[{On the roof of the department store…}]
A handcuffed and delirious Merle Dixon rocks back and forth against the pipe, mumbling to himself.
"Shouldn't've done it like that... should've just shut up, kept my head down..."
His ramblings drift into a story from his past, muttering about a man he beat half to death for staring too long at his truck. His eyes glaze over, lost in a chaotic blend of memory and madness—until a bang jolts him.
The rooftop door rattles.
From the other side, muffled growls and scratching pierce the air. Walkers. Merle's eyes go wide, heart pounding as he screams in desperation, tugging wildly at the cuffs.
"...somebody—somebody help me!"
When no answer comes, he drops his head and mutters a broken prayer.
"Lord… I ain't your best man, I know that… but I ain't ready, I can do better... just give me the strength."
His eyes land on a hacksaw lying on the rooftop near an overturned toolbox—just out of reach.
Merle's whole body stiffens. A flicker of savage resolve returns to his face. He pulls off his belt, looped with the big metal buckle, and begins tossing it, trying to hook the saw.
[{On the road…}]
The van barrels down the highway, heading for the survivors' camp.
Inside, things are quiet—too quiet.
Andrea breaks it. "So… where'd you get that revolver?" she asks Amos, nodding to the black Colt Python on his hip.
Amos leans back, voice calm. "Saw it under a pile of clothes on the way down from the roof. Guess someone left it behind."
The others glance at one another, uncertain, but say nothing more. The tension dies with that answer.
Morales exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We need to stop thinking about Merle. Ain't nobody gonna miss that man except his brother Daryl."
Amos' jaw tightens subtly. He narrows his eyes at Morales' words, but stays silent, staring out through the windshield as the trees whip by.
Rick keeps his hands on the wheel, eyes ahead, saying nothing.
[{At the camp…}]
Lori leaned over Carl, scissors in hand, giving him a quick trim. The boy winced with every snip, cheeks flushed, but he held still. A soft moment amidst the chaos.
A few feet away, Shane laughed with Jim, teasing. "Catch some frogs, fry the legs up nice and crispy," he promised with a grin.
Lori wrinkled her nose. "You're disgusting."
Shane smirked, eyes gleaming. "You'll be beggin' for frog legs once the food runs out."
Their easy banter shattered with a sudden roar—the distant wail of an engine, followed by the harsh screech of a blaring car alarm.
Glenn's red Dodge Challenger skidded into the camp, tires squealing against cracked pavement, the alarm piercing the tense air.
Amy came running, panic written across her face. "Where's Andrea? Is she okay? Is she with you?"
Dale flailed his arms, urgency breaking through. "Shut that damn alarm off before it drags every walker in Georgia!"
Jim popped the hood and yanked at the wires, silencing the siren just as Rick's van rolled up nearby.
Amy kept firing questions, but Glenn held up a hand. "She's fine. Everyone's okay."
Then his voice dropped. "Except Merle."
Shane stepped forward, voice sharp as a blade. "And you thought blasting back here in a screaming car was smart?"
Glenn shrugged, tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
People gathered around, greeting those stepping out of the van.
But Rick lingered inside, still, like a shadow weighing down the cramped space.
Amos nudged him gently. "Come on, man. Let's go."
Rick sighed, exhaustion and something deeper in his eyes. "Not in the mood for a welcome party."
Amos placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "They need to see you. You made it. That means something."
Before Rick could answer, Morales called out from outside, voice carrying. "Hey helicopter boys, come on! Everyone's waiting!"
Amos swung the van door open and gave Rick a small push—just enough to get him moving.
Rick and Amos stepped out into the camp.
And in that moment, everything changed.
[{Across the camp…}]
The survivors embrace one another in the glow of reunion. Lori and Carl watch silently from a distance, Carl's bottom lip trembling. Lori gently takes his hand and leads him away, her eyes lingering on the joyful reunions.
Shane watches them go, his expression distant, unreadable—sympathy barely masking something deeper.
