Whoop, whoop!

Welcome to the first chapter of 'Folsom Prison Blues', the third installment of my TWD saga. For those that have already read the first two, I hope you enjoy Samara's new adventures and for the newcomers I recommend reading 'I Walk the Line' and 'Ring of Fire', in that order.

Enjoy!

All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.

Heavy breaths.

Crunching leaves.

Two shadows rushed through the withered forest, heavy steps disturbing the thin blanket of snow.

Fuck!

The one with the sunglasses panted heavily as she jumped over an overgrown root. She could still hear the men behind her, hot on their tracks like bloodhounds. The hunted had been trying to get rid of their tail for what seemed like hours now, but their pursuers were relentless and it was all his fault.

He was the one tracking them down.

The women sped up as the hoots and hollers inched closer. Sunglasses woman felt her heart leap in her throat as upon entering a clearing, two walkers greeted them with outstretched, loving arms. Handling them had been easy, but the momentous distraction had cut off their head start.

"We can't go back to the town." Samara growled out of breath. "They'll follow us back to our place."

The other woman nodded knowingly as her eyes darted around the clearing. It didn't take long for her to notice a point of intrigue between the downed walkers and the tree tops. Samara tried to follow her reasoning, but either the sword-wielder wanted to drop those corpses from higher ground or she wanted to hang them. Knowing her, it could be both.

Determination steeled the woman's nerves. At this point, Samara knew she was about to do something insane and she could not wait to see it. Her partner could be creative when under pressure.

What are you up to, Michonne?

Samara stuck to the trunk of the tree with excitement coursing through her veins. She had been right. Michonne's idea had been extravagant. At the moment, the woman in question was perched atop a tree, ready to ambush their stalkers with her deadly katana raised high.

Everything had been arranged for the men's viewing pleasure. The trap set and ready. Time had not been on their side, but the duo had managed to establish everything as well as allow Michonne to indulge in her dark witticism—the crazier someone thought you were, the higher the chances to be left alone.

Samara's breath hitched as four shapes paused in the clearing, extremely winded and leg weary—an Asian, a young Hispanic, a man that looked like one of those crazy gun-toting hicks that lived in trailer parks and him, the metal-hand man. He was the real problem. Samara believed him to be a hunter judging by the way he slithered through the forest, silently and at ease as if he had practiced it all his life. The way he tracked the two women down through the snow had also been unnervingly skillful, reminding her of a different hunter she once had met.

Beads of sweat rolled down the side of her temple, soaking in the material of her mask. The men spoke among themselves as they realized the meaning of the grotesque display of walker body parts—

Go Back.

The metal-hand guy chuckled, finding the twisted humor in Michonne's presentation. He even had the cleverness to call it a 'biter-gram'. The young Hispanic was the opposite of amused as his body was seized by fear. Discord oozed into the group, splitting them into two factions—those that wanted to continue in their pursuit and those that wished to call it a loss and return home. In their perspective, dealing with two women that were mad enough to butcher a walker and pose it in such a fashion brought out the giant, red flag.

From her vantage point, Michonne gave the signal.

With a deep breath and a small prayer, the marshal leaped out of her hiding place and ran along the trees. The racket made caught the attention of the bickering group of men.

Metal-hand guy responded promptly and shot after Samara, giving the woman a mini heart attack as a bullet came close to tearing a chunk of her thigh.

"What's the deal, ladies? You gonna leap out of the woods, two against four, all of us armed to the teeth and you with just your little pig-stickers?"

Pig-stickers her ass. They had guns, Samara more so than Michonne who focused on being a melee combatant. The Native just avoided using her guns unless necessary, prompting the hillbilly to mock them.

As Metal-Hand detached from the group to get a clearer shot of the runner, Michonne played out her part. She dropped from her height and decapitated the closest man—the gun-totter. Shocked by the gory ambush, it gave Michonne ample time to stab the nearest man, the Asian, through the throat. The man gurgled wetly as he dropped to the forest floor, choking on his own blood. The young Hispanic, spattered with blood and brain traumatized by the violence, stuck to the trees in numbness. In light of the dying man, Michonne used the distraction to run back into the protective cover of the forest just as Metal-Hand rounded up on her. However, the man never got the chance to pull the trigger as Samara's bullet ripped through his shoulder.

Samara cursed as the hick hid behind the thick trunk of a tree, blocking her bullets from further mangling his flesh. The other man held no interest to the former marshal as he stood completely lost to the world. He was done.

