, and they dropped.
She searched the house thoroughly, her breath growing heavier with each passing minute of failure.
The third and fourth houses yielded only frustration.
Spoiled food, ransacked cabinets, and a single intact jar of applesauce which she clutched like a treasure.
Still no antibiotics.
The last house on the block leaned precariously to one side, its roof half-collapsed.
The door hung open, creaking softly in the breeze. Andrea approached warily, knife in hand, and stepped inside.
The smell hit her first... death, old and pungent.
In the living room, two figures sat slumped together on the couch, their skeletal hands clasped.
Skulls bearing self-inflicted bullet wounds. Beside them lay a moldy backpack.
Andrea knelt, unzipping the main compartment. Empty. Her heart sank... then her fingers found a small inner zipper.
She yanked it open and nearly wept at the sight of several small bottles of antibiotics nestled inside, still sealed.
"Thank God," she whispered, tucking them securely into her pack.
She left the house at a run, weaving through the streets with renewed urgency.
The world outside remained eerily silent, but every shadow felt like a threat.
She killed two straggling walkers on the way back, dispatching them with cold efficiency before sprinting down the overgrown road to their hideout.
As she reached the house, Andrea's chest tightened with fear. What if she'd taken too long? What if...
She shoved the door open and froze in relief.
Inside, Amy sat against the wall, cradling Julian and Grace.
Joe still lay on the bed, pale but breathing. Amy's eyes flicked up at Andrea, widening when she saw the pack in her hand.
"Did you...?"
Andrea knelt beside her, pulling out the bottles. "Yeah. I found them."
Amy's lip trembled as she hugged her sister briefly, hard. Andrea pulled back, glancing at Joe's still form.
"We've got a chance now," she said softly. "He's gonna make it."
For the first time since the prison fell, hope felt real.
...
The room was dim, lit only by the pale morning light filtering through the boarded-up windows.
Joe lay unconscious on the bed, his breathing shallow but steady.
Andrea sat at his side, carefully tilting a bottle of antibiotics and pressing the dropper to his lips.
"Come on," she coaxed gently. "Swallow."
Joe stirred faintly, a weak reflex making him obey.
She sighed with relief and wiped his mouth before capping the bottle and setting it aside.
Amy sat cross-legged nearby, feeding Julian and Grace one at a time.
When she was done, she rummaged through their meager supplies and pulled out a single cup of applesauce.
She didn't hesitate, handing it to Andrea.
"Eat," Amy said quietly.
Andrea accepted it without protest, peeling back the foil.
She took a small spoonful and passed it back to Amy, who smiled faintly and shared the next bite.
They ate in silence, side by side, taking solace in each other's presence.
For the first time in days, Andrea felt like they had a future.
...
Miles away, the bar smelled of dust and old liquor, a stale refuge from the nightmare outside.
Rick lay in the back room on a makeshift bed of blankets and coats, his face pale and drawn, bandaged wounds seeping faintly.
Each night, Carl cleaned them with the harsh burn of alcohol, gritting his teeth against his father's groans.
Their food was sparse but sustaining.
Stale peanuts, jars of preserved meats and vegetables. Even a jar of pig's feet Carl had found behind the bar.
Clementine made a face every time she opened the jar, but she ate it anyway.
Rick had barely moved in days, his fever rising and falling like a tide.
...
That night, groans rose outside.
A group of walkers, perhaps a dozen, drawn by the faint light inside.
Their fists pounded softly but insistently on the door, their moans rising in a terrible chorus.
Carl and Clementine worked quickly, dragging what furniture they could to reinforce the barricade.
The door creaked under the strain, dust falling from the frame.
"Come on, hold," Carl whispered through gritted teeth.
Just as it seemed like the wood would splinter, the groans began to fade.
One by one, the sounds diminished until silence reigned again.
The two kids stood frozen, breathing hard.
Then... a soft knock.
Carl spun toward the door, gun raised. "What do you want?"
A familiar voice answered, low but clear. "It's me."
Carl's heart leapt. He glanced at Clem, who lowered her pistol, and together they shoved the barricade aside.
When they opened the door, Michonne stood there, covered in grime and dried blood but alive.
Carl and Clem hugged her tight, clinging to her like a lifeline. "We thought you..." Carl started.
"I'm here," Michonne interrupted softly, her voice cracking.
...
Carl led her to the back room.
Rick stirred as they entered, his eyes fluttering open. "You're… ok," he rasped.
Michonne knelt beside him, taking his hand in both of hers.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over despite her best efforts. "Yeah," she whispered. "But Elize…"
She choked on the words, unable to finish.
Rick's gaze softened, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Elize didn't make it," he said quietly.
The room went utterly still.
Carl's lip trembled. Clementine turned away, wiping at her eyes.
Michonne bent over Rick's chest, sobbing quietly as he weakly wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Suddenly, her eyes shot open, "Judith?"
Rick shook his head, "We saw her car seat..." Michonne hugged him, both shedding tears.
Carl and Clem joined them, their grief spilling out in silence.
A small family mourning yet another loss in a world that refused to stop taking.