Glenn explains to Shane how they made it out. "Two new guys helped us. One of 'em's a cop. The other's from the Caribbean, cool dude. Real sharp."
Morales adds with a grin, "Yup. Cop and Caribbean. Our very own 'Helicopter Boys.'"
He turns to the van, calling out.
"Hey helicopter boys, come on! Everyone's waiting!"
Rick and Amos step out.
Rick freezes when he sees Shane.
The world slows.
Amos stands off to the side, whistling a tune.
The two men lock eyes, stunned.
Then, a small voice calls out. "Dad?"
Carl runs.
Rick kneels, arms open, and scoops his son into a tearful embrace. Lori, frozen, stares in disbelief. Then she moves—tears rushing down her cheeks as she wraps her arms around both of them.
Around them, silence. Shock. Relief. Awe.
Shane watches, jaw clenched. This doesn't go unnoticed by Amos, who narrows his eyes. Shane tries to smile. Lori looks up at him. The emotion in her eyes is too complex to name.
Rick smiles at Shane.
Shane finally found a real smile to return.
Amos watches, face half-lit by the setting sun. He smiles, but it's a private kind of smile—quiet and pained. His eyes wander past the reunion to the rest of camp, looking for something else to focus on. He's about to walk off when Rick catches him.
"Hey—wait," Rick says.
He gestures Amos closer. "Lori, Carl... this is Amos. I met him on the way here—he helped me out a lot. Don't think I'd have made it out of that city without him."
Amos shifts awkwardly, not used to this kind of attention. "Hi, uh... name's Amos Carter. I'm just glad we made it."
Lori smiles politely. Carl waves shyly.
[{Later that night…}]
The camp gathered close around the flickering fire, its flames dancing and casting shifting shadows in the cool night air. The soft pops and cracks of burning wood filled the spaces between heavy, hushed conversations, weaving an uneasy calm.
Rick sat beside Lori and Carl, his voice low but steady as he shared the fractured pieces of his story. "I woke up alone… the hospital was abandoned. Not a soul in sight. For a while, I thought I'd died."
Lori's eyes held a quiet sorrow as she nodded slowly. "They told us they were evacuating everyone to Atlanta. I waited… but they never brought you back."
Carl's voice broke the silence, small and uncertain. "Shane said you were… gone."
Rick's gaze shifted to Shane, carrying a weight heavier than words. "He had every reason to think that. I was as good as dead. I owe you, man… for looking after them."
Shane's eyes flickered with the firelight, shadowed and conflicted. "I just did what I thought was right."
But Lori and Shane both avoid each other's gaze. The tension between them is unmistakable to Amos. He reads it all—the way Lori flinches, the way Shane swallows back guilt—like a melodrama novel.
Amos leans back, silent, already connecting the pieces. He files the knowledge away.
"Not yet," he thinks. "But one day… he'll need to know."
A short distance away, Ed Peletier tossed a thick log onto his family's fire, the flames roaring higher than they needed to, casting long, flickering shadows into the night.
Shane looked at him, calm but firm. "Hey, Ed, you want to rethink that log?"
Ed's scowl deepened, his eyes flashing with stubborn defiance. "It's cold, man."
Shane didn't flinch. "Cold don't change the rules, does it? We keep our fires low—just embers—so we can't be seen from a distance, right?"
Ed shot him a glare, narrowing his eyes. "I said it's cold. You should mind your own business for once."
Shane chuckled and got up, walking towards him and squatting nearby. "Hey, Ed… Are you sure you want to have this conversation, man?"
Ed didn't move.
Shane's voice dropped, sharp as steel. "Take. It. Out."
The air grew thick with tension, thick enough to choke on, before Ed snapped, "Go on. Pull the damn thing out. Go on!"
Without hesitation, Carol stepped forward and yanked the log free. The flames sputtered, smoke curling upward as the fire dimmed and the warmth retreated with the dying embers.
Ed shot Shane a hard, furious glare as Shane turned and walked away, shoulders tense but unyielding.
As Shane passed Carol and little Sophia nearby, his voice softened. "Good night, Carol. Sophia."