Despite the injury, Metal-Hand did not seemed deterred by it as a gun fight ensued, bullets tearing pieces of bark and snapping branches.

"Come on, sweetheart! You can do better than that!"

She could, but time was of the essence. Michonne had probably reached the road by now, waiting for Samara to join her. The more she played the hick's game, the more she lost the loophole out of this predicament. Breaking out her escape plan, Samara chucked a smoke grenade in the man's direction, flooding the area in purple smoke.

While the remaining men choked on thick smoke, Samara made her elusive escape.

Breathing heavily, the marshal flew across the vegetation as fast as her legs could carry her. Sweat poured in abundance as an unwelcome ghost made its tender presence known on her spine. Recognizing the signs of an incoming episode, Samara quickly popped a white, rounded pill from an orange container she kept one her person at all times. Her teeth did quick work on the medication as they crushed it into fine powder. Despite being the fastest way to numbness, it was far from being the cleverest. No wonder she developed an avid taste for them.

Pavement replaced leaves and frozen earth. Samara gasped raggedly as she searched the deserted road for signs of life, her gun at ready for any surprises.

"Michonne!" Samara hissed.

Dead bushes rustled as a body came out of its camouflage. With a breath of relief, the marshal lowered her gun as Michonne walked up to her, her hawkish gaze darting back to the treacherous forest.

"Dead?"

Samara shook her head, a trembling hand wiping the cold sweat off her brow.

"Didn't have the time. Had to use the smoke-grenade."

The woman's frown deepened. Samara was disappointed as well, but pressing matters called them back to their hideout. The sun was two hours from setting and getting caught outside in the dark was not something they relished.

Bang!

Both women jumped in alarm as a gunshot echoed through the silence of the forest. Like statues they stood, listening and observing for any changes. Time passed and no man came out of the woods, guns blazing. Whatever happened to the two men will remain a mystery as both women turned tail and disappeared on the other side of the road, never to return.

The two women slipped unnoticed through the throng of undead. The town where they had sought shelter was a remote, quiet place, but for the past two weeks more and more walkers had begun to repopulate it. Soon, they would have to leave the nest lest they be discovered by their putrid neighbors.

—There was one obstacle, though.

Reaching a meat and butcher shop called 'Sportsman's Deer Cooler', the women quietly entered after a last perusal of their front yard.

Walker watch-dogs? Check.

No human presence? Check.

Despite the undead infestation and the stench they polluted the area with, the only living occupants of the little town preferred it that way. They made sure that if anyone was stupid or crazy enough to want to scavenge their territory, the walkers would alert them of their presence. Either that or make them turn tail and run.

Inside, Samara and Michonne were warmly greeted by their two armless housemates. The unliving duo stirred to attention once the smell of fresh meat reached their decayed senses, but apart from watching and swaying on their feet they took no further action. It seemed their lack of members and jaws had turned them into quite the docile sheep, but even knowing that they posed no threat, Samara still couldn't stand them.

Throwing her backpack onto one of the butcher tables, the Native inspected her findings—canned food, four bottles of water and a few power-bars. Michonne's bag contained almost the same with just one important addition: medicine. Medicine they desperately needed for Andrea's pneumonia.

It had been a tough winter, much rougher than Samara had expected down south. A chill and maybe a few snowflakes, not foot deep in snow and below zero degrees. Because of her Florida roots where sunshine and heat was the predominant silver lining of every season, Andrea was not used to the cold. She probably had never seen actual snow or had a cold before, leaving her vulnerable to sickness. Severely enough that they had to run ten kilometers to a nearby town where an undersized clinic was located. The clinic had been in disarray with upturned furniture, crushed pills bottles and trampled boxes thrown off rafters.

With a sigh, Samara brushed the leaves and dirt off her dark grey Confederate greatcoat. Even inside, the women couldn't take off their outdoor clothes as the chill crept through every crevice. They had even started a fire several times inside the building, but ceased after they almost burned down the building. Taking the pair of dark rounded sunglasses off, Samara placed them atop Maggie's cowboy hat. The lower-face skeleton mask that the marshal had found several months ago was still present and in one piece as she tugged it off. Her clothes were all dark in color, complete with army boots, an over-sized scarf and leather gloves.

Picking up the backpack, Samara followed Michonne as she checked up on their sick friend the moment they arrived. Andrea had been placed in containment in the shop's defunct meat freezer, away from the two women who feared catching pneumonia as well.

