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... shoulda 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 Casey, nodding to the dark Colt Python on his hip.
Casey 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. Some of 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."
Casey's 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 is giving Carl a quick trim, the boy wincing with each snip.
A few feet away, Shane laughs with Jim, promising Carl a fun trip to the quarry. "Catch some frogs, fry the legs up nice and crispy."
Lori wrinkles her nose. "You're disgusting."
Shane grins. "You'll be beggin' for frog legs once food runs out."
Their moment is shattered by the distant wail of an engine and the unmistakable screech of a blaring car alarm.
Glenn's red Dodge Challenger skids to a halt, alarm screaming.
Amy sprints up, panic rising. "Where's Andrea? Is she okay? Is she with you?"
Dale waves his arms. "Shut that damn alarm off before it drags every walker in Georgia!"
Jim pops the hood and yanks the wires, silencing the siren just as Rick pulls up in the van.
Amy's still firing questions, but Glenn waves her off. "She's fine. Everyone's okay."
He pauses. "Except Merle."
Shane walks over, voice sharp. "And you thought blasting back here in a screaming car was smart?"
Glenn shrugs, but tension thickens in the air.
Everyone greets those who are coming out of the van.
In the van, Rick lingers, not moving to exit.
Casey nudges him. "Come on, man. Let's go."
Rick sighs. "Not in the mood for a welcome party."
Casey places a hand on his shoulder. "They need to see you. You made it. That means something."
Before Rick can answer, Morales calls out from outside. "Hey helicopter boys, come on! Everyone's waiting!"
Casey throws open the door and gives Rick a small push, just enough to get him moving.
Rick and Casey step out into the camp.
And everything changes.
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 Casey step out.
Rick freezes when he sees Shane. The world slows. Casey 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 does not go unnoticed by Casey, 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.
Casey 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 Casey closer. "Lori, Carl... this is Casey. 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."
Casey shifts awkwardly, not used to this kind of attention. "Uh... name's Casey Gonzalez. I'm just glad we made it."
Lori smiles politely. Carl waves shyly.
Later that night…
The camp gathers around a flickering campfire, the flames licking in the cool air. The pops and cracks of the wood fill the spaces between heavy conversations.
Rick sits with Lori and Carl, sharing his story. "I woke up alone… hospital abandoned. No soul in sight. I thought I'd died."
Lori nods slowly. "They told us they were evacuating everyone to Atlanta. I waited… but they never brought you."
Carl speaks up, quietly. "Shane said you were… gone."
Rick looks at Shane. "He had every reason to think that. I was as good as dead. I owe you, man… for looking after them."
The fire flickers in Shane's eyes. "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 Casey. He reads it all—the way Lori flinches, the way Shane swallows back guilt—like a melodrama novel/book.
Casey 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 tosses a log on his family's fire, the blaze flaring higher than necessary.
Shane steps in, calm but firm. "Take it out. It's too bright. We don't want attention from anything out there."
Ed scowls. "Mind your business."
Shane doesn't flinch. "Take. It. Out."
Ed hesitates, then snaps at his wife. "Carol. Do it."
Carol quickly pulls the log off, extinguishing some of the flames. Ed glares at Shane as he walks away.
"Good night, Carol. Sophia." Shane says softly.
Casey 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 out loud, but the thought sticks.
Back around the fire, Dale speaks up. "What are we gonna tell Daryl when he shows up?"
Andrea crosses her arms. "That Merle was dangerous. He did it to himself."
Dale frowns. "Try telling that to his brother."
Rick straightens. "I'll tell him. It's my responsibility."
T-Dog speaks, haunted. "Me too. 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…"
Casey snickered under his breath, stepping closer."No offense," he said with a crooked grin, "since we're about the same complexion... but it might sound better coming from a white guy."
T-Dog looks at him, then at the fire his expression almost unreadable. But Casey has seen that look before, 'self-condemnation'.
Silence falls again. The fire crackles.
Casey's gaze drifted back to the sky, the horizon darkening as the clouds thickened, heavy with the promise of rain. He wondered what tomorrow would bring. In this world, every new day felt like a gamble. His throat was dry, and the thirst gnawed at him. Without thinking, he reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle of water he'd salvaged earlier. He drank greedily, the cool liquid a brief but welcome relief as it quenched his parched throat.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then returned his focus to the sky, his fingers resting casually on the grip of his pistol. The weight of it comforted him in a way that words never could. Tomorrow was uncertain. Hell, so was the next hour. But right now, all he could do was watch, wait, and keep his weapon close.