Amos watches from a distance, his expression unreadable.
He notes Shane's harshness—his need for control—but also sees the necessity of it.
"Sometimes the fire's the only thing keepin' people warm. Other times, it's a beacon for death."
He doesn't say it aloud, but the thought lingers, heavy and unwelcome.
Back around the fire, the flickering flames casting long shadows, Dale breaks the silence. "Have you given any thought to Daryl Dixon? He won't be happy to hear his brother was left behind."
Andrea folds her arms, her voice cold and steady. "That Merle was dangerous. That he did this to himself."
Dale shakes his head, eyes clouded with doubt. "Try telling that to his brother."
Rick straightens, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders. His voice is firm, resolute. "I'll tell him. It's my responsibility."
T-Dog speaks, haunted. "No it's mine. I dropped the damn key. I… I didn't mean to, I went back to block the door at least, make sure no walkers could get him…"
Amos snickers at his words. "No offense 'cause were the same complexion, but just from the seeing his brother and hearing his description, it might sound better coming from a white guy."
T-Dog's eyes flickered toward the fire, his expression nearly unreadable—a mask Amos had seen too many times before: the heavy weight of self-condemnation. Yet, he broke the silence, voice steady but resolute. "I did what I did. Hell if I'm gonna hide from him."
Amy glanced at the fire, her voice tentative. "We could lie."
Andrea cut in sharply, her tone almost clinical. "Or tell the truth. Merle was out of control. Something had to be done, or he'd have gotten us all killed." Her eyes locked onto Lori's. "Your husband did what was necessary. And if Merle got left behind, it's nobody's fault but Merle's."
Dale tried to steer the group toward reason, his voice weary but firm. "And that's what we tell Daryl? I don't see a rational discussion coming from that, do you? Word to the wise… we're gonna have our hands full when he gets back from his hunt."
T-Dog's gaze was steady as he met Dale's. "I was scared and I ran. I'm not ashamed of it."
Andrea's voice was calm, with a hint of blunt honesty. "We were all scared. We all ran. What's your point?"
T-Dog's reply was low, clipped, filled with a bitter weight. "I stopped long enough to chain that door. The staircase is narrow—maybe half a dozen geeks can squeeze through at once. It's not enough to break through that… not that chain, not that padlock. My point? Dixon's alive, and he's still up there—handcuffed on that roof. That's on us."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the crackling fire, its flickering flames casting long shadows over faces etched with guilt, fear, and the unspoken burden of what was left undone.
Amos's eyes drifted upward, tracing the dark canvas of the night sky, lost in thoughts about what tomorrow might bring. The weight of uncertainty pressed down on him, but thirst was immediate. He grabbed his canteen and drank greedily, the cool water offering a brief reprieve.
Nearby, Shane watched Rick and Lori, a flicker of jealousy tightening his chest. He turned away, trying to shake the feeling, but his gaze landed on Amos—who was now shifting his attention from the stars to the cold steel of his gun. Shane's curiosity sharpened.
"Who're you? I don't remember seeing your face before," Shane asked, stepping closer.
Amos lowered his eyes, suddenly aware of every pair of eyes in the group fixed on him—everyone except the few who had arrived with him. He tried to summon confidence, but the words came out deeper, rougher than expected. "My name's Amos Carter."
The unexpected tone sent a chill through the younger members of the camp—goosebumps rising on their skin—while the wary adults exchanged cautious glances.
Still unsatisfied, Shane's eyes narrowed. "Where'd you get that gun? Looks dangerous."
The tension tightened instantly. Those unfamiliar with Amos or the weapon stiffened, hands inching toward pockets or holsters. Lori instinctively moved to shield Carl. Morales, sensing the rising unease, whispered reassurance to his wife, silently vouching for Amos's restraint.
"I found it in the department store where the rest of your group was stuck," Amos replied, his voice steady but guarded.
Shane pressed again, voice low and probing. "Do you even know how to use that thing?"
Before Amos could answer, Rick stepped in, protective and firm. "Leave him alone, Shane. It's his property—we shouldn't pry."