The reason for not having immediately gone to Andrea's side was fear.

If Andrea is dead—

Pushing the door aside, she found Michonne crouched over a barely conscious Andrea. Samara's heart clenched at the feeble state of the blonde.

"How is she?"

"Worse. She's burning up and shivering." The sword-wielder helped their sick friend take tiny sips of water. "When she saw me, she called me Amy."

The Native cursed. The fever must have had spiked dangerously after their departure that morning. Michonne had argued against both going, but Samara had been stubborn. Two pairs of hands could carry more than one and having a partner protect each other's backs guaranteed a safe return. The cost of it had been Andrea's well-being. A double-edged sword, Samara knew, but she'd rather have the two healthy people safe than lose a healthy one along with the sick one in the absence of medicine.

Michonne had not been happy with that conclusion, but it turned true in the end. If Samara had scavenged on her own, she might not have been lucky enough to escape Metal-Hand's clutches.

It still didn't make Samara feel any less guilty. Andrea was in a precarious state and the hours away might have sealed her fate.

Michonne rearranged the sick woman in her sleeping bag to uncover an arm. Having to see Andrea like this never got any better, but the two women braved through it. They had to be strong for their weakened friend.

"We need to slip the IV in."

Samara took it as her cue in finding a vein on Andrea's arm. It wasn't difficult as the sickly paleness made most of her veins visible. Tapping on a fat one, she waited for Michonne to hang the liquid antibiotics bag and hand her over the needle. Slipping it gently in, Samara placed a stretch of ducktape over and with Michonne's help, covered Andrea in enough blankets to smother her.

"Michonne, if the antibiotics don't work…You understand what we'll have to do, right?"

"I know." Her sharp and brisk answer was enough to convey the sword-wielder's opinion of this sensitive subject.

"I hope it works…"

Andrea had been sick for a little over two weeks now. They hadn't given it much thought at first, chalking it up to a common cold, but as time passed the coughing got worse. She ate less and slept more, and soon the fever hit—from there it went downhill rather quickly.

Looking at her companion, Samara knew that it was harder for her. Michonne had gotten fairly attached to Andrea over these past few months and Samara was pretty sure some of those feelings ventured past just friendship.

Despite her friend's dangerous condition, Samara's mind ventured back to her own brush with danger this afternoon.

"Michonne, this is the second time in a month we saw that guy with the metal hand."

The first time may have just been a glimpse at a distance, but now that man had talked to them, fought them, been in their presence. It wasn't likely he would forget since Michonne had killed half of his team and Samara had left her own bloody mark on his body.

"He's going to look for us. Hunters don't give up so easily when it comes to their prey."

They had to leave their nest and drive as far away from this little town as possible. Samara was reluctant to take any chances, especially if there were more out there that came with Metal-Hand. They had had the element of surprise on their hand, the second time won't be in their favor.

Looking at Andrea's frail body, the Native knew that the blonde wouldn't make it if they attempted to move her.

"How long will it take for her to get better?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

The truth was that Samara wasn't even sure Andrea would live through the night. She needed a hospital, not two women who guided themselves by simple knowledge—you get sick, antibiotics cure all.

They were playing with fire. Unfortunately, they could do nothing but watch and wait for the dawn, hope riding on it sun tails.

Shiver.

Samara wrapped her body in a fluffy blanket as she sat on a lawn chair with her feet propped on the roof's ledge, watching the activity below. There was a military issued sniper rifle resting in her lap and a small flask of hot coffee mixed with whisky in the inner breast pocket of her coat. Samara had opted to sit in a light snowstorm rather than remain around the sickly Andrea. The thought that the woman could die on them at any moment had the Native withdraw into the cold.

It was an unpleasant feeling, the waiting game. Every time she coughed or her breath hitched, it sent both women into a state of panic, fearing it to be her last. Despite her jaded outlook, Samara had never been able to watch those close to her die. She couldn't understand how Michonne could and for that, respected her immensely. The woman had a hide tougher than hers…or she was just better at masking it.

The screech of metal brought Samara out of her brooding mood. There was a small door that accessed the roof via a rickety ladder and, lo and behold, Michonne was coming up to greet her. Neither of the women spoke as they stared out into the darkness, the obscure shapes of the walkers made visible only by the pure white snow which thickened with each passing hour.