Shane watched Rick and Lori from the corner of his eye, a pang of jealousy twisting in his gut. He quickly looked away, trying to shake it off, but his thoughts immediately shifted to the new face in the group. His eyes flicked to Casey, who was staring up at the sky, the weight of his gun in his hand. Something about the way Casey held himself—like he was waiting for something—set Shane's teeth on edge.
Shane rubbed a finger under his nose, his eyes narrowing as he studied Casey. "Who're you? I don't remember seeing your face before."
Casey looked down feeling the weight of every pair of eyes on him—except for the few he'd arrived with, of course.
He pushed himself up from where he was sitting, his body creaking with the motion, and stood tall, trying to project confidence. But the words that came out were deeper than he'd intended, almost guttural, as though the weight of the world had settled in his throat.
"My name is Casey Gonzalez," he said, his voice steady but raw.
The voice surprised Casey, but he didn't let it show. He didn't offer a handshake or any pleasantries—didn't feel like he had to. He let the name sit between them, as if daring them to challenge him.
At the sound and tone of his voice, the kids got goosebumps, instinctively pulling closer to their parents. The adults who didn't know Casey exchanged wary glances, sizing him up, but they remained quiet. They weren't sure what to make of him yet.
Shane, however, wasn't satisfied. He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing even more as he pointed at the revolver hanging from Casey's belt. "Where'd you get that gun?" he asked, his voice skeptical. "Looks dangerous."
The group members who hadn't seen the gun before—or who were already wary of Casey—tensed. The tension in the air thickened, palpable and heavy. Lori instinctively shielded Carl, her eyes scanning Casey as if trying to gauge his intentions. Morales, sensing the growing unease, quickly turned to his wife, reassuring her quietly, "Don't worry. He's not ruthless enough to do something."
Casey remained calm, but the weight of the moment hung between them.
"I found it in the department store your group was stuck in," Casey answered, still cautious.
Shane pressed on, his suspicion growing. "Do you even know how to use that thing?"
Rick stepped in quickly, "Leave him alone, Shane. It's his. We don't need to make a scene."
Shane opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself, looking at Rick in silence.
Casey then glanced at Shane, a slight grin tugging at his lips. "I don't carry something I don't know how to use. Trust me, I'm not the problem here."
Shane looked at him, his face a mix of unease and distrust.
The group sat still, the silence stretching on, but the weight of the atmosphere grew lighter as the dark settled in. Still, they kept their distance, cautious around the unfamiliar face.
The group gave Casey a spare tent for the night, deciding it was best for everyone to rest and recover. The fire crackled softly, reduced to glowing embers, casting faint shadows across the camp. One by one, the survivors drifted off, their minds heavy with the day's events. The weight of the previous day pulled most of them into uneasy dreams, where the world outside their small circle of safety felt distant, but ever-present.
Inside their tent, Rick leaned over and kissed Carl's forehead.
"Goodnight, buddy," he whispered.
Carl nodded sleepily, curling into the blankets.
Rick then turned to Lori, reaching for her hand as he crawled into their bedroll.
"I knew you were both alive," he murmured.
Lori glanced at him, curious. "How?"
"The photo albums were gone. When I went home. You wouldn't leave those behind unless you were alive to care about them." Rick explained
Lori smiled sadly, her fingers trailing over the worn photo album she'd kept close. They opened it together, a few quiet laughs and solemn moments passing between them.
Then, with a bittersweet kind of affection, Lori took Rick's hand and pressed something into it—his wedding ring.
"You'll need this," she said softly.
Rick slipped it on. Their eyes met. They didn't need to say anything else. They kissed—slow and desperate—and quietly made love under the dim canvas of the tent, reunited.
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.
Casey, 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 6 inch 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.
Casey smirked, already sensing how this was going to play out."Yeah… bet you didn't see that coming," he muttered under his breath with a quiet chuckle. Without another glance at the brewing rooftop drama, he slipped away, moving silently into the tree line for a stroll beneath the canopy's cool shade.
The woods welcomed him with a stillness that was almost calming. As he wandered, he came across a suspicious-looking pile of leaves. Without thinking much of it, he gave it a lazy kick.A flash of silver spun out—thwack!—a knife clattered onto the dirt.
Casey raised an eyebrow, amused. "Huh. Lucky me," he mused, stooping to pick it up. It was worn but sharp, the leather grip still intact. He flipped it once in his hand, feeling its weight, before tucking it into his belt.
Deciding to explore a little deeper, he started moving farther into the woods, using the newly found blade to slash rough marks into the trees every so often—a breadcrumb trail back to camp.
