Chapter 4: Sprint

Jaywalking: (intransitive) to c ross a street at a place other than a regulated crossing or in a heedless and reckless manner.

…

"Whiskey, one-two. Whiskey, one-two, do you copy?"

Static echoed through the radio as the wind swept past their ears at a blazing speed. The ground below appeared desolate and small; no sign of movement – at least none that was still living. The steady thrum of the helicopter's rotor drowned out every other sound, snatching it away with the wind.

"Franklin, you see anything?" Welles, the pilot, asked.

"Negatory. Got scopes on nothin' but trees and dead ones."

Welles threw him a look over his shoulder, "Well keep looking. We're reaching just about a hundred-mile perimeter. The kid can't have gone too far on foot."

"You're kidding, right? We've been hunting for him for nearly eight months! We don't even know if he's still alive!"

"The boy is killer at hide and seek. He's made the royal guard look like idiots."

"You think he found someone to hunker down with?" Rogers asked from next to Franklin, an automatic sitting primly on his lap.

Franklin stared back through the scope as he muttered out, "Doubt it. Pearson had reported that his men picked him up in the middle of Knoxville, wandering about trying to find his dead family. Said he was the stupid type. Doesn't play nice with others."

"Why are we even chasing after this kid anyway? Benning's overrun – game over, man!" Rogers cried from next to him, "We should be looking for food or water or something – not looking for some scrawny kid!"

Franklin shrugged from underneath the heavy camouflage coat, reaching for a thick manila folder tucked underneath his seat, flicking through it carefully to stop the loose sheets of paper from fluttering out the helicopter's sides, "The boss-man at the labs is keeping his lips sealed on this one. Not really sure why. We've only got basics here; birthday, family members, school grades – there's a bit at the back full of… I don't know what this mess of jargon is. Blood test results, maybe?"

"Probably all the important stuff. Typical lab nerds, don't know how to speak proper English even when the world is ending."

"They say he was bitten but didn't turn," Welles said conspiratorially.

Rogers rolled his eyes, "Yeah, right."

"It's true! Karpowicz told me before we headed out – he overheard some of the commanders talking after Daley and Rodriguez made it back to camp. Told them that the kid had been bit for over two days!"

"Bull!" Rogers spat.

"It's true! Rodriguez—!"

"Shut up, both of you!" Franklin snapped, wedging the folder into the crease of his chair's arm, "I can't concentrate while you both gossip like washed-up beauty queens, all right? Besides, it doesn't matter why the higher-ups want the kid; he's top priority and that's all we need to know."

Welles couldn't seem to be able to let it go, "Well, yeah, but if it was true—"

The helicopter gave out a loud, long groan making the three men jump.

"What was that?" Rogers yelled.

"The wind's a bit rough up here, dragging on the rotor a little too hard, I think," Welles replied, "Nothing to worry about. I've got this under control…"

The helicopter gave another loud groan followed by a succession of pops, which rattled in the army-men's ears. Something sparked on the dashboard, making the pilot yelp.

"Welles?" Franklin called, but Welles didn't reply as the sound of metal scraping against metal cut through the air. Welles gripped the pilot-stick like a lifeline as the helicopter began to weave and dodge out of the air. Franklin could smell smoke and a glance out of the open panels brought him to attention the acrid black that was billowing out from the rotor.

The helicopter gave a dangerous dip and he could see Welles sweating where he sat, pressing furiously at buttons and flicking switches, "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!"

Rogers leapt forward in his seat, snatching the mouthpiece to the wired radio console and jamming the button down, "Home base this is Sean Rogers, we are facing a highly dangerous mechanical failure and will need immediate assistance. I repeat; immediate assistance is required. Our coordinates are 33.3019 degrees to 84.55—"

"We're going in hard!"

Franklin gave a loud shriek as the helicopter plummeted from the sky.

…

Philip Blake hopped out of the back of the SUV and wandered toward the wreckage. The chopper was still smoking where it lay and the heat that rolled off the searing metal made sweat trickle down his temples uncomfortably.

"Fan out," he ordered. His men quickly swarmed the area, checking around trees and rocks, weapons at the ready.

One of his men levelled a gun at a biter that crept its way into the clearing and Philip had to fight the urge to roll his eyes at his stupidity. New recruits were always a nightmare to bring along to a search and retrieve – always trying to prove themselves. This newbie didn't have enough brains for even the biters to chew on.

"Save those rounds for when you need them."

The rest of the team moved with efficiency; he didn't even have to look to know. Martinez seemed especially keen to practice his batting hand. The squelching thuds spoke for his good aim.

Philip trod through the grass, stepping over the remaining halves of a soldier sliced by a rotor blade as he peeked inside. There were two more safely buckled within. Well, one, at least. The other's head had been pierced through by a jagged end of a microphone attached to his helmet, stabbing him right between the eyes.

He ignored that one, leaning over to the pilot whose head lolled when Philip poked it. He tucked his fingers under his chin, placing the tips of his pointer and middle fingers against the man's jugular.

He grinned as he announced to the group, "We've got a breather! Ted!"

Ted dashed over to Philip's side instantly, unbuckling the pilot and hauling him onto the grass beside the wreck. Philip heaved a deep breath as he dropped the unconscious body onto the forest floor. The man was dressed in military clothes, which, despite the crash, looked clean and well-kept.

"Got a chomper!" came a cry.

Philip ignored it as the others moved into formation, guns and bow at the ready, instead signalling for Ted to lift the pilot's feet as he snatched the man up by the armpits to drag him to the car. There was a whistle of air and a dull thud in the background when the biter's body fell.

A wheezing groan beside him made him look up. He turned slowly, shoving his neatly combed hair out of his face to glance down. There, with eyes misted over into a dull grey, clammy skin and snatching hands, lay the soldier lanced in half. It snarled at him weakly as it raised its arms, desperate to grab a hold of him.

Pitiful. Disgusting. Weak.

He calmly lifted the knife out of its holster by his hip, feeling the familiar weight where it rested perfectly in the palm of his hand – like it was meant to be. Like it was always meant to be.

He lifted the knife above his head and let gravity overcome him as he fell on top of the biter, his knife sliding like butter into the dead soldier's skull. With a firm twist he yanked the knife out of the soldier's head, the biter giving a final gurgle before it collapsed on the ground. He stood, brushing himself off and headed back to the helicopter where he heard a twin snarl. Apparently the microphone wire hadn't done its job properly.

It didn't take much effort to kill the second soldier again; but there was nothing pleasing about it either – he no longer got that rush of adrenaline like when he was first introduced to this cruel world. It wasn't fun anymore. It was tiresome, and he only had so many clean clothes left.

He pulled the knife back from the soldier and was about to leave when his eye caught the flutter of paper. Curious, Philip tugged at the edge of a manila folder wedged between the seats, forcing it free. Stamped in red were the words 'CONFIDENTIAL' and, by the undead holy lord himself, did Philip feel confident about keeping this secret for his own. A smile tugged at his lips as he flipped open the folder letting his eyes flick across each page with interest.

He shuffled through the sheets, obscenely curious as each new signature from the Army Generals and Corporals were revealed, addressing warrants and citizen's arrest rights. His heart beat loudly in his ears as excitement rose within him, riffling through pages so furiously that he thought he might tear them – until he found a polaroid; a boy sat cuffed and scowling, staring sullenly at the camera with someone's hand gripping his chin tightly to keep his head steady. His white-streaked hair was falling over a pair of large blue eyes and a dirty bandage hung loosely from his shoulder. Somebody had messily scrawled the words 'PAIN IN THE ASS' across the bottom of the picture. A sheet of paper was clipped to the photo printed off in neat black ink, listing names, addresses, birth dates, age, schooling…

Family members.

He sucked in a breath, tossing a look over his shoulder at Ted and the others as he tucked the folder under his padded vest, making sure none of his men had glimpsed it before he stepped out of the helicopter. He zipped his vest up tighter, letting none of the white parchment stick out when he heard furious groans from off to the left that made him pause. They were growing louder, more aggravated.

He glanced at his men who stood at the ready, weapons aimed at the tree line. But nothing came. The growling was still there, and he swore he heard the clanking of chains – until it stopped.

Philip waited for a heartbeat, ears tuned to the sounds of the forest, but heard nothing else. His lip twitched finitely, "Let's roll out."

He trampled his way through the overgrown grass, and with a sharp click of his fingers, Ames snatched up the pilot with Ted, packing him up into the back seat of the car. Ted yanked out a thick piece of cloth and efficiently tied it around the man's eyes. Philip gave a nod of approval as he moved to slide into the passenger seat.

"Hey, Gov'ner! Got a li'l surprise for ye'!" he heard.

Philip bit his tongue as the grating voice of Merle Dixon met his ears. The man was a travesty – minimal respect and he lacked any sort of assentation, constantly picking fights with the other men. But he was good at what he did, Philip had to admit, with example of the two women he'd dragged in front of him.

He was drawn to the first by the sharp glare in her eyes. Hair weaved into dirty dreadlocks and skin the colour of earth, the woman sneered at him with flared nostrils but didn't speak a word, her eyes constantly flicking to her friend who had been hauled over Merle's shoulder like a sack of potatoes, blonde hair hiding her features but a strong Anglo tan visible underneath the thick layer of dirt and sweat.

"Load them up," Philip ordered.

Merle gave him a mocking salute as he edged closer to the car to shove the blonde in. Philip waved Martinez over and pointed at the other woman, who was glancing over her shoulder at Merle.

"Give them the usual welcome; bind 'em and blind 'em."