Shane opened his mouth, then closed it, the tension fading into reluctant acceptance as his gaze drifted away.
"I do," Amos said quietly, with an undeniable certainty that silenced any further doubt.
Shane looked at him, his face more along the lines of unease and distrust.
The group sat still; the weight of the atmosphere grew lighter in the dark, but they still were cautious around the new face.
The group gave Amos a spare tent for the night, deciding it was best for everyone to rest and recover. The fire was reduced to glowing embers as the survivors drifted off one by one, the weight of the previous day pulling them into uneasy dreams.
Inside their tent, Rick leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Carl's forehead.
"Goodnight, buddy," he whispered softly.
Carl nodded sleepily, curling deeper into the blankets, his small body settling into the fragile safety of the moment.
Rick then turned toward Lori, reaching for her hand as he crawled into their shared bedroll.
"I knew you were both alive," he murmured, voice thick with emotion.
Lori glanced at him, curious. "How?"
Rick's eyes softened. "The photo albums were gone when I came home. You wouldn't leave those behind unless you were alive to care about them."
A sad smile flickered across Lori's face as her fingers traced the worn edges of the photo album she'd kept close all this time. Together, they opened it, sharing a few quiet laughs and solemn memories—moments of joy and loss woven into fragile pages.
Then, with a bittersweet tenderness, Lori took Rick's hand and pressed something small and cold into his palm—his wedding ring.
"You'll need this," she said softly.
Rick slid the ring onto his finger. Their eyes locked, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between them. No further explanation was needed.
Their lips met—slow, desperate, aching with reunion—and under the dim glow of the tent's canvas, they found a brief sanctuary in each other, clinging to hope amid the chaos outside.
Outside, Shane kept watch atop the RV, his face cold under the creeping shadows. His eyes never left their tent. The glint in his stare said everything—anger, regret, jealousy, and a sick twist of heartbreak. Thunder rolled faintly in the distance, lightning just beginning to crackle across the sky.
Amos, not yet sleeping, sat cross-legged in his tent. He toyed with a few of the things he'd grabbed from the department store—a few spare bullets, a bandage roll, and the small black Colt Python now resting beside him. He quietly muttered to himself, half-smirking as he got up.
He stepped into the night, the crisp air greeting him. As he glanced up, he caught sight of Shane on the RV, glaring at Rick's tent like he could burn holes through the fabric with his eyes.
Amos smirked, already guessing what was going down.
"Yeah… bet you didn't see that coming," he muttered with a silent chuckle. He decided not to interrupt the melodrama and instead slipped quietly into the woods for a cool stroll.
Morning broke slowly, with a haze of dew still clinging to the grass. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the camp's edge.
Inside the tent, Rick stirred and found a neatly folded uniform laid out. Surprised, he dressed quickly and stepped outside.
Carol was nearby, ironing his shirt with a piece of metal heated from the fire. "Not easy without a Maytag, but… figured you might want this looking sharp again," she said warmly.
Rick thanked her, deeply appreciative.
A few yards away, Glenn watched mournfully as Morales, Dale, and Jim stripped the red Challenger for parts. They siphoned gas for the camp's generators, muttering about waste, risk, and how lucky Glenn had been.
Near the edge of the tents, Amos sat on a rock, whittling with a small pocketknife. He was cleaning the blade with focus when Rick walked over.
"Where'd you get that?" Rick asked casually.
Amos shrugged. "Found it in the woods. Looked decent enough."
Rick nodded in confirmation, then turned his gaze back to the camp, his expression thoughtful.
[{Back across the camp…}]
ChatGPT said:
Lori hung laundry with Amy and Andrea near the tents, the rhythm of their movements a rare moment of normalcy amidst the chaos. When Rick approached, she glanced over her shoulder and offered a soft smile.
"Sleep okay?" she asked gently.
Rick nodded, but there was a flicker of something heavier in his eyes—burdened and conflicted. Lori caught it instantly.
"I didn't want to wake you," she added, her voice light but cautious, pausing as she searched his face.