For a while, it was peaceful. Just the rhythmic sound of his boots in the dirt and the occasional scrape of metal against bark. But after a while, the woods lost their charm, and boredom set in. With a sigh, Casey turned back, retracing his steps by the scarred trees he'd left behind, the marks leading him safely back to the faint glow of the survivors' campfire in the distance.
At dawn...
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 syphoned gas for the camp's generators, muttering about waste, risk, and how lucky Glenn had been.
Near the edge of the tents, Casey 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.
Casey 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…
Lori hung laundry with Amy and Andrea near the tents. When Rick approached, she looked over her shoulder and smiled.
"Sleep okay?"
Rick nodded.
"Didn't want to wake you," she added, but paused when she caught a look in his eyes—something conflicted.
Just then, Shane returned with a fresh load of water, hauling the jugs off his shoulder. Rick glanced at him, and then turned back to Lori.
"I'm going back to Atlanta," Rick said simply.
Lori froze. "You're what?"
Before she could continue, screams tore through the camp. Everyone froze.
Carl, Sophia, and Jacqui ran in from the woods, faces pale and terrified.
"Mom! Mom!" Sophia cried.
Everyone reached for weapons—Rick, Shane, Jim, Morales, and Glenn sprinted past the crowd toward the tree line.
Casey strolled over, knife still in hand, eyes lazy but alert.
"What now…?" he muttered, picking up his pace behind the group.
In the clearing, they found it.
A walker hunched over a deer carcass, devouring the flesh in wet, horrific gulps. A couple crossbow bolts stuck out of its back, barely noticed by the creature.
Without hesitation, the group pounced.
Rick and Shane beat it down, Glenn stabbing with a metal rod. Morales kicked at its face, Jim brought down a rock.
Then Dale arrived, raising his axe.
Whack.
The head rolled, the body still twitching.
Everyone stepped back, breathing hard.
Dale frowned. "It made it all the way up here…?"
"That's not good," Rick muttered.
Jim looked around. "City's drying up. Walkers might be following the scent of fresh meat."
As they murmured, Casey arrived, pushing through the group. He looked down at the still-snapping head.
"Y'all know that's not gonna stop it, right?" he said, pulling his knife from his belt.
He crouched, raising the blade—but Dale caught his arm. "Wait."
Casey looked up, irritated."Let's be sure," Dale said. "We might learn something."
Casey hesitated, then slowly stood, keeping a wary eye on the walker as its head snapped at the air."Fine," he muttered. "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.
Casey narrows his eyes, his fingers tightening on the grip of his Colt Python. He pulls it out and trains it toward the sound, the hammer cocking with a satisfying click.
The branches part—and out steps Daryl Dixon, wild-eyed and dirty, hauling over a dozen freshly killed squirrels slung from his belt and crossbow in hand. He stops short, eyes dropping to the half-eaten deer, and scowls hard.
"Son of a bitch," he mutters.
"I been trackin' that thing for miles." He kicks at the carcass in frustration. "This motherless poxy bird! Waste of damn time!"
"That's not helping, son." Dale looks on unable to keep his silence.
Daryl looked up in exasperation. "What do you know, old man?" he spat with venom
Casey ignored the rest of the conversation.
Just then, the decapitated walker head still lying in the dirt begins snapping its teeth, gurgling a grotesque growl.
Amy shrieks, Andrea gags, and the two women sprint back toward camp.
Daryl doesn't flinch.
THWAP
One smooth motion, he nails a bolt straight through the walker's skull. It goes still.
He looks at the group like they're idiots. "Y'all seriously didn't know you gotta hit the brain? What the hell've you been doin' out here?"
Casey nods silently, lips twitching with quiet agreement. "He's got a point."
Without another word, Daryl shoulders past them, calling out, "Merle! Merle, get your ass out here!"
Casey watches with half a grin, knowing exactly what's coming, and walks off in the other direction with a soft chuckle.
Shane follows Daryl, already tense. "He didn't make it back."
Daryl pauses. "What the hell does that mean?"
Rick steps in, voice calm but firm. "We had to leave him. He was handcuffed to the roof. I-"
"I left him there."
Daryl spins, his face a storm. "You what?!"
He hurls the bag of squirrels—Rick ducks—Shane's already charging, slamming Daryl back like a linebacker.
Hearing the scuffle, Casey jogs back in, knife already drawn, body language relaxed but ready.
T-Dog shouts, "He's got a knife!"
Daryl lunges again—
Casey suddenly flicks his wrist, his knife spinning effortlessly between his fingers. Casey twirls the blade once more, cocky but calm. "You wanna learn how to twirl steel, Daryl?" he says smoothly.