"Enjoying yourself up here?"

Samara snorted. "I'm freezing my tits off, what do you think?"

Michonne smirked for a fraction of a second before returning to her neutral front. "Anything interesting?"

"If by interesting you mean more and more walkers each day, then yes, this is turning out to be a most interesting night."

Samara head the sword-wielder sigh in exasperation.

"We can't move, not now."

"Then when, Michonne? When we get overrun? The walkers somehow understand that we're here. It's only a matter of time until this whole town is filled with them. We have to be one step ahead, always."

A week tops it would take before the town's population would be back to its normal numbers, but if they moved Andrea before she got even a little bit better, it would spell her doom. Michonne would never agree to that.

"When Andrea's fever lowers, we leave."

Samara leaned back in her chair defeated. Like her, Michonne could be extremely stubborn. Trying to change her mind was like haggling with a brick wall—useless and frustrating. The marshal wondered if this was how the Kentucky sheriff felt whenever she refused to go along with his decisions.

"There's a car I hid in an auto-garage shop a few streets away. I thought it would be better to be prepared than leave it on the last second." The marshal then turned to Michonne with a piercing look. "Your 'boyfriends' are not invited."

Their stink had gotten embedded into her skin so badly that it didn't even matter if she bathed once a week, it still clung to her like a shadow. Michonne looked like she wanted to object, but pursed her lips instead. Whatever attachment she had to those two undead men, she had to disregard it for the greater good. Samara wouldn't tolerate them anymore.

If the gods were on their side, they'll be on the road again in a short while. Relocating in the winter was not an encouraged idea, but the choice was out of their hands.

Gods, I wish spring would just arrive already.

She needed heat and warmth. Samara was Arizona born and bred, where the sun roasted the skin until it blistered. She would rather pant and sweat under the scorching sun than live in this bitter cold, but the thought of summer always brought out memories of Hershel's farm and, subsequently, the Atlanta group. Four months had passed since they parted ways and she could still remember that night with bitter clarity. Samara had tried getting past her resentment, but her fury overwhelmed her non-existent forgiving nature and left her with the impulsive urge to punch something.

Samara took a heated swing out of her flask, cringing at the sharp tang of Irish whiskey. Ever since the absence of nicotine had forced her to quit smoking, the marshal fed her oral habit with the little alcohol she was lucky enough to find. Not the brightest idea, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to care anymore. Samara desperately needed a break from reality—the constant vigilance, having to watch over the other two women, lack of food, suspicion at anything and everything that moved and decision making that hopefully wouldn't get them all killed had left her in a state of extreme fatigue, both physically and emotionally. The worst part was that Samara couldn't just leave it all behind and run. Actually, she had entertained the idea, but she didn't want to. She cared about Andrea and Michonne too much to just leave them behind. They had been side by side through thick and thin, saving each other's asses along the way.

—Samara may be callous but she understood the value of loyalty, especially in these lawless days.

"Remembering different times?"

"Something like that." Samara passed the flask and watched as Michonne downed a healthy dose. The grimace that followed had the Native snickering in amusement.

"I thought this was coffee." Michonne spat the bitterness on the white snow.

"It is, only spiked with whiskey."

"You shouldn't drink."

"There was only a little bit left in the bottle. Not enough to get tipsy on."

Michonne pried the flask out of Samara's hands and poured the contents over the edge of the roof, splashing a thoughtless walker. With desperation, Samara jumped to stop the precious liquid from getting wasted, but Michonne's reflexes were sharper. She moved the flask out of the Native's reach until only a few droplets remained. Callously, she threw the little metal container into the darkness, hitting the thoughtless walker over the head and causing it to collapse into a heap.

"Godddammit, Michonne!" Samara hissed, careful not to raise her voice. "Why the hell did you do that?!"

"You know why."

As the Native readied her derisive tirade, a sudden sting pricked her back. The sensation of pain jolted all the way up to her brain, cutting the words off her tongue. Samara bent over herself, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to stop the screams. No matter how many episodes she experienced, there was nothing she could do to ameliorate their force. It was similar to phantom pain, Samara concluded. It would take more than a year for the pain to completely disappear, the shock of the fall having left her spine with intense trauma.

With trembling fingers, Samara reached inside her coat and brought out the orange container. Popping two pills into her mouth, she chewed on them, ready to be rid of the horrible ache.

Deep, deep breaths.