Just then, Shane returned, hauling a fresh load of water jugs off his shoulder. Rick's eyes flicked to Shane before turning back to Lori, voice steady and deliberate.
"I'm going back to Atlanta."
Lori froze, disbelief washing over her face. "You're what?"
Before she could press further, sharp screams shattered the calm, slicing through the camp like a blade. Every head snapped toward the treeline, muscles tensing, weapons drawn instinctively.
Carl, Sophia, and Jacqui came running from the woods, their faces pale, eyes wide with terror.
"Mom! Mom!" Sophia cried out, her voice trembling.
The crowd scattered as Rick, Shane, Jim, Morales, and Glenn surged forward, sprinting toward the sound. Amos followed at a steady pace, knife still in hand, his lazy eyes suddenly alert.
"What now…?" he muttered, falling in behind the group.
In the clearing, the source of the alarm revealed itself—a walker hunched over a deer carcass, tearing flesh in wet, horrifying gulps. A couple of crossbow bolts protruded from its back, barely registering with the creature as it feasted.
Without hesitation, the group pounced. Rick and Shane struck hard, driving the creature down, while Glenn jabbed with a metal rod. Morales kicked its snarling face, and Jim brought down a heavy rock.
Then Dale arrived, raising his axe high.
WHACK
The head rolled away, teeth still snapping mindlessly as the twitching body collapsed.
Everyone stepped back, breaths ragged, eyes wide with lingering adrenaline.
Dale frowned, disbelief creasing his face. "It made it all the way up here…?"
"That's not good," Rick muttered grimly.
Jim scanned the surrounding woods, voice low but urgent. "City's drying up. Walkers might be following the scent of fresh meat."
A murmur rippled through the group as unease settled in. Amos shoved forward, his boots crunching in the dirt, eyes fixed on the snapping walker head.
"Y'all know that ain't gonna stop it, right?" he drawled, pulling his hunting knife from his belt with practiced ease.
He crouched, blade poised to finish the grisly task—
—but Dale's hand shot out, gripping Amos's forearm firmly.
"Wait."
Amos's eyes flicked up, irritation flashing across his face as he met Dale's steady gaze.
"Let's be sure," Dale said, calm but firm. "We might learn something."
For a long moment, Amos just stared at him, jaw tight. Then, with a small grunt, he straightened and stepped back, the knife lowering reluctantly. On the ground, the head kept chomping at empty air, relentless even without a body to drive it.
"Fine. You all study. I'll keep my knife ready just in case it learns how to hop."
He stepped back his hand drifting to his belt, ready to act in case things got physical again.
The others gave tense chuckles, but the unease hung heavily in the forest.
A sudden rustling in the bushes cut through the tension in the clearing. Shane immediately raises his shotgun, stance stiff.
Amos narrows his eyes, his fingers tightening on the grip of his Colt Python. Smooth and focused, he pulls it out and trains it toward the sound, the hammer cocking with a satisfying click.
The branches rustled and parted, revealing a wild-eyed, dirt-streaked redneck emerging from the underbrush. Over a dozen freshly killed squirrels hung from his belt, swinging with every step, while a weathered crossbow rested in his hands. He froze the moment he spotted the weapons leveled at him.
"Could y'all stop pointin' those things at me?" The man said, eyes darting nervously between the barrels aimed his way. His gaze then dropped to the half-eaten deer sprawled on the ground. A hard scowl creased his face. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, frustration burning in his eyes as he stepped forward toward the walker.
"That's my deer! Look at it." He looked at the mangled carcass before kicking at the rotten corpse repeatedly, rage spilling over. "All gnawed on by this… filthy, disease-bearing, motherless poxy bastard!"
Dale stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "Calm down, son. That ain't helping."
The redneck's eyes flashed with anger as he snapped back, venom dripping from his words. "What do you know, old man?"
Amos tuned out the back-and-forth, his attention locked on the still snapping walker head lying in the dirt. Its teeth clacked together with a grotesque gurgle, a sick reminder of the horror still lurking.