He didn't wait for Martinez's response as he stepped into the car, slamming the door behind him. He watched half-heartedly as the woman stood still, allowing Martinez to snag her hands and wrap them in rope, but her eyes burned ferociously up until the point she was forced into the blindfold. He chuckled when she yanked her head to the side then, thrown by her loss of sight, but his face fell to its unreadable blank slate when Martinez and Dixon loaded themselves into the car, switched it on and drove off.

The sun had long set as they neared the settlement, and as protocol called, he snatched up one of the walkie-talkies lodged in the dashboard box and clicked the button, "I need you to prepare the infirmary."

"How many?" came the tinny reply of Farrow.

"Three. One with multiple fractures and severely bruised. Another in and out of consciousness. Probably from shock or exhaustion."

"The other?"

"She's fine."

"Female?"

"Two. Found them hiding in the woods."

"You nearing the gate?"

"Almost. Oh, and Farrow?"

"Yes, sir?"

Philip patted the front of his vest self-assuredly where the file hid, "Keep an eye on the Fentons."

…

Jazz tugged at her ponytail, pulling the overstretched elastic tighter around the bunched hair and gave a mournful huff as it wilted under its own weight.

Dr Stevens raised an eyebrow at her, "We've got a perfectly good pair of surgical scissors that aren't being put to use."

Jazz gasped, her hands flying back to her hair. She shook her head furiously, tucking the ponytail into the nape of her shirt while Dr Stevens chuckled at her.

"I like it long," Jazz said bashfully.

Dr Stevens shrugged, her own hair pulled into an impressively tall beehive, "Suit yourself. Just make sure it stays out of the way. We've got the Governor coming in soon with a couple of outsiders. He's asked you to guide them around when they wake up tomorrow."

"Two?"

"Three, actually. But by the sounds of it, the third isn't going to make it through the night."

"Oh," a lump settled in Jazz's throat and she whispered thickly, "Is that why I've been pulled from curfew?"

Dr Stevens nodded, opening a chest on the far side of the infirmary and tossed her a pair of scrubs, "Put these on. You're going to be my assistant for this one. Maybe we'll have a lucky night."

Jazz pulled the blue shirt over her clothes, stepping into the pants, "Mr Blake does tend to be quite dramatic."

Dr Stevens huffed, shoving the rolling cart full of equipment at her, "You're telling me. But we can't risk it. There's water on the flame for sterilisation – mind cleaning the equipment another round? We've got to make sure they're ready for surgery before the men make it through the main gate."

Jazz nodded, accepting the cart and hauling it into the opposite room. The house they called their infirmary was a handsome one – the entire town was with its structured design. Most of the houses were new, replicas of early nineteenth century architecture, with flowerboxes in windowsills and pinstripe awnings decorating shopfronts with cheery welcome signs. It was like a different world to the one just outside the tractor tyre stacked walls.

Hauling the bucket that was simmering on a low flame in the staff kitchen, Jazz carefully made her way back to the surgery, placing the tub on a cleared workbench and uncapped the bottle of polyhexanide seated neatly on the shelf above, dumping two capfuls into the hot water. She snapped on a pair of gloves and picked up the scalpel, tossing it into the liquid, swirling the water before she snatched it back out, her fingers burning from the steam through the thin latex as she set the scalpel to dry on a tray placed beside the bucket.

She repeated the monotonous steps for each utensil, dazedly letting her mind wander back to memories of a distant life, with her family and friends around her, smiling and laughing like nothing was wrong – like the world hadn't ended with her thrown right into the deep-end without even a paddle to cling to. She was dragged from her thoughts when the infirmary's door slammed open.

"Lead him through to the far room!" she heard.

Quickly, Jazz dumped the rest of the equipment into the water and dashed to the double doors, tugging them open to let the two men hauling a third in. She recognised Ames and Nguyen, who both grinned rakishly at her when she ordered them to put the unconscious man on the table.

She glared as they rushed out of the room and Jazz glimpsed two other women in the common area, one being led to a bed where an IV sat waiting. Dr Stevens spoke quickly to them before she rushed through to the surgery, where Jazz met her with a nod of understanding.

The good doctor pulled the younger girl over to the table where the man was unconscious, wordlessly telling her to grab the shears. Jazz quickly grabbed the pair of large scissors, and without prompting began to cut away at the man's clothes. The material was thick and tough, but Jazz made sure to keep all the surgery's equipment in top condition and the blades sliced through the padded material with little resistance.

Dr Stevens expertly ran her eyes over the man's body, lifting his arms and legs carefully and tutting every so often in dismay. Jazz watched with newly trained knowledge; judging by the bruising on his ribcage he had cracked more than a few and there was a notable amount of swelling around his ankle and his left wrist. Scrapes and cuts wrangled their way across his body, but he was relatively unharmed; Dr Stevens didn't seem too worried about the laceration on the man's forehead either.

The doctor stepped back with a self-ascertaining nod to herself, "He's fine. A few of broken ribs, a twisted ankle and a clean-snapped wrist. Head needs a few stitches, but it's mostly superficial. Not much else I can check without x-rays or a MRI – we'll need to keep an eye on him in case of a concussion, of course, but from what I can tell his guardian angel has been looking over his shoulder twice and checking thrice more."

Jazz felt pride in coming to the same conclusion, a wide grin spreading across her face… which fell just as suddenly at Dr Stevens's next words.

"You can clean him up, Jazmine."

"M–me? By myself? Bu–but I can't do that!"

Dr Stevens levelled her with a look, adjusting her glasses, "Of course you can. You've put casts on before; you've been training for this."

"Well, yes…" Jazz stuttered, "But those were practise! You were always with me! I can't do this alone!"

"Look, I've got another patient sitting in the other room who desperately needs to get her fluids up. I can't take care of both right now, can I?" Dr Stevens reasoned, placing a hand on Jazz's shoulder, "Besides, if anything goes wrong I'll just be in the other room, all right?"

Jazz chewed her lip before nodding nervously, looking down at the floor. Dr Stevens gave her a comforting smile before heading back into the main room, leaving Jazz alone with a man she prayed they had not misdiagnosed.

…

The binding process took over an hour to complete with Jazz's uncertain hands, and her stitching in the man's forehead was more than a little lopsided. Dr Stevens returned to the room partway through applying the wet plaster to the man's wrist after laying the soft cast – she didn't say anything about the stitches, choosing to instead stick a wad of cloth over the still-seeping laceration and holding it with tape.

It wasn't until another hour later after cleaning the entire surgery and infirmary (and sanitising the tools – again) that Jazz was able to pull off her scrubs and step outside (the other patients had long since left, for which Jazz was secretly glad for). It had been so long since she had been able to enjoy the night air thanks to Mr Blake's curfew order, and Jazz took her time walking to the two-bedroom motel room that she now called 'home'.

The stars sparkled brightly in the sky. The air seemed so much clearer down south than from what she remembered it being in Illinois. The city smog always seemed to hide the glittering suns that floated thousands of galaxies away through an invisible haze, but that was the only thing she found she could enjoy since the outbreak.

Danny had always loved the stars; he had wanted to be an astronaut. Jazz wondered if he still wanted to be one – or even if he was still alive…

She crossed the main road and reached the motel too fast for her liking, but eventually she relented, staring up at the sky one more time before treading up the spotless steps into the motel.

The walls were an inoffensive beige and she walked past the empty reception room toward the room farthest down the hall, number 14. The motel had been run via electronic key cards, but with the failed generator all the rooms had lost their ability to lock so Jazz simply pushed open the door and let herself in.

"Jazzy-pants!"

Jazz smiled tiredly but warmly at her father who sat in the middle of the small kitchen and lounge combination, fiddling with… something he was in the process of making.

Toeing off her shoes Jazz said, "Hey, dad."

"Working at the infirmary a bit late tonight, huh, Jazzy?" Jack's eyes had already turned back to whatever it was he was making, but his ears were perked.

Jazz nodded, "We've got three new arrivals. Two women and a man."

"They all right?"

Jazz shrugged, "I think so. I have to show them around town tomorrow. Mr Blake's orders."

"Gotta do what the Governor asks you to, I suppose. You hungry? There's two tins of lima beans in the pantry there for you if you want it."

Jazz raised her hands over her head and stretched, feeling exhaustion hit her like a bullet train, "No thanks. I think I'll just go to bed. I've got an early start tomorrow."

"Mind giving your old man a wake-up call? I've got the morning shift for the wall."

"Sure," she stepped over to him, careful to avoid the nails and bolts that littered the floor and leaned over to kiss his forehead, taking in the familiar scent of him that always reminded her that she wasn't completely alone in this cold world, "Love you, dad."

Jack looked up at her and grasped her hand, a watery smile playing across his lips, "I love you too, Jazzy."

…

The early morning air was brisk but the sun was already shining down on Jazz and she praised her choice of the blue flowery summer dress that floated around her knees and the simple black flats that covered her feet. She had forsaken her overstretched hair-tie to instead let her hair flow freely down to the just below her shoulder blades, the ends in desperate need of a trim as the dry Georgia air split each strand and reminded Jazz that no matter how much she dressed the part, the world could never be what it was before.

She caught sight of the two women from the night before making their way down the motel's steps. The pair had stayed just two floors above her and her father's room. They looked a lot fresher now than they did last night, thoroughly washed and well-slept was the norm for most Woodbury residents.

Tucking the clipboard she'd been grasping nervously under her arm she gave the pair her best student council president smile and offered a hand, "Hello! You must be Andrea and, er…"

The blonde woman who Jazz had briefly seen being hooked up to the IV the previous night, clasping her hand with a firm political grip. The other woman didn't offer her own, "This is Michonne. You are?"

"I'm Jazmine Fenton, but most people call me Jazz. I'm going to be guiding you around town today."