Slowly, the marshal lowered herself onto the lawn chair. Every move inflicted on her back had Samara left with the impulse to wail at the moon. She passionately prayed for relief, for the medication to kick in and spare her this horrid ache. Her prayers must have been answered as a lack of feeling soon enveloped her, her body welcoming the mind-numbing effect with heavy limbs and droopy eyes.

"You shouldn't have taken two."

Samara knew, but they weren't in any immediate danger that required her to be sober.

"And then you wonder why I don't want you drinking."

The Native snorted as she threw a wide, mocking grin her companion's way. "Because they'll fuck with my head? Big woop."

A slap strong enough to make the marshal see stars was Michonne's answer.

"I'll tolerate you doping up because I know you have good reasons to, but I won't accept you mixing pills with booze."

Michonne's guttural growl brought back some linear consciousness into her clouded brain. Staring into those bottomless coffee pools, Samara could almost peer past the steely fortification and see the worry she constantly carried like a lingering ghost.

"Fine. Have it your way, Michonne."

The sword-wielder sat back onto the edge, her glare still palpable. The silence stretched on between them. It wasn't awkward or unwelcome, just a steady one that left them pensive after their subtle aggressive confrontation. The two women had a history of butting heads and the solution they found for peace was quiet meditation.

Samara knew the woman was worried for her. At times, even she was, but if these habits gave her respite from the continuous nightmare she was living in, then why not indulge in them. What did it matter if pills or alcohol could lead to her destruction, when Samara already knew that Death waited just below them, forever hungry? The Native could already guess what her death would be like and it wasn't as luxurious as Michonne thought it would be. No, it would be gruesome and painful, either at the hands of the undead or the living.

—Samara never did quite believe she deserved a peaceful death, even before the plague.

"You know what day is today?"

"I lost count some time ago. It's just seasons for me."

Samara rolled her eyes at Michonne's robotic answer. "It's New Year's Eve."

"So?"

The disinterest Michonne displayed had Samara pout. "Just saying…"

"You never just say."

Samara gazed into the darkness with something akin to defeat, feeling a wave of sadness drowning her in its murky depths.

"Do you think they'll ever die out? Your pets have been with you for, what? Six-seven months? They haven't eaten any flesh since you cut their jaws off and they still walk around. I thought that maybe winter would kill them off, not send them in this strange sort of hibernation."

"It just made them weaker and slower." Michonne shrugged, unmoved by Samara's walker plight. "Don't get so down, Samara. It's still the first winter. Maybe they just need time to fully stop functioning."

How many winters does that mean? Five? Ten? Samara didn't even know if she would still be alive to see that.

"Stop it." Michonne glared at her sternly. "Wherever your mind is wandering right now, it's making you look depressed. Get it out of your head. We don't have time for self-pity."

Samara almost wanted to chuckle. Michonne always had an eerie way of reading her despite her best efforts at masking her moods. It must be the lawyer part of her, filtering through the bullshit and lies, seeking the honest truth. Maybe she was right. What use was there to think on such matters? It was out of her hands. Samara might as well ride the waves and see where it took her, end of the plague or not. For now, she only had her and her two friends' survival to worry about. Nothing else mattered.

Raising her chin, Samara closed her eyes at the cool sensation of snowflakes touching her hot skin. The contrast of extremities had her body tingle pleasantly as the melted flakes rolled down her face and into her scarf.

Shudder.

"I always hated winter. I'm more of a spring type of girl. Warm weather, not too hot or too cold. Just right."

"Want me to braid your hair with flowers come spring?"

Samara chuckled at Michonne's mockery, saluting her with the 'birdie'. Something in the marshal's mirth hit a deep cord in the ever grave Michonne as a smile cracked her sternly aligned lips.

"My daughters loved winter. Snowmen, snowball fights, Christmas and presents. I hated shoveling the snow. That was a bitch."

Samara settled with a tender smile as the past flashed before her eyes like polaroids.

"My husband loved the holidays. He always exaggerated when it came to decorating. Every Christmas our house looked like it came straight out of Whoville. He was like a kid during that time of the year. I was never that enthusiastic." The smile faded as cold reality seeped in, crushing any joy she might have had. "I just wish…"

"Yeah…"

He wasn't here and neither were Michonne's girls. They would never see them again in this life no matter how much they wished it. Never hear their voices, their laughter, see them smile or frown in displeasure. Samara believed that time would have cauterized the wound, but it remained a bleeding gash.