Amy shrieked, and Andrea gagged, both women breaking and sprinting back toward camp, fleeing the nightmare.
But the redneck didn't flinch.
With a swift, practiced motion—THWAP—he drove a bolt clean through the walker's skull. Silence fell as the head went utterly still.
He shot a sharp look at the group, eyes filled with impatience as if the obvious answer was lost on them. "It's gotta be the brain. Don't y'all know nothing?"
Amos nodded quietly, lips twitching with a faint, begrudging smile of agreement.
Without another word, the redneck shouldered past them, calling out, "Merle! Merle! Get your ugly ass out here! I got us some squirrel! Let's stew 'em up."
Amos watches with half a grin, knowing exactly what's coming, and walks off in the other direction with a soft chuckle.
Shane trailed after him, tension written in every step. "Daryl, just slow up a second. I need to talk to you."
The redneck now known as Daryl stopped but didn't turn. "About what?"
Shane's eyes dropped to the dirt, his voice lower now. "About Merle. There was a… problem in Atlanta."
Daryl's jaw tightened and he turned, the muscles in his neck coiling. "He dead?"
Shane scratched the back of his head, hesitant. "We're not sure."
"He either is or he ain't!" Daryl snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air.
Rick stepped forward, tone steady but heavy with what he was about to say. "No easy way to say this, so I'll just say it."
Daryl's head whipped toward him, eyes burning. "Who the hell are you?"
"Rick Grimes," Rick answered, squaring his shoulders.
Daryl took a slow, deliberate step closer, his gaze locked on Rick like a predator sizing up prey. "Rick Grimes, you got somethin' you wanna tell me?"
Rick didn't flinch. "Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal. He's still there."
Daryl blinked once, then leaned in, his voice turning into a low growl. "Hold on… lemme process this. You're tellin' me you handcuffed my brother to a roof—" his voice surged, raw and furious, "—and you left him there?!"
Rick gave a grim nod, jaw tightening. "Yeah."
The bag of squirrels came hurtling at him, and Rick ducked just in time. It hit the dirt with a heavy thud, skidding to a stop a few meters behind—close enough to make him flinch. Before he could straighten, Daryl's hand was already at his belt, ripping a knife from its holster in one swift, practiced motion. The blade flashed, cutting through the air where Rick's chest had been a split second earlier. Rick jumped back, narrowly dodging the strike.
Before Daryl could lunge again, Shane barreled into him like a linebacker, the impact cracking through the air. Gravel crunched and scattered under their boots as the two men slammed to the ground, Shane driving him back with sheer brute force.
Hearing the commotion, Amos jogged back into the clearing, knife already in hand. His posture was loose, almost casual—but his eyes stayed sharp.
"Hey! Watch the knife!" T-Dog barked over the scuffle.
Daryl lunged forward again, rage still boiling, when Amos' wrist flicked. The blade spun effortlessly between his fingers, the steel catching glints of light as it twirled once, twice, before settling back into his grip.
"You wanna learn how to twirl steel, Dixon?" Amos asked, voice smooth and unhurried.
Daryl froze for just a beat—brows knitting, the fight in his eyes momentarily replaced by something else. Confusion. Maybe even a flicker of respect.
It was all the opening Rick needed. He stepped in fast, yanking the crossbow away as Shane locked an arm tight around Daryl's neck from behind.
"Calm. Down," Shane growled into his ear, holding him firm.
"You'd best let me go!" Daryl snarled, thrashing against Shane's grip.
Shane's hold only tightened, his voice steady but laced with dry amusement. "Nah… I think it's better if I don't."
Daryl gritted his teeth, still struggling. "Choke hold's illegal."
A low chuckle rumbled from Shane. "You can file a complaint," he said, dragging Daryl back a step. "'Cause we can keep this up all damn day."
Rick stepped in, lowering himself into a crouch just in front of Daryl, his voice even but firm.
"I'd like to have a calm discussion about this. You think we can manage that?"
Daryl didn't answer, his glare locked on Rick while his muscles strained against Shane's arm.