"We just want to get our stuff and go," Michonne muttered and Jazz nearly jumped at the quiet woman's voice.

"Oh…" Jazz glanced down at her clipboard that listed the scripted formalities – there was nothing written there for what to do if people wanted to leave Woodbury. Nobody had ever wanted to leave Woodbury before. At least nobody had ever admitted it out loud, "Well, um, I— I don't know if I can help you out much with that… I'm supposed to show you where the library is and tell you about the arts and crafts fair…"

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment as the two women stared at her.

Jazz cleared her throat uncomfortably. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth but despite each syllable feeling like lead, words continued to pour out of her mouth, "The Jefferson's were also planning to host a party next week and the whole town is invited and we recently got the bakery's ovens working again and Margaret has a really good recipe for biscuits and… and…"

Her cheeks were burning red and she fought the desperate urge to hide her face behind her ridiculous clipboard. If her brother was here he would have been rolling across the ground by now, laughing his head off at her. She could see him mocking her in her head; nudging her in the ribs and trying to hide a stupid grin as he teased her, "Playing teacher's pet, sis? You know you don't get grades at the end of the world, right?"

Her embarrassment fled her at the memories of her brother and she fought down the urge to cry in front of two strangers.

She felt a hand rest gently on her shoulder, making her glance up from the clipboard into the face of Andrea who was giving her a pitying look that was speckled with understanding. Jazz couldn't help but resent that look, although she couldn't bring herself to blame the woman. She probably looked like she was about to have a breakdown in the middle of the street.

"So, where's that library you were talking about?" Andrea asked casually, glancing at her companion, "Couldn't hurt to have a better look around here before we leave after all."

Jazz's panting breath was levelling out and the tears were quickly banished from her eyes. Her nose still felt stuffy and her throat was thick when she spoke, but she was in control, "Sure. I'll take you there right now!"

The two women followed after Jazz as she directed them around the small town, pointing out people or buildings occasionally like a professional tour guide. While Andrea looked curious about the town, asking Jazz questions about the walls' stability and the townspeople's way of life, Michonne was trawling behind them, dogging their footsteps while staring suspiciously at anyone that glanced their way.

"How many people are here?" Andrea asked once they reached the outside of an old antiques store.

"Seventy-three," Jazz answered affirmatively, "We haven't had a casualty since early winter, and Annie's about to pop, so we're hoping to make it seventy-four."

"And how long has the town been here?"

Jazz shrugged, "Since the start, I think. Mr Blake would know for sure—"

Michonne raised an eyebrow, "Mr Blake?"

"Phillip Blake," Jazz offered, "He's the one that brought you in here. Most people call him the Governor. My dad and I arrived in the town late last summer. About a month after everything started – when he had only set the foundations of Woodbury."

"Just you and your dad?" Andrea asked.

Jazz shifted uncomfortably, turning on her heel to continue the walk through the town, the others trailing behind her. Her voice was notably higher as she spoke, "It wasn't always. We had my mum and my brother, too. We got separated though. We lost Danny first, in the forest back in Arkansas, then mum in one of the smaller towns in Tennessee on our way to Knoxville. We always meant to go and find them, but every time we tried…"

"I lost my sister," Andrea offered comfortingly, "She was all I had left. You're lucky you still have your father."

She shook her head brusquely as water fogged her vision for a second time within the hour, ignoring the comment, "Mr Blake has set a strict curfew; nobody out after dark. The use of light kept to the bare minimum, armed guards on the fence and patrolling the perimeter to keep the biters away."

"That's not what the patrols were doing last night. They had the dead ones strung up like an ornament."

Jazz glanced nervously at the wall to see some of the men sneering down at them. She flinched before muttering out systematically, "Those men have lost a lot of friends out there… Everybody copes in their own way."

Michonne looked at her, long and hard, "How are you coping?" she asked in less than a whisper.

Jazz didn't reply.

…

"Looks like we've got eyes, boys," Philip called, lowering the binoculars, passing them to Ames to have a look, "Get the car around. These brave soldiers look like they're long due for a welcome home. Calvin, you're with me. Everyone else… you know what to do."

The Governor trod his way from the hillside, gesturing a finger at the blond man who hurried to match his pace. The sedan was parked at the base of the hill and Calvin rushed to get into the driver's seat while Philip took the passenger.

"Head south-west. We'll meet them from the far-side, give them the chance to see us," he ordered. He reached into the back pocket of his pants, yanking out a clean, white handkerchief.

Calvin tore down the stretch of road toward the soldiers and the Governor rolled down the window, the fresh breeze brushing his hair back off his face, whipping around his ears in admonishment for his choices, not that he really cared.

Lazily reaching an arm out the window, kerchief firmly in his grasp, he held it as a sign of peace as the sedan rounded the bend. The pilot had been right, these men were armed to the teeth; tanks of fuel and heavy artillery littered their campsite, ready for the taking. The Governor grinned.

"Take it in. Slowly. We don't want to alarm them."

Calvin took the corner sharp, as he was wont to do, and Philip frowned when his arm was jostled, reluctantly pulling it back inside. The soldiers who had been milling around were already in formation, guns at the ready.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey! Don't shoot!" Philip cried, yanking the door open.

"Identify yourself!" A man wearing corporal wings on his lapel called out.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Philip called again, letting false worry seep onto his face, "We found your guy, Welles. Lieutenant Welles?" he had the attention of the entire camp now, "His chopper went down."

"Well, where is he?" Corporal asked.

"We got a little settlement. Now he— he's badly hurt, but he's alive! The other guys didn't make it, I'm sorry!" Philip was treading closer now, kerchief still in hand and arms half-raised in a peace-offering, "But Welles, he told we would find you here! Wants me to bring you to him!"

One of the men called from the back gleefully, "They found Welles, they've got him!"

Many of the men looked relieved, giving wide grins to one another and nodding their heads.

"We sure did!" Philip called, smiling broadly, "We found you too!"

The gun met his hand with ease and with barely a glace he pulled the trigger. The bullet flew for the cheering corporal, ramming itself straight through his right shoulder and sending the soldier tumbling to the ground.

Gunfire rattled through Philip's ears as his men who had kept to the shadows fired their automatics. The soldiers didn't stand a chance; one after the other they fell, blasted full of holes, and piercing the bodies of their vehicles.

The Governor strode toward the corporal, a thin trail of red was splattered across his mouth as he struggled for air, choking on his own blood but Philip ignored it, leaning down next to him to saw the strap of his gun free with his serrated knife, hefting the metal into his arms like he was cradling a newborn baby.

The same gun was rammed into the corporal's skull three times for good measure and Philip heaved a long sigh when the soldier finally stopped moving.

Ted rushed over and Philip stood straight, "Never waste a bullet, son."

He gestured to the campsite with the gun, "Take out the rest of these weapons," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Ted said shakily.

That's when he spotted him – a soldier hobbling away, half-hidden behind one of the Humvees as quickly as he could and Philip gave a predatory grin. This is what he craved. The constant fight, the ever-churning battle to be the best, the strongest, to be everything he never was.

He had the gun levelled in his arms, but something made him pause; memories of a manila folder tucked deep in his study crossed his mind, and the gun moved from being pointed into the soldier's back to his leg.

The crack of the bullet echoed through the clearing followed by a frightened scream. The Governor chuckled as he trod his way over, waving his men away with a quick order to take the others out. The men moved to each soldier, systematically shoving a blade through their skulls.

The soldier was crawling ever-slowly away from him and gave a pitiful yelp when he glanced over his shoulder to find Philip striding calmly forward.

The Governor grabbed his bleeding leg, digging his fingers into the bullet wound and yanked him back. The man shrieked in agony as he was flipped over, tears gushing down his face. Philip tutted disapprovingly, crouching down beside the man.

The man whimpered and peeked up at him through the harsh rays of the sun.

"Wanna tell me your name, boy?" Philip asked.

"D–D–Daley, sir. W–William Daley."

Philip nodded and reached for his back pocket, pulling out a dog-eared photo and waved it in front of the soldier's face. Philip had stared at it for hours, analysing every feature of the boy who sat for it, from the cold grip on his jaw to the tightness in his eyes, to even the messy scrawl that was slapped half-humorously across the bottom, "Do you know who this is?"

Daley looked ready to swallow his tongue before he coughed out, "That's Daniel Fenton, sir."

Philip nodded. The man was cooperating, "Mind telling me why your men are after him?"

Daley turned even paler, and not just from the blood-loss. He shook his head minutely, a tell-tale sign that the soldier was not being so generous.

"Daley, I asked you a question. Don't make this harder on yourself."

"That's classified," Daley finally admitted, "Civilians aren't supposed to know."

Philip shrugged, tugging another sheet out of his pocket flattening it for Daley to see, "Now isn't that interesting. Seems like it is my business – do you know what this is, son?"

Daley blinked, "A citizen's arrest warrant?"

"Signed by the defence general himself by the look of it; a warrant 'for the immediate and conclusive retrieval and detainment of Mr Daniel Fenton', I believe it says," Philip slapped the paper in emphasis, a false look of surprise flitting over his features before he looked back down at the wounded soldier, "Now tell me, why does a fourteen year old kid suddenly have all that's left of the military's defence after him?"

"Th–that's classified," Daley said again.

The Governor rolled his eyes and snatched his gun, not even hesitating to blow off the man's other leg. Daley howled as the bullet shattered his knee, but the Governor ignored him, snatching his hair and pulling his focus back on him.

"Who is Daniel Fenton?"

"I don't know! We picked him up in Knoxville! The others were going through their pick n' mix routine! Jameson and Rodriguez ran into him – they walked right through a herd of biters without a scratch!"

"They walked through them? How?"