Daryl actually pauses. Confused. Impressed.
And that moment is enough for Rick to step in, disarm him, and Shane wraps him in a tight sleeper hold from behind.
"Calm. Down," Shane growls.
Rick pants, then says, "We're going back for him. I'm not leaving a man behind."
Later that day, Rick gets ready beside the van, slipping spare mags into his belt. Daryl's grudgingly on board, and Casey looks at his revolver, itching to test it out.
"I'll come along," Casey said, pulling the cylinder release hatch with a smooth flick of his thumb.He popped the cylinder out, giving it a quick spin with his fingers. Every chamber glinted back at him—loaded.With a sharp click, he locked it back into place and gave Rick a small nod, ready for whatever came next.
Rick returned the nod without hesitation. "Good. We need hands who won't panic."
Glenn joins, annoyed but compliant, and T-Dog steps up, jaw tight with guilt.
"I owe him. Let me come."
Shane moved in, heated. "We need people here. What if more walkers come?"
Casey shrugged, arms spread wide."If you're such a great leader, you'll protect 'em just fine."
Rick smirked slightly at the assist. "We also need guns. There's a bag of them out there near the tank."
Shane's face hardened, but then eased, realizing the tradeoff.Before he could say anything, Lori stormed over, her voice sharp with anger."Rick—don't do this. Merle's not worth it."
Casey chuckled under his breath. "That's rough, Rick."
Rick shot him a brief look. Casey squinted, unsure if it was a glare or just surprise.
Rick turned back to Lori, his voice steady."It's not just Merle. I dropped the bag with the walkie-talkie. I need to warn Morgan and his son—Morgan Jones. I owe them."
Casey's smirk fades. His ears perk up, interest clear even if his face stays blank.
"Morgan…" he mumbles under his breath.
Shane sighs, handing Rick the last of the revolver's rounds. "Just come back in one piece, man."
Carl hugs his father. "It's okay. I get why you're going."
Rick squeezes his shoulder. "I'll be back soon."
Dale handed over the bolt cutters to T-Dog with a small, knowing grin."Just make sure I get that toolbox when you're done," Dale said, voice light but firm.
T-Dog nodded, clutching the cutters like they were made of gold. "Deal, man."
Meanwhile, Jim crouched beside the battered cube van, a gleam of determination in his eye. His fingers tapped thoughtfully against the rusted metal. "If we strip it right," he muttered, half to himself, half to anyone who was listening, "we can salvage enough parts to fix the RV."
He already looked like he was mapping it out in his head—what bolts needed loosening, what panels could be ripped off. The idea of getting his hands dirty again almost seemed to calm him, even in a world gone mad.
Rick loads his revolver in the passenger seat.
Daryl climbs into the driver's side, still chewing on his irritation.
Casey hops into the back, spinning his revolver once before resting it on his thigh.
The rest of the camp stands silently as the engine rumbles to life.
The tires crunch over gravel.
Lori stands by the tent, arms crossed, staring into the distance, worry etched deep into her face.
The van disappears around the bend, leaving only silence and the soft whisper of gravel in its wake.
In Atlanta...
The cube van rumbles quietly along the cracked streets, its tires bumping over the rusted rails of an old railroad line.
Rick pointed out a spot to park, but Casey leans forward from the back seat, brow raised.
"You really wanna leave the van out in the open like that?" he asks.
"I mean, it's got the subtlety of a damn marching band. Might as well hang a sign saying, 'Free Meat Inside'."
The group pauses.
Glenn glances at Rick, then shrugs.
"He's got a point. I know a better spot—low visibility but close to the building."
Daryl scoffs but says nothing as Glenn guides them a few blocks over to an abandoned alleyway, half-shielded by fallen signage and a delivery truck. They slid the van in behind some dumpsters. Casey nods in approval.
As they gear up, Daryl steps close to T-Dog, voice low but dangerous.
"If Merle's dead, I'm puttin' that on you."
T-Dog stands his ground, jaw clenched.
"I locked the door. Ain't no walker breaking through chains and a steel handle."
Casey watches, hand drifting to his belt, just in case things got physical again.
Rick steps in.
"Enough. We move together."
As they head out on foot, Glenn raises a hand to pause them at a corner.
"We go for Merle first," he says.
"The guns are past the department store. We'd have to double back."
Casey nods slowly, adjusting the strap on his bag.
"Rescue the idiot first. Got it."
Back at camp...
The mood is lighter.
Lori approaches Dale, looking around. "Have you seen Carl?"
Dale looks up from fixing a lantern. "Last I saw, he was down at the quarry with Shane. Probably trying to catch frogs again."