Rick's tone sharpened, repeating, "Do you think we can manage that?"
Still writhing, Daryl gave a reluctant nod, his voice low and begrudging. "Mmm… yeah."
Shane released his hold, and Daryl pushed himself up with a grunt, brushing dirt from his clothes.
Rick rose from his crouch, standing shoulder to shoulder with Shane, his gaze fixed squarely on Daryl. His voice was steady, but carried weight.
"What I did wasn't on a whim. Your brother… doesn't work and play well with others."
Amos spoke up, the knife still spinning between his fingers. "He don't take other races kindly."
Daryl's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing sharply. The others turned too, tension thickening.
"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Daryl growled, stepping right into Amos' space, voice low and dangerous.
Amos met his gaze without flinching. "Means he's racist."
T-Dog stepped forward, trying to shift the tension, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands. "It's not Rick's or Amos' fault," he said quietly. "I had the key. I… dropped it."
Daryl took a step back from Amos, his eyes narrowing into hard slits. "You couldn't pick it up?"
T-Dog's gaze dropped to the ground. "Dropped it in a drain."
Daryl scoffed, shaking his head. "If that's supposed to make me feel better, it don't."
T-Dog straightened a bit, voice firmer this time. "Maybe this will—look, I chained the door to the roof, padlocked it shut. Geeks couldn't get to him. That's gotta count for something."
Daryl's glare sharpened, fury flashing in his eyes. "To hell with all y'all! Just tell me where he is so I can go get him."
At some point, Lori had quietly made her way over, her eyes locking onto Rick with a fierce intensity.
"He'll show you," she said softly but with steel beneath her voice. "Isn't that right?"
Rick met her gaze, unwavering. His jaw set firm as he answered, "I'm going back."
For a moment, disbelief flickered across Lori's face, her features hardening as the weight of his words sank in. Without another word, she spun sharply on her heel and stormed off toward the RV, the door slamming behind her like a final punctuation to their fractured resolve.
[{Later that day…}]
Rick stood by the van, methodically slipping spare magazines into his belt, every movement measured and precise. Daryl lingered nearby, his grudging acceptance clear in the tight set of his jaw. Amos checked his revolver with a practiced flick, itching to test its weight in the coming chaos.
"I'm coming too," Amos said, flicking off the safety with a sharp snap.
Rick nodded, eyes steady. "Good. We need hands who won't panic."
Glenn stepped forward, annoyance etched across his face but he fell in line without argument. T-Dog followed, jaw tight, guilt flickering in his eyes.
"I owe him. Let me come."
Shane's voice cut through the quiet, heated and sharp. "We need people here. What if more walkers come?"
Amos shrugged, arms spreading wide like a challenge. "If you're such a great leader, you'll protect 'em just fine."
Rick smirked at the jab but kept his focus. "We also need guns. There's a bag of them out there near the tank."
Shane's face hardened for a moment, the weight of the decision pressing in, but then he eased just enough, understanding the tradeoff.
Before anyone could respond further, Lori stormed up, eyes flashing with urgency and frustration.
"Rick—don't do this. Merle's not worth it. You went through hell to find us. You just got here and you're gonna turn around and leave?"
Her words hung heavy in the air, a sharp reminder of the cost they were about to pay.
But Rick didn't flinch. His voice was calm, edged with a quiet resolve.
"I'll come back the same way I came here, just a little less confused."
Amos let out a low chuckle. "Damn, Rick. That's cold."
Rick glanced at him briefly—Amos squinted, unsure if it was a glare or surprise in that look.
Turning his gaze back to Lori, Rick's tone grew steady, unyielding.
"It's not just Merle. I owe a debt to a man I met… and his little boy. Lori, if they hadn't taken me in, I'd have died out there. It's because of them that I made it back to you at all. They said they'd follow me to Atlanta. They'll walk right into the same trap I did if I don't warn him."
Shane sighed, handing Rick the last of his revolver rounds. "Just come back in one piece, man."
Carl hugs his father. "Dad, I don't want you to go."