Daley whimpered pathetically, "The kid's a natural repellent or something! He was bit too, but didn't turn!"

"He didn't turn?"

Daley shook his head, "He'd been bitten for two days before we found him! The generals think he could be the cure!"

"Do you know where the kid is now?" Philip could feel his excitement rising. His heart clenched and hope rose into the pit of his stomach, "Can he turn the biters back into who they were?"

"I don't know! We lost him in late summer!"

"You lost him?" The Governor snarled.

"There've been sightings! That's why we sent the chopper up to scout for him! A–a–and there was a group! Back at the beginning, we think he's been searching for his family with them – there were farmlands just out of Senoia, due west!" Daley blubbered, grasping his shot leg, "Please don't kill me!"

The governor mulled over the soldier's words. He could feel the stares of his men in the distance, having already cleared the area free of weapons, and asked evenly, "You think he's still alive?"

Daley nodded enthusiastically when Philip smiled down at him, "There were rumours… about a prison somewhere; heard that the kid's group is fortified up in there. We were on our way there. He—"

Daley didn't even see the next bullet coming.

…

Jazz saw them from the far side of town by the florists. Michonne was easiest to spot; she hadn't bothered changing out of her jeans and vest combination, dreadlocks pushed back by the dirt-stained bandana. She saw Andrea walking next to her in loose but fresh clothes, hair curled meticulously and glowing golden under the sunlight, duffel bags slung over both their shoulders.

Passing the bunch of de-thorned roses back to Mrs Cartwright, Jazz scurried after them, curious.

"Andrea, Michonne! Where are you going?"

"Out," Michonne said shortly, refusing to look at her. Andrea gave her an apologetic smile.

"Oh, have you joined the research team? Well that's… swell. Dr Stevens thought that you would be good for the team—"

"No. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Jazz squawked, glancing over her shoulder quickly before hissing, "You can't do that!"

"Watch us," Michonne sneered.

"No, you can't!" Jazz reached out and snatched her arm. Michonne reeled back with a snarl, tearing it from her grip; Jazz jumped while Andrea chastised her.

"Michonne! Look, you've scared the poor girl. Can't you see that nobody wants to see you go? She just wants you to stay."

Jazz shook her head fervidly, eyes darting around the main street. Martinez stood on the far side of the wall staring down at them suspiciously. Jazz let out a loud laugh, as if Andrea had just told a tremendously funny joke, a smile plastered across her strained face as she whispered between straight white teeth, "That's not what I mean! My dad and I… we were only passing through on our way to find mum and Danny – we've been here for nearly a year now."

"I understand. You're feeling guilty; it's a nice place. Nobody blames you for wanting to stay," Andrea said consolingly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"No, that's not what I—"

"Hey, girlies, wha'chu chit-chattin' all 'bout over here?" called Merle Dixon, striding across the length of the street where he had been sitting on a nearby bench. Jazz could see the crudely hewn metal strapped around his forearm glinting in the sunlight. She swallowed nervously, forcing a polite smile on her face.

Michonne snatched up Andrea's arm and forced her forward, tilting her head at Jazz to follow, who did so with hesitant steps.

"Oh, come on, now. Hey, hey, hey!" Merle called, rushing to their side to cut them off, "Y'all breaking my heart runnin' away like that."

"We're leaving," Michonne said.

"It's almost curfew. I'd have to arrange an escort," Merle argued. Jazz shrunk back as he waved his metallic arm in example, "I mean, the party's still goin' on."

Michonne stared at him long and hard, nostrils flaring in challenge. Jazz caught Andrea's cautious eyes and wondered how stable the other woman was with that sword.

"All righ', wait here a sec," Merle concluded, striding over to Martinez on watch, "Brownie, come 'ere."

Jazz distractedly noted that there was a new Humvee parked beside the wall. That hadn't been there yesterday…

The man with the gun leant down on his haunches from the makeshift scaffold as Dixon began to furiously whisper to him. Michonne threw Andrea a smug look which was reciprocated with the blonde woman's own confused one. Jazz let out a soft noise in her throat, half-heartedly reaching to pull Andrea back but the woman stepped out of her grasp, striding over to the men.

"The Governor told us we were free to go whenever we wanted," Andrea stated.

Merle slowly turned to her, a hand of caution raised, "Sweetheart, nothin' personal here, but you're gonna have t' step back."

Jazz swallowed thickly at the tone, fingers wrapping themselves into the skirt of her floral dress. Andrea, put off, slowly turned back to Jazz and Michonne, where the woman leant down and hissed, "See? There's always a reason why we can't leave yet."

"Clear!" called Martinez up above.

Jazz blinked in surprise, matching the two other women's expressions. Merle had moved toward the gate lock, leaning against the thick, weathered wood.

"Now if I was y'all I'd find some shelter before nightfall!"

He shoved the thick plank barricading the door closed and heaved it open with his free hand. Jazz stared out in wonderment at the demolished cars and garbage that littered just outside the walls – she hadn't seen past the gate into the open world in almost a year – Woodbury felt near claustrophobic now, seeing just a glimpse of the outside.

"They knew we were coming. This was all for show," Michonne whispered conspiratorially.

"Do you hear yourself?" Andrea asked, "How could they know that and why would they bother?"

"Ladies," Merle urged, motioning them through with his fingers.

Andrea sighed, "Close the gates."

"No!" Michonne said shortly.

Andrea looked appalled, "I practically begged the Governor to let you stay."

"I didn't ask for that—"

"You didn't have to," the blonde woman replied.

Jazz glanced over their shoulders as they argued, looking at Martinez and Merle. She felt more put-off than comforted by their ever-patient expressions. In the near year she had known any of the Governor's guardsmen, their most outstanding trait was their lack of control or reasoning. That's why the townspeople trusted them so much; they were passionate about their job to keep the town the way it is – not for the people's safety, but because they hated biters so ferociously.

Jazz tugged on Andrea's shirt, subtly trying to get her attention while appearing to not be involved, but the two women were caught up in their tirade.

"…That's what friends do for each other."

"It goes both ways," Michonne spat back.

"So, you wanna run around out there with walkers on chains eating twigs? I mean, is that right?"

"We held our own—!"

Jazz tugged at Andrea's shirt again, harder this time, pretending to look out at the festivities in the distance. She didn't notice.

"Eight months. Eight months on the road, moving place to place… scavenging – living in a meat locker! That was no life," Andrea's face became strained and she shook her head shortly, "I'm tired. I'm tired. I don't have another eight months in me – not like that. And you, I…"

"What about me?" Michonne asked, sounding slightly defeated.

"…I'm afraid you're gonna disappear. We always talked about this place," Andrea gestured with her arm out at the women and men who stood around the main street, holding cold glasses in their hands, powered by the Governor's generators as a special treat for the town, "Didn't we? A refuge? That idea was what kept us going."

Michonne's nostrils flared as she stared down at her friend, "Are you coming or not?"

Andrea looked close to tears, "Don't do this. Don't give me an ultimatum. Not after everything."

"Are you coming… or not?"

Andrea hesitated, mouthing silent words as she shifted her weight on her feet.

"I'll go," Jazz said quickly. She gazed out at the decrepit mess that the world had become and wanted nothing more than to feel the fresh air again – even if it meant being in a world full of chompers. She wanted it. She needed it. Her dad would be safe here; he loved Woodbury and he loved the Governor. She could go out and search for her mum and brother, maybe one day they could all be together again, as a family…

Michonne raised a brow at her sunflower dress and petite flats with a look of disbelief before she rolled her eyes and nodded, "At least one of you has some sense," she sneered at Andrea without glance at her friend, shoving her way past.

Jazz felt relief fill her as she trotted after the woman. Finally, she was going to be free from this prison.

She had barely made it halfway to the gate when Merle raised a hacked fist in her direction, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where d'you think you're goin', missy?"

"I— I'm leaving," Jazz stuttered out.

"You can't just up an' leave. The Governor's been wantin' t' have a talk t' ya."

"But you just said that they could go!" Jazz said, affronted.

Merle levelled her with a look that sent shivers running down her spine, "Your daddy sometimes works on the east fence, now don't he, girlie?"

Jazz nodded cautiously, "Yes…"

"You wouldn't want anythin' bad happenin' t' him while you were away, would you? Biters aren't the only scary things out there, y'know."

Jazz knew a threat when she heard one. With wide eyes she staggered away from Michonne, retreating to stand beside Andrea, who looked bewildered. Michonne glared at Merle with fire in her eyes.

"That's a smart girl. Now how 'bout you run along t' yer daddy now, hm?"

Terrified, Jazz didn't hesitate. She fled.

…

The numbness of drawing those lines sent a rush of calm thrumming through his veins. His pen froze on the paper at the loud knock that echoed through the handsome cherry wood door.

Flipping the notebook closed, he pushed it barely out of arm's reach, "Come in."

The door clicked open and Philip spotted to impressive girth of Jack Fenton standing in the hallway.

"Ah, Jack," Philip let an easy grin slip across his face, "Just the man I wanted to see. Come in, come in!"

Jack returned the smile with a full set of teeth nearly bouncing to the seat Philip gestured to, "You said you wanted to see me, Governor? Need any help with anything?"

"I will, I'm just waiting for our other guest to arrive. She should be here any moment now."

"Oi, Governor, got you a present!" Farrow called through the open doorway. He was grasping a rather shaken Jazmine Fenton's arm, rifle carelessly slung over one shoulder.

Philip glared at the man for his lack of tact. Situations like these were delicate – like the old saying said, you have to kill them with kindness, although he couldn't exactly say that he was feeling overly kind today.

"Thank you, Duncan," he gritted out.

Farrow gave another nod and shoved the girl into the room with little thought, slamming the door behind him.