–Time never healed wounds, it just dulled the pain.

She wished she had gotten more time with him. Their relationship and marriage had been brief, ending in grief and resentment, but Samara had never regretted it. She had loved every minute of it…she just wished she had appreciated John while he had been alive and with her.

"You got any New Year's resolutions?" Every year, John used to make a list, mostly for the laughs than anything, but his number one always had been 'make Samara laugh'. He deeply considered that she was far too serious for her age and needed to enjoy more out of life.

—That coming from a man whose very profession demanded grave seriousness.

Michonne seemed to be on the same wavelength as her when it came to solemnity.

"Sure…survive till next year."

"That's a good one." Samara nodded, somewhat disappointed. She shouldn't have expected anything different. "I might write it on my list."

"You do that." Michonne left the roof ledge and pulled Samara to her feet by the arm. "Come on. You stay out here, you'll freeze to death."

The Native grumbled, but nonetheless followed Michonne's lead. Samara never did keep a New Year's resolution. Maybe when she had been a kid, but as a grownup she barely even celebrated the passing of the year. Another day, another dollar. Nothing of interest to her.

"Happy New Year, Samara."

Samara almost faltered. Michonne did not pause in her walk, but she had spoken genuinely. A smile bloomed on the Native's lips before she could stop it.

"Happy New Year, Michonne."

For once, the winter did not seem so cold anymore.

A callous thumb brushed over the immortalized face in the photo.

A tired sigh.

How many times had he done this? The same exact movements whenever the two pictures where in his hands? Always touching the contours of her face and gazing at the details of her body. How many times had he studied the photos either because he was bored or because, later, he seemed genuinely interested?

—When did this obsession even begin?

Daryl breathed in deeply as the Indian's frozen smile stared back at him. Four months had passed since that disastrous night at the farm and Daryl still felt guilt for not doing anything to prevent her death. It was irrational since nobody could have done anything. That night had been pure chaos, but he still felt like what he'd done or hadn't was sin.

It's because of these damn pictures!

Furiously, Daryl creased them in his hands. If it weren't for those inanimate objects, he wouldn't be so obsessed over a dead woman. He would have forgotten her in time and moved on with his life, but now he was stuck in this limbo. Several times he had gotten rid of them only to pick them back up. Reaching the point of frustration, the hunter had thrown them in a fire only to burn his hands in trying to extinguish them. No matter what he did, Daryl always ended up with the photos back in his pocket, partially safe.

He had come to seriously believe the Indian had put a curse on him in her dying moments—never let him have rest just so she could have the last laugh. She was capable of that…

"Daryl."

Startled, the hunter turned with knife in hand. Rick immediately backed away once the shiny blade came into play, one hand on his own machete reflexively.

Stupid.

"What?" He huffed in annoyance, more at himself that he got so distracted that he didn't even notice someone walk up to him. This was one of the other little problems that the pictures took gave away—his whole attention. "What is it?"

There was an odd excitement to the sheriff, something Daryl hadn't seen since summer.

"Come on."

Once Rick had put some distance between them, Daryl carefully pocketed the photos. At the back of his mind, he thanked everything holy that Rick hadn't noticed them. Painful steps had been taken to insure nobody knew of their existence as it would raise a barrage of question Daryl had no clue on how to answer.

Running side by side with the former sheriff, Daryl stepped over a snow hidden rusty railway and reached a clearing where the trees and bushes gave way to an utter astonishing view.

—A prison.

Daryl stood, completely blown away. All this time they had been circling an enormous building without ever knowing of its existence. When survival was the number one concern, the horse blinders limited the bigger picture.

There were two rows of high chain fences, enough yard space for hundreds of people, two high security buildings that probably still had plenty of supplies, but one major problem—

Walkers.

Far too many of them.

If it hadn't been for their presence, the prison would have been an ideal place to live in. For them to finally settle down and breathe without the burden of fearing for their lives at every turn. That their next breath would be their last. However, looking at the sheriff, Daryl realized that his train of thought paralleled his. The only exception was that Rick was bold and crazy enough to attempt to storm and conquer it.

Oh hell…

And judging by the hopeful smile that was lifting up his features, Daryl knew that that was in store for the near future.

Foot Note: So this was the first chapter. What did you guys think?

Sorry about the short action scene. I thought about making a bigger one, but then I remembered that I have a tendency to delay stories because I don't like writing action, so I left it out.