Down by the Quarry Lake...
Carl and Shane crouch by the water's edge, armed with a bucket and a small net.
"There!" Carl calls, pointing.
Shane lunges too far, his feet sliding out from under him with a loud splash. Carl's eyes widen for a second, then he bursts out laughing.
Shane sputters, soaked to the bone, his face red from both embarrassment and the cold water. He quickly scoops up a handful of water, flinging it straight at Carl.
Carl yelps but can't help but laugh harder, splashing back with abandon.
The two of them go back and forth, their laughter mingling with the sounds of water splashing around them. For a brief moment, there's no walkers, no constant fear hanging over them—just a man and a boy, caught up in something so simple and real, they forget the world outside.
Not faraway...
The women sit on a flat rock by the water, laundry spread out between them.
Carol scrubs a shirt on a washboard, sighing. "God, what I wouldn't give for my old Maytag right now."
Amy wrung out a tank top, her face scrunching in frustration. "I miss my phone. Not the people, just the apps."Jacqui laughed, tossing a damp cloth over her shoulder."You know what I miss? Coffee. That sweet, hot cup of motivation. My espresso machine was basically my soulmate."
There was a pause, the kind that meant trouble was brewing. Then Andrea snorted."You wanna know what I really miss?" she said, grinning wickedly. "My vibrator."
They all went quiet for a beat—shock and amusement lacing the air like wildfire.Carol's eyes widened, then she covered her mouth, snickering. "You know what? I miss mine too."
The group burst into laughter, the sound a rare spark of life against the grim backdrop of their new world.
For just a moment, it almost feels normal.
Back on the other side of the Quarry Lake…
The air shifts as Lori approaches, arms tight across her chest.
"Carl, back to camp. Now."
Carl hesitates, glancing at Shane, then sloshes out of the water and hurries away, head down.
Shane wipes water from his face, watching him go. "Don't take it out on the kid," he says quietly.
Lori's jaw tightens.
"You stay away from my family, Shane."
He steps forward, tension clear in his face. "You think I'm not glad he's alive? That Rick came back?"
Lori glares. "You told me he was dead, Shane. You made me believe it."
Shane looks like he wants to explain, but Lori turns and walks off, leaving him alone with the ripples in the water.
Back at the camp…
The women's laughter begins to fade as Ed Peletier storms up, face like thunder.
"That sound like laundry to you?" he growls.
"This ain't a damn slumber party. Get back to work."
Andrea tosses the sponge at his feet. "We're not your damn housewives. Go find your own rock."
Ed's eyes narrow, but he turns on Carol. "Let's go. Now."
Carol, trembling, hesitates.
Jacqui steps between them. "Touch her, and we're done playing dumb, Ed. Everyone knows what you do when nobody's looking."
Ed, enraged pushes Jacqui away, raises a hand—and strikes Carol hard across the face.
Time stops.
Carol reels back from the slap, stumbling against the Cherokee.
Then Shane explodes across the clearing, slamming into Ed and dragging him away from Carol with one arm before pummeling him to the ground.
"You piece of shit!" Shane yells, fists crashing down again and again.
Blood spatters the dirt. The others watch in stunned silence.
Finally, Shane pulls back, breathing heavily.
Ed groans, barely conscious.
Shane crouches low, his voice ice cold. "You ever touch her again—hell, anyone—and I will beat you to death. You hear me?"
No answer. Just a moan.
Carol—recovered—kneels beside Ed, her hand trembles as it reaches for him, the bruises still fresh in her memory—but habit pulls her closer, like gravity.
No one moves to help her.
Shane walks away, blood on his knuckles, rage still simmering just beneath the surface.
In Atlanta…
The air is thick with tension as Rick, Daryl, Glenn, Casey, and T-Dog creep through the department store, weapons at the ready. The silence felt staged, like the store was holding its breath.
Daryl leads the way, his crossbow raised. A sudden groan echoes from behind a shelf. He doesn't hesitate—
THUNK
The bolt buries into a walker's skull. It collapses with a wet thud.
"Clear," he mutters, already moving toward the stairwell.
T-Dog unlocks the chained door with Dale's bolt-cutters. The stairwell groans under their boots as they ascend.
They push open the rooftop door.
The sunlight hits them—and so does the smell.
There, on the concrete, lies a hacksaw, a trail of blood smeared from it to the base of the pipe.
Above it dangles a single, bloody cuff.
Below it—Merle's severed hand.
Daryl's scream is primal. "NO!"
Daryl's scream rips through the air. Silence follows. Even the dead seem to hold their breath.