The Governor sucked his teeth, infuriated, before giving a thin smile that resembled nothing of his usually charismatic self, "You'll have to forgive my colleague, Miss Fenton, he's been a little on edge lately; there's been a rise in the number of biters hanging outside the main gates recently and he's had to take on a few spare shifts."

"Do you need any extra help?" Jack asked, ever humble as the fool was.

"No, no," Philip appeased offering Jazmine a seat, "Nothing that my men can't handle. I want to keep you stationed on the far side – not many biters end up wandering that way, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. Now, Jazmine, have a seat."

The girl still looked rattled as she lowered herself into the proffered chair, perching herself right on the edge, her back ramrod straight. The Governor watched her evenly.

"Why am I here?" Jazmine asked rudely. Her father seemed oblivious as he smiled his own silent question.

Philip stared at her for a long time, but the girl refused to budge despite her obvious nervousness, her jaw jutting out stubbornly. He seated himself into his own tufted leather chair, smile still in place as Jack beamed back, happily as ever while Jazmine glowered. They were polar opposites; father and daughter.

"I just wanted to ask you how you've been settling in is all, I know these past months have been tough on you both, but I just wanted to thank you for all of your efforts in bringing this community together."

Jazmine frowned with curiosity now, "We've been here for almost a year, why do you want to talk to us now?"

Philip heaved a dramatic sigh, "With the arrival of our latest guests it made me realise how much I've been neglecting those that have been with us from the start – and for that I am truly sorry. I want to make it up to you… please, tell me about your family… you've been looking for them since the beginning, haven't you?"

Jack and Jazmine blinked at each other before the girl nodded slowly, "Yes. My mother and my brother."

"And you lost them on the way here?"

Jack's face fell, "We lost Danny-boy when it all started in Arkansas… and we got separated from Maddie, my wife, just before crossing the Georgia border. But we'll find her, won't we, Jazzy?"

"Danny? Is that your brother's name?" Philip asked Jazmine carefully, "Did he die?"

She bristled, sending a sharp glare at him, "No," she stated adamantly, "Danny's still out there, I know it."

"What was he like, may I ask?"

Jazmine slammed her jaw shut stubbornly. Awful habit, refusing to talk. One of the Governor's pet peeves.

"Best boy you could ever ask for, Danny was," Jack replied to Jazmine's silence, tears swelling in the corner of his eyes, "Always there to give his old man a helping hand. Jazzy-pants adored him, didn't you, sweetheart?"

Jazmine was sitting hunched in her seat, staring at the floor in front of her. At her father's urgings, she nodded her head just the slightest.

"He was Maddie's little boy," Jack continued, "They were like two ghosts in a grave; same sense of humour – got her looks too. Maddie always said—"

"Was there anything different about Danny?" Philip interrupted.

He saw Jazmine flinch. Philip gave her an appeasing smile that did nothing to ease the tension off her face – not that he really cared.

Jack blinked stupidly, "Different? No, not really. He had a major case of hitchhiker's thumb though… Got that from his great-grandpa Joe. Used to creep me out as a kid. The old man would always—"

Unimpressed, the Governor stood, cutting Jack off as he rested a hand on his shoulder in what he supposed could be considered a comforting way, gently shoving the giant of a man out of his chair and waltzed toward the door and pulling it open.

"Well, as usual, Jack, it has been a pleasure talking to you. I do hope you feel better about all of this. I apologise if I brought up any bad memories. However, I do need to speak to your daughter in private about our latest patient, if you'll excuse us."

"Oh, yeah! No problem!" Jack grinned, stepping into the hall, "She's a real talent, isn't she? Wanted to be a shrink when she was younger, but my Jazzy has always been good at everything she tries!"

"Indeed," the Governor said shortly, "I'll see you at the finale tonight, I take it?"

"You bet'cha! Wouldn't miss it for the world!" Jack grinned, tears all but forgotten, but Philip ignored him, barely uttering a farewell before shutting the door in the man's face.

He took a deep breath through his nose as he clenched the door handle tightly, the pressure winding up in his chest slowly loosening as he stared at the lacquered wood of the door frame. Unfurling his fingers from around the embellished knob, the Governor stared at his study. Jazmine Fenton was sitting hunched in her chair, refusing to look at him.

Taking careful, slow steps, Philip allowed his boots to thud heavily against the wooden floorboards, and he could see the girl shiver with every precise step he took. Reaching the safe tucked in the far corner of the room, he expertly dialled in the combination, creaking the door open and tugging out the precious manila folder.

Tucking it under his arm, he strode around Jazmine, watching the way her shoulders hitched up toward her ears and her back arched into itself defensively. He smiled satisfactorily as he came to stand next to her, waiting patiently without a sound.

Eventually, the girl glanced up. Big blue eyes wide with trepidation and Philip had to wonder what he had done to result in such a fantastic expression.

"You seemed awfully quiet back there, Jazmine. Anything you'd like to share with me?"

Jazmine quickly glanced away, leaving Philip feeling unimpressed by her sudden lack of bravado. He slammed the manila folder down onto the tabletop, making the girl jump in her seat.

"What's this?" she asked in a small voice.

"You tell me."

Hesitantly, Jazmine reached out with shaking fingers and flipped open the cover, revealing pages upon pages of documents. He watched her stare at them in confusion, flitting through the papers one at a time, eyebrows raising with each official signature that marked them.

Finally, she came across the Polaroid – dog-eared and heavily creased now with how often the Governor had stared at the picture himself, she let out a small gasp of recognition.

Shoving herself out of her seat she whirled around to face him.

"What is this?" she demanded, holding the photograph eye-level, "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

The Governor sneered, tucking his hands behind his back as he rounded the table to rest his hands against the wood, "I can assure you, Jazmine, that I discovered this at the scene of our dear lieutenant's crash-sight."

Jazmine's eyes flickered constantly between him and the photograph, her fingers tracing the outlines of the young boy's face affectionately, "Why are you only showing me this? Dad would have—"

"Your father already believes your brother to be dead," the Governor said shortly, "His speech patterns told me as much, and I don't have the patience to convince him otherwise. I want answers. I want results. And I want them now."

Snatching a page from the file, Philip shoved it into Jazmine's hands, "Now, tell me, what was it about your brother that made him different?"

Jazmine frowned at him before turning her attention to the page in front of her. Philip didn't have to see what she was reading to understand the expressions that flittered across her face. He'd had Milton spend hours studying the bloodwork and genome results to write up a false debriefing on his old typewriter, nearly quoting the soldier, Daley, word for word. It was a claim that young Daniel Fenton, at the age of fourteen years and nine months, had survived a biter attack with no noticeable repercussions. No fever, no constricted breathing, no lapses of consciousness or lack of coherent thought – none of the symptoms that usually occurred following a bite.

Jazmine Fenton's little brother was immune. He could be the cure.

Her arms dropped to her sides as her mouth fell slack, "This can't be real," she muttered, "He couldn't possibly—!"

"What makes your brother different?" Philip cut through with barely a hiss making Jazmine jump in fright.

"I— I don't know," she stuttered out.

With lightning reflexed the Governor reached across and snatched her arm, yanking her forward onto the large oak table with a squeal. The grip on her arm was so tight that his fingers and thumb met.

"Tell me!" he ordered making the girl whimper.

"I don't know!" Jazmine cried.

The Governor pulled her upright, snatching her jaw, not caring if the wayward hairs tucked behind her ears were tugged painfully under his unforgiving grip, "Tell me! Why is he immune? Tell me!"

Jazmine clawed at his hand, trying to break free of his grip, but he just moved his hand out of the way, coming to rest it upon her throat, making her choke. He squeezed in warning, feeling her jugular vein stutter under his grasp, and eventually Jazmine's hands fell to her side as tears dripped down her face.

"Th–there was an accident…" she croaked out. Philip loosened his grip on her neck – just slightly, "Right before the outbreak…"

"Go on."

"My parents built a machine… it was supposed to… they wanted to prove that there was life after death – that ghosts existed. But it didn't work," she released a shuddering breath, refusing to look him in the eye, "I was with a study-group that day… I— I didn't know what happened until Danny's friends called me. He was hurt. Unconscious for almost two hours. Tucker and Sam thought he was dead – said that he wasn't breathing, there was no heartbeat or anything! But he woke up like nothing was wrong. Like everything was all right. Like he—"

There was a knock on his door and Philip nearly snarled, yanking his hand away from the girl's throat and roughly pushing her into her seat. Quickly, he snatched the files away from the girl, stuffing them deep in his drawer, and marched for the door with barely a glance at Jazmine.

The door swung open on his command where he discovered Andrea on the other side, dressed in hiking boots and a simple grey pullover with a smile that quickly fell from her lips.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked.

Philip painted a clown's grin across his face, all teeth, "No, no," he lied easily, "Come in, what seems to be the problem?"

Andrea shrugged as she glided into the room, "I just wanted to apologise again for Michonne… I know you went out of your way to help her and— oh!" she stopped short at the sight of Jazmine, "I didn't realise you had company."

The Governor waved her concerns off, attempting to bat away his anger at the same time, "Jazmine and I were just finishing up discussing our concerns about the lieutenant in the ward. She's Dr Steven's primary assistant as you know."

"Huh," was all Andrea said, watching the younger girl curiously.

Philip dashed to the bar taking down three whisky glasses and pouring two fingers each, neat.

"I'm not visiting just for the free booze, you know," Andrea joked, "Though it does seem like a good incentive doesn't it, Jazz?"

Jazmine looked horrified at the prospect of drinking with him.