Rick squeezes his shoulder. "I'll be back soon."
T-Dog had managed to trade with Dale for a set of bolt cutters, the weight of the small victory settling on him quietly. Meanwhile, Shane stood nearby, half-listening as Jim rambled on about stripping the ice cube van for parts—his words a faint buzz beneath the mounting tension.
Inside the van, Rick methodically loaded his Colt, each click echoing in the confined space. Daryl slid into the driver's seat, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface, teeth clenched as he wrestled with his emotions.
Amos eased into the back, spinning his own Colt lazily once before resting it firmly on his thigh—a calm eye amid the brewing storm.
Outside, the rest of the camp stood motionless, breaths held in silent watchfulness as the engine rumbled to life, a low growl that seemed to shake the stillness.
The tires crunched over gravel, breaking the quiet with their harsh rhythm.
Lori remained by the tent, arms crossed tightly, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Worry was carved deep into her face, a silent prayer flickering behind her eyes.
As the van disappeared around the bend, it left behind only silence—heavy, expectant—and the soft whisper of gravel tumbling over itself in its wake.
[{In Atlanta…}]
The cube van rumbled quietly along the cracked streets, its tires jolting over rusted railroad tracks that bisected the worn pavement. Rick pointed toward a spot to park, but Amos leaned forward from the back seat, brow furrowed with concern.
"You really wanna leave the van out in the open like that?" Amos asked, voice low and wary.
Rick shrugged, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "I mean, it's got the subtlety of a damn marching band. Might as well hang a sign that says, 'Free Meat Inside.'"
The group fell silent for a moment. Glenn glanced at Rick, then nodded thoughtfully. "He's got a point. I know a better spot — low visibility, but still close to the building."
Daryl scoffed, but said nothing, his jaw tight as Glenn steered them a few blocks over toward an abandoned alleyway half-shielded by fallen signage and a rusted delivery truck. They slid the van in behind a cluster of dumpsters. Amos gave a slow nod of approval, eyes sharp as he scanned the surroundings.
As they geared up, Daryl stepped close to T-Dog, voice low but sharp with accusation. "If Merle's dead, I'm puttin' that on you."
T-Dog didn't flinch, jaw clenched tight. "I locked the door. Ain't no walker breaking through chains and a steel handle."
Amos watched, hand drifting near his belt, ready if tensions boiled over again.
Rick stepped between them, voice steady but commanding. "Enough. We move together."
The group fell into formation, stepping quietly into the shadowed streets. Glenn raised a hand, pausing them at a corner.
"We go for Merle first," he said quietly.
"The guns are past the department store. We'd have to double back."
Amos nodded slowly, adjusting the strap on his bag.
"Rescue the idiot first. Got it."
[{Five minutes later…}]
The air hung heavy with tension as Rick, Daryl, Glenn, Amos, and T-Dog moved cautiously through the deserted department store, every weapon ready, every sense sharpened. The silence felt unnatural—like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting.
Daryl led the way, crossbow raised and eyes scanning the shadows. A sudden groan echoed faintly from behind a rickety shelf. Without hesitation—
THUNK
The bolt slammed into a walker's skull, and it crumpled with a wet, sickening thud.
"Clear," Daryl muttered, already pivoting toward the stairwell.
T-Dog worked quickly, cutting through the heavy chains on the stairwell door with Dale's bolt cutters. The old stairs groaned ominously under their boots as they climbed, each step echoing in the hollow silence.
They pushed open the rooftop door, and the harsh sunlight spilled in—along with a sickening, metallic stench.
On the cracked concrete floor lay a rusty hacksaw, smeared with a dark, sticky trail of blood leading to the base of a rusted pipe.
Dangling from the pipe was a single, bloodied handcuff—empty, save for the stains of its gruesome past.
And below it, chillingly still, lay Merle's severed hand.
Daryl's scream shattered the silence, raw and guttural. "NO!"
His cry ripped through the stillness, and for a moment, even the dead seemed to hold their breath, the world frozen in grief and shock.