He handed Andrea her glass who gave him a jesting salute and seated herself in the chair Jack Fenton had just vacated not even ten minutes ago. He placed the other glass of whisky in front of Jazmine who sneered at the drink in distaste, not moving her hands from where they were gripping the armrests.

The room was silent as Andrea took a long sip, smacking her lips as half the glass's contents disappeared down her throat, "I gotta tell ya, this tastes better every time."

Philip offered her a small smile while Jazz remained silent, head ducked.

"So, what can I do for you, Andrea?" Phillip laced his fingers in front of him, resting his forearms against the oak of the desk.

Andrea ducked her head in a bashful manner, staring at her shoes with a small grin, "Well, I was wondering…"

She paused for a long moment, looking at her boots. Reaching down, she snatched something off the floor – a small square of paper.

"What's this?"

Philip bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper. She had picked up Daniel Fenton's photograph.

"I— I know this kid," Andrea murmured in disbelief, "He was with my group… back at the farm."

"You knew Danny?" Jazmine burst out, "He's here? In Georgia?"

"I dunno. Haven't seen anybody in eight months – couldn't tell you if he was even alive."

Jazmine looked disheartened at that fact, but the Governor felt excitement rise up inside his chest as Andrea continued, placing the picture back on the table, "He was a stubborn one. Walked nearly four days through the woods just to reunite a little girl with her mother."

"When did you last see him? Did you hear about your group meeting up anywhere? A prison, perhaps?" Philip tried to keep his voice low, hide the strained note that threatened to escape his throat.

"Not any prison that I knew of. Last I saw he was riding shotgun with Merle's brother, Daryl – came back to warn us about a walker herd that was sweeping through. The kid had heart."

Jazmine gave a wet laugh, "That sounds like Danny all right; more heart than common sense."

Andrea's eyebrow tipped upwards, "Small world. How do you know him?"

"He's my brother."

"Oh," Andrea's face looked meek as she quickly said, "He spoke about you and your family a lot; he was always looking. Could go on about you and your parents for hours if we didn't shut him up."

Philip was focussed on Andrea's every word, forcing down the gleeful grin that had plastered itself across his face, "What was he like?"

"Can't tell you much, to be honest. Danny mostly kept to himself – I guess the only one who could get anywhere near to him was Daryl, and that was only on a good day. Neither him or Danny had many, and it was lucky if they happened to have one at the same time."

"Danny's shy," Jazmine muttered bashfully.

Andrea gave a laugh, "I wouldn't call him shy as much as stubborn. I introduced myself to the kid with a bullet to his head and he was still rearing to go the moment he woke up."

"You shot my brother?" Jazmine looked sick.

Andrea grimaced, "Nicked him, really. Not that it mattered. Danny healed so fast you wouldn't have guessed it the way he was clambering around the farm."

Philip rose a curious brow, "He healed quickly?"

Andrea shrugged, "Baffled the good doctor. He was supposed to be out cold for a few days with all the drugs in him, came around in just a few hours."

The woman glanced over at Jazmine then and gave her a polite smile, "Do you mind if I have a few words with the Governor, Jazz? In private?"

Jazmine looked over at him quickly and nodded. Philip frowned, but was quick to wipe it off when Andrea glanced his way.

"Of course you can!" He said boldly, reaching over to pat the young girl's hand condescendingly, "We can finish this conversation later, can't we, Jazz?"

The girl practically leapt out of her chair, streaming out of the room without another word.

He didn't notice until too late that Daniel Fenton's photograph was missing.

…

The sun was beginning to set, casting an orange glow throughout the motel room but Jazz refused to move from where she was perched on the edge of the bed. She could hear the festivities from outside her window down below, but she didn't feel the urge to join them. Their monthly ritual was tonight – the whole town got riled up to see the show, the battle royale.

Jazz huffed under her breath. It had been nearly a year since she'd gone against a biter face to face, but she couldn't forget the fear that they struck through her heart. She unfurled the photograph in her palm and stared down at it with a watery smile. Danny stared up at her, glaring with an expression that Jazz had never seen cross her little brother's face before. It tore her up inside to see him so upset, to think that his life – his existence; she couldn't call what meagre world they lived in offering much of a life any more – had become so difficult. She wondered where he was – if he was safe. If he had found their mum. If he thought of her as often as she thought of him.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand when she heard the front door close shut, tucking the photograph into her pocket and tried to smooth her hitched breath.

"Jazzy-pants? You in here?"

"My room, dad!" She called out, glancing in the mirror on her vanity and hoping her dad didn't spot her red-rimmed eyes.

Jack stood in the doorway, dressed in an old worn shirt and a pair of blue jeans. The jumpsuit Jazz had so many memories of seeing him in had become so ragged and torn over the year that the man had no option but to let it go. Though Jazz knew that he still kept it hanging in the back of his cramped closet.

"Are you coming down to the pits tonight, Jazzy? They've got Dixon on the rounds again – you know he loves to put on a show." Jack gave her an excited grin.

Jazz tucked her feet beneath her, wrapping her arms around her knees and glanced out the window. The orange was beginning to dim and she could see the floodlights surrounding the shipping containers over by the far courts – she knew what lurked inside. Rotting faces, gnawing teeth… the things of nightmares.

"No, thank you." Jazz said resolutely.

Jack's smile turned patient, a look Jazz remembered as a child whenever she arguing with him about her bedtime, "Jazz, how do you know you won't like it if you haven't tried it? It's just a good spot of fun—"

"It's archaic!" Jazz snapped, "And disgusting! They're dangerous, dad!"

"The guards have them under control. We can trust them." Jack argued weakly, but Jazz was having none of it.

She thought about showing Danny's picture to her dad. To show that this place wasn't anything like he believed it to be. That it was full of secrets and lies; but the truth would only hurt him more.

Her dad had long ago accepted that Danny was dead, and was only just coming around to the idea that they may never see Maddie again – she had heard him cry himself to sleep for months when they first arrived and even now he still struggled. To give him false hope that Danny may still be alive could be the final straw.

She stood up carefully and made her way to the door, pulling her jacket over her shoulders and slipping on her shoes, "I'm going to head to the infirmary… Y'know, for when someone finally gets themselves bit after one of these stupid fights. I'll see you later."

She ignored her father and pulled the door closed behind her, tugging the jacket tighter around her shoulders and making her way down the street.

The night was cool and Jazz let out a rattling breath, feeling the light chill of the night seep into her exposed skin. The main road was still littered with families and friends, laughing and chattering as they made their way down to the warehouses. She ignored them as they passed, reaching the infirmary.

With a roll of her eyes she pushed the doors open. None of the buildings were locked in Woodbury – there was no need; nothing to steal, nothing to take. The Governor always liked to state that they were a community – a family. Mr Blake claimed that the town didn't have any secrets, so locks weren't necessary. Jazz nearly scoffed aloud at the idea – she knew better now. She locked the door behind her.

The infirmary was dark, only the soft glow of the tiki-torches that lined the street outside crept into the room, muffled by the drawn curtains, but Jazz could navigate through the room with her eyes closed. Walking over to the sink she pulled over a bucket, filling it with water and hauling it to the stovetop. With a pack of matches and a flick of her wrist the gas burner was lit, boiling the water free of bacteria.

Jazz leaned against the kitchen benchtop, listening to the water churn softly in the metal bucket. The laughing voices had long since faded away leaving the night empty and hollow. Slowly she pulled her brother's photo from her pocket, tracing the lines of his face in the shallow light with a wet smile. All the hope, all the wishes of their family reuniting, of being what they once were, had been washed away in one day. They could never return to what they were – even if they did find mum, even if Danny was still alive. The world was too far gone.

The bubbling of the water broke Jazz from her reverie, and she pushed herself off the bench picking up a towel and wrapping it around her fist, grabbing the bucket's handle and heaving it clear of the stove. She shuffled over to the operating table finding the assortment of abandoned medical tools and soiled bandages left on the tray beside it – Dr Stevens did not believe in cleaning up after herself, that was always the nurse's job, which, in turn, meant it was now Jazz's job.

Jazz dumped the bandages in the bucket, not caring to see if the water changed colour as she headed for the back room. Their patient, Welles, was located there; she hadn't been able to see him in the past few days, her priority being to guide Andrea and Michonne around while looking after the townspeople, but Dr Stevens had assured her that he was in the clear and recovering well, but still needed continuous medical attention.

Careful not to make too much noise, she pushed open the door, ready to measure the man's drip and see if any stitches had come loose. But there was nobody. The bed was empty.

She stepped fully into the room, ignoring the prickling on the back of her neck. The stark white sheets were pressed and made, pillows fluffed. The IV stand was empty and the operating utensils were neatly stacked on their trolley, ready for their next use. A metal cabinet with grated slats stood in the far corner of the room, usually left open for linen, but it was sealed shut tonight.

She moved toward the cabinet and gently tugged at the doors. Locked. But nothing was ever locked in Woodbury – Jazz hadn't even known that the cabinet had a key.

She peered through the narrow grate on one of the doors, but the inside was too dark to see anything. There were candles on the bedside table; Jazz snatched a tall, thin one, snapping another match to life and lighting the wax. She held the candle up to the door, letting the light seep in through the slats. The glow barely shone through, but Jazz could make out basic shapes. Thick industrial boots sat on the bottom row next to a pair of camouflage pants and a matching jacket. A white undershirt was neatly folded on the row above, with three medals perched on top. Beside it sat an empty holster and a Kevlar vest.

Jazz pulled away from the cabinet, frowning. Lieutenant Welles wasn't well enough to leave the OR unassisted. Dr Stevens hadn't given him clearance – and if he was, why would he have left all of his gear and commemorations behind?

A rustle and a creak echoed through the house and Jazz jumped, hurrying to blow out the candle and dive behind the bed. She wasn't technically allowed in the infirmary at this time – it was past curfew unless you were at the match – she'd been caught more than once by nosy townsfolk. The glow-in-the-dark clock on the wall stated that it was almost eight.

There was a whisper from in the front room and someone mumbled something in return. Jazz crept her way across the floor to lean her head against the wood of the doors separating the OR from the main room. The voices were louder now.

"This was where you were held?" a man's raspy tone asked.

"I was questioned," came a familiar female voice. Jazz wracked her brain to figure out who it was but sadly came up short.

"Any idea where else they could be?" spoke the first voice.

There was a rustle of material and a stream of light filtered its way into the shallow gap of the OR doorway, "Though'chu said there was a curfew?" growled out a new voice that sounded like he had enjoyed one too many cigarettes in his youth.

"The street is packed during the day, those are stragglers," the woman hissed back.

"Anyone comes in here we're sitting ducks, we gotta move."

There was a bout of silence before the woman suggested, "They could be in his apartment."

"Yeah? What if they ain't?" the stream of light disappeared.

The woman sounded frustrated, "Then we'll look somewhere else."

"You said you could help us." The first man growled.

"I'm doing what I can!"

"Then where the hell are they?" a deep baritone asked. There were four. Four strangers who didn't sound like they meant anything but trouble. Jazz stared up at the ceiling, begging to whoever was up there that they didn't spot her.

The strangers swept their way past her door, whispering fervidly to each other. She strained her ears but couldn't figure out what they were saying.

There was a sudden knock on the door, making Jazz jump with fright, nearly crashing her elbow into the doorframe. A rattle of keys signified that someone was making their way inside as the door creaked open, softly closing it behind them.

"I know yer in here," came the booming voice of Mr Cattermole, the groundskeeper, "I saw ya movin' from outside. Now, I've warned ya before, Jazmine, yer not s'pposed t' be in here, y'know. Dr Stevens won' be pleased."

He trundled his way through the room in his awkward gait, footsteps heavy, "I know yer worried 'bout yer patients, but if ya don't come out now I'm gonna hafta tell her, 'cause ya know how mad she gets when she ain't told what's goin' on."

The footsteps stopped in front of the OR doors, and Jazz scuttled back on her knees, breath short. Mr Cattermole gently pushed the door open, but paused when there was a rustle on the other side of the room. The footsteps retreated and Jazz let out a relieved sigh.

"Who's in here?" Mr Cattermole sounded suspicious now, and Jazz couldn't help but peek through the crack as he wandered into the storage section. There was a flutter of the curtain and a filth-covered man came rushing out, pinning Mr Cattermole to the wall by his forearm, a gun pressed into his temple.

"Shut up." Jazz recognised him as the first voice, "Get on your knees."

More people rushed out of hiding and forced the man to the ground, guns at the ready. Mr Cattermole looked as terrified as Jazz felt.

"Zip tie him," he barked out. The group worked systematically to fulfil his bidding as he asked Mr Cattermole, "Where are our people?"

Jazz covered her mouth in fear of making any sound, ducking deeper into the shadows. Mr Cattermole squeaked out, "I— I dunno?"

The first man looked furious, and hissed in a stage whisper, "You are holding some of our people! Where are they?"

"I— I dunno!"

The man acted perfunctory, "Open your mouth," he ordered, whipping out a dirty grey rag and stuffing it in Mr Cattermole's mouth. Mr Cattermole struggled, letting out soft whimpers, before one of the men slammed the butt of his gun into the back of his head, sending him tumbling to the ground in an unconscious heap.

Jazz couldn't stop the small squeal from escaping her, quickly rushing to her feet and diving under the bed.

There was a heavy pounding of footsteps that followed her and someone grabbed her ankle, yanking her roughly from under the bedframe. She came face-to-face with the end of a gun and a furious-looking face.

"No! Please don't!" Jazz gasped, hands raised in pleading, "I— I don't kn–know anything!"

"Jazz?" came the woman's voice. She glanced over to see Michonne hobbling her way into the room, "Let her go, she's harmless."

"Oh yeah?" snarled the gritty voice, he was a thin-eyed man with dirty hair, carrying a crossbow, "What's gonna stop her from running to this Governor prick?"

"Because she hates Woodbury nearly as much as me, and she's going to help us, aren't you, Jazz?"

The man with the gun stared at her inquisitively, not letting his guard or his gun down, forcing Jazz to nod her head in agreeance – anything to get the gun out of her face.

The man with the crossbow heaved a sigh, knocking the other man's gun away and hauling her to her feet, shoving her roughly to sit on the bed. She caught a glimpse of the other member of the group through the open door, dragging Mr Cattermole into the storage section and out of sight. He was a big man, easily clearing over seven feet and dressed in a blue prison uniform. She gulped.

The first man looked affronted by the second's actions, but the second simply retorted, "Ya ain't gonna get nothin' outta her if she faints on us, Rick. She looks ready t' hurl any minute."

Rick stared contemplatively at her before Michonne took charge, fingering her sword by her side, "We're looking for some people. Have you seen anyone new around here recently? Names are Maggie and Glenn."

Jazz shook her head quickly, "If Mr Blake took some of your people he wouldn't be telling any of the townspeople. The only ones who would know anything would probably be Martinez or Merl—"

Rick let out a frustrated yell and flung his hands into his curly hair to grasp at the roots, looking like he wanted to hit something. Jazz could only hope it wasn't her.

"I— I might know where he'd be keeping them, though," Jazz offered nervously, "Th–there's a section of empty shipping con–containers off on the f–f–far-side of town. Nobody goes down there, e–e–except a few of the Governor's men."

Rick yanked her to her feet, "Take us there."

Jazz hesitated when there was the sound of bullets ricocheting from somewhere outside. The ragtag group rushed out to the main room, peeking through the curtains. Wall guards rushed past the door toward the far side, making the group duck back behind the curtain. Jazz must have still looked physically ill because Michonne placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her a curt nod which she surmised was meant to be reassuring. It wasn't.

A sharp jab in her back pushed her toward the doors where the others were prepared to leave, "Don' even think 'bout runnin'," the man with the crossbow muttered from behind her, jabbing another arrow at her back.

Rick gave an affirmative grunt before he flung himself out of the infirmary dragging Jazz behind, gun at the ready, followed by the man with the crossbow, then Michonne, then the prisoner. The streets were near barren, illuminated by the large tiki torches that ran through the centre of the street. Jazz whispered directions as they crept through the shadows passing loitering guards expertly and pointed to a collection of shipping containers, welded together into a makeshift warehouse with plywood and glue.

The door was already open when they arrived, and the nerves grew ever-steadier in Jazz's gut. The man with the crossbow looked at her suspiciously as if it was her fault the security was so minimal.

The others' footsteps were near non-existent as they dashed through the corridors. Rick ducked his head around a corner only to pull it back quickly, sharing a look with the rest of them. There was a plethora of the Governor's men milling about, and they hurriedly dashed to a farther wall, ducking down onto their haunches as a voice echoed through the tin walls. Jazz recognised it instantly; it was Merle's.

"Glad we could catch up," the man said in his smarmy tone.

There was a mumble of whispers and a woman crying. Jazz flinched as guns clacked menacingly through the corrugated steel walls and another voice called out, "On your feet! Move!"

Rick and the others grappled at a duffle bag by their feet, pulling out what Jazz recognised from her time in her parents' lab as smoke bombs. She quickly shoved herself further back into the walls, covering her ears for the impending noise.

There was a loud succession of bangs, followed by thick plumes of white smoke. Angry yells and coughing echoed from the havoc and the group moved in, guns at the ready. Jazz watched as they dashed into the smoke, pulling a bleeding, battered man and a young woman that she could only assume were Glenn and Maggie out of the chaos and dashing from the warehouse. Jazz was hot on their heels when waylaid bullets started to fly, running out of the warehouse like the hounds were on her heels.

They headed back to the main street in only a manner of minutes. People were rushing about the centre square, looking panicked and scared – they had obviously heard the gunfire.

They were too far from the infirmary for them to help the poor bleeding man, so Jazz gave a short whistle along with a whispered "Come on, inside here!", and rushed them into the Patterson's Bed and Breakfast.

They all stomped into the front room, an open-plan kitchen and dining space filled with patchwork quilts and floral-painted pottery and pans. The group were high-strung, pacing through the rooms and triple-checking doorwayss.

"Ain't no way back out here," called a voice at the rear of the building.

"Rick, how'd you find us?" asked Maggie. Jazz could see now that she was dressed in an oversized men's shirt as she hovered over the panting, beaten man on the floor.

Rick ignored the question, "How bad 's he hurt?"

"I'll be all right," the man she assumed was Glenn groaned.

"Where's that woman?" Maggie instead asked.

Rick glanced around the room, and Jazz realised for the first time that Michonne was missing, "She was right behind us," he muttered, glancing past the curtain onto the main street. The glow of the tiki flames bounced off the sweat on his forehead like a beacon, leaving Jazz to want to pull him further back inside, but instead curled into a little ball on the far wall, wedged between an old refrigerator and a hand-crafted cabinet, chewing her thumbnail.

"Maybe she was a spy?" suggested the man in the prison jumpsuit, "Want me to look for her?"

"No, we gotta get them outta here. She's on her own."

"Daryl," coughed Glenn on the floor to the crossbow wielder, "This was Merle. It was – he did this."

Daryl looked shocked. Shuffling forward, "Y'saw him?"

"Face-to-face. He threw a walker at me. Gonna execute us."

"S-so my brother's this Governor?"

"No," said Maggie, "It's somebody else. Your brother's his lieutenant or somethin'."

"Does he know I'm still with you?" Daryl asked, dazed.

Maggie nodded brashly but it was the bleeding man who said, "He does now. Rick, I'm sorry. We told him where the prison was; we couldn't hold out."

Rick crouched down next to them and rested a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, "No. No, you don't apologise."

He dashed to the window again, shoving the curtain open to get a glimpse of outside. Maggie barked out, "They're gonna be lookin' for us!"

Rick nodded, "We have to get back. Can you walk? We got a car a few miles out."

Glenn muttered something incoherent but allowed Rick to heave him upright, leaning heavily against him.

"Hey, if Merle's alive I need to see him!" Daryl bit out desperately.

Rick gave him a stern look, "Not now. We're in hostile territory."

"He's my brother, he ain't gonna—"

"Look what he did!" Gesturing to Glenn who was close to keeling over, "Look, we gotta get outta here now!"

"I gotta talk to him, man! We can work somethin' out!" Daryl bargained, near pleading.

But Rick was adamant, "No, no, no, no – you're not thinking straight. Look, no matter what those two say, they're hurt. Glenn can barely walk – how are we gonna make it out if we get overrun by walkers and this Governor catches up to us – I need you!"

There was a pause as both men stared each other down, "Are you with me?"

Daryl didn't look consoled as he muttered out, "Yeah."

Jazz, who had been sitting quietly, pretending she didn't exist, was forced to stare into Rick's sharp gaze, "You know a way out?" he asked.

Jazz, feeling near-petrified, shook her head, "They know you're here – everyone will be looking for you, they've probably started searching the houses already!"

Rick nodded as if he expected this, "Aw'right, we'll hafta head for the main gate, over that school bus they've got parked out front – it's the fastest way to the car. Keep low and try to keep out of sight. Everyone got their weapons?"

There was a muttered affirmative throughout the room. Rick turned to Daryl, gesturing at Jazz whose stomach was in anxious knots, "Take the girl with you. Keep her close. She's our best hope of getting outta here. If this all goes south we can use her as a hostage."

"Hey! No, please—!"

Daryl barely offered her a glance as he snatched her arm and yanked another smoke bomb out of the duffle bag.

"On three," Rick ordered, hovering by the door, gun in hand, "Stay tight. One, two, three!"

They heaved the door open and Daryl tossed the smoke bomb out onto the street. Jazz, who watched as another haze of white encased the main street.

"Go!" Rick called, leading the party onto the street, Jazz was prodded forward by the man in the jumpsuit.

Much too soon for her comfort, they were spotted by a guard on the wall, who called out to the others. Guns rattled off in rapid fire and Jazz would have sunk to the ground to hide or surrender if Daryl hadn't been holding onto her so tightly.

It was difficult to see with all the smoke; she wanted to cry. She'd never been so terrified in all her life – Daryl hefted her up again when she stumbled and raised a rifle in the direction of the men on the wall. She didn't feel much pity for them when they were hit, but she didn't feel relieved either as the guards' bodies fell from the makeshift scaffolding into an unmoving heap.

"Come on! Take cover!" Rick's voice echoed over the square, "In here!"

Daryl had let go of her wrist to chase after his group, but Jazz didn't have much of a choice except to follow as another volley of bullets whizzed past her ear.

There was an alcove off to the side of the street where the rest were already hunched down inside, reloading their weapons.

"Any grenades left?" there was an affirmative murmur in response, "Get 'em ready! We're gonna gun it to the wall!" Rick called as red brick flaked off around the alcove from ricocheting bullets.

Jazz poked her head out of the alcove, and hissed, "They're heading this way!"

Maggie shoved her aside, letting loose a series of bullets from her handgun before offering it to Jazz, "Who are you?"

"I'm Jazz – Jazz Fenton," she said formally, but Maggie didn't seem to want to share too many of her own details.

"Y'know how to shoot?"

Jazz weakly shrugged, "Sorta – my parents—"

"That's good enough for me," Maggie shoved the gun into her hand. The metal was warm from body heat, and felt clunky and weighted in her palm. There was a similar heaviness in her gut.

"You guys stay here, I'm gonna lay out some cover-fire," Daryl said, handing the still-bleeding man his rifle as he groped for a new weapon.

"No, we gotta stay together!"

Daryl ignored them, "I'll be right behind ya! I'm takin' the girl with me in case things go sour. Ready?"

"What?" Jazz squawked, "No!"

He tossed another smoke bomb out into the street and Jazz flinched when he snatched her unwilling wrist again, dragging her out onto the street. This had to be a nightmare! She was going to wake up at any moment in her hotel bed - she often dreamt of escaping, but never like this! Jazz nearly dropped her gun when Daryl pulled her down behind a public bench, propping his automatic up over the lip.

"C'mon, girl, shoot!" He snapped.

Jazz hesitantly raised her arms and shot. She missed. She shot again. A bullet grazed someone's shoulder, making them drop their weapon with a yelp.

"Good hit," Daryl murmured as he dug into his duffle bag, pulling out a box of bullets, "Cover me," he ordered, twisting to reload his gun. She let off another four rounds until her gauge clicked empty. None of the shots hit their targets, but it gave Daryl an opportunity as the guards were forced to take cover. Jazz whimpered nervously and ducked back behind the bench as he turned to the men again, gun blazing.

There was a shift of movement out of the corner of her eye, and Jazz glanced up to see someone looming over her, shotgun in hand.

"Daryl!"

…

Jack shifted from one foot to the other, feeling both anxious and excited. The townspeople were crowded around the arena where the Governor stood, a crisp bandage covering his right eye. There were whispers, mainly from the civilians, who flinched at the flickering shadows in anticipation, waiting for someone to jump out at them. Not that he could blame them, he was a little on-edge himself.

The Governor shrugged his shoulders at the crowd, "What can I say? Hasn't been a night like this since the walls were completed… And I thought we were past it," he paused, gazing around at the crowd, "Past the days when we all sat huddled scared in front of the TV – durin' the early days of the outbreak. The fear we all felt then, we felt it again tonight."

The Governor was nodding as if in agreeance with himself, "I failed you. I promised to keep you safe. Hell, look at me!" he smirked self-deprecatingly, "Y'know I— I should tell you that we'll be okay. That we're safe. That tomorrow we'll bury our dead and endure but… I won't. 'Cause I can't. 'Cause I'm afraid."

Jack felt himself frown. This wasn't right – the Governor had never been afraid before.

"That's right. I'm afraid of terrorists who want what we have! Want to destroy us!" he flung his arms out in example; the people in the crowd looked scared now. Jack felt chills down his spine, "And worse, 'cause one of those terrorists is one of our own."

The crowd gasped as the Governor raised a finger, pointing to bellow, "Merle! The man I counted on!"

Jack sneered with the rest of the audience. Merle stood, slack-jawed as the barrel of a gun was shoved against his back by Martinez and Reed. Jack didn't know Merle well, but from what he understood he was one of the Governor's most loyal men. It didn't make any sense – why would he betray the Governor and the town like that? Boiling rage started to seep through his pores, and his hands curled into fists, only urged forward by the calls from the crowd.

"The man I trusted. He led 'em here! He let them in."

Reed strode forward to snatch the blade off the end of Merle's arm and Martinez pulled the gun from the back of his pants, leaving Merle defenceless as the crowds began to rile up. Jack felt he deserved it.

"It was you," the Governor accused, "You lied! Betrayed us all!"

Merle was pushed forward to face the Governor. From the south-side, two people were led toward the arena, the distinct shapes of a man and a woman, with their heads bagged, arms tied behind their backs as they were dragged into the grounds.

"This is one of the terrorists!" the Governor pointed at the man who grunted furiously as he was shoved closer, nearly tripping over his feet. The Governor snatched at him, yanking the bag off his head.

"Merle's own brother!"

The crowd gasped in shock and horror, but Merle didn't react to listen to them, staring at his younger brother. His brother shared the same look as he staggered about across the ground.

"And not only that!" the Governor continued, "They had to take one of our own along too! They tricked her into lying – forced her to hide the terrorists so they could get into our town and slaughter our people! Manipulated her! Told her tales about her own long-lost baby brother, Danny – made her believe that they knew where he was, back at their camp!

"Now you may know this girl; she's made us smile, cared for us, even offered to watch some of the younger kids when we needed her to. Hell, she's probably slapped a band-aid on most of you at some point – but that's where our sympathies should end. This girl gave it all up – gave up our safety, our way of life, our future – just on a rumour! She's delusional! Chaotic! Dangerous!"

The crowd booed emphatically, urged forward by the Governor's speech – Jack felt himself jeering along with the rest of the crowd. Who would be stupid enough to risk everything they have here at Woodbury? Who would let terrorists invade the town – destroy everything they worked so hard to achieve?

A muffled whimper came from underneath the hood.

"Everyone," the Governor boomed out, tearing off the hood, "I present to you, Jazmine Fenton!"

Jack felt himself freeze in shock, too overwhelmed to move or even think.

The crowd grew angry in a flurry of sound, fists shaking and spittle running down their faces as they screamed at her – a shoe clashed with her cheek, sending her tumbling to her knees.

"Now what should we do with them, huh?" the Governor called out jovially, as if he was an announcer at a county fair.

"Kill 'em!" came the immediate response. From the young to the old they raised their fists in anger, circling the three of them, chanting and sneering down at them.

"Jazz!" Jack pulled himself out of his shock and rushed forward, only for Farrow and Carson to snatch him by the shoulders. A knee to the gut had him crashing to the dirt and gasping for air. He twisted and turned as they snapped his arms behind his back, hollering "Let her go!" before he was quietened by a handgun being shoved up against his temple.

"Control that buffoon," the Governor simply said, "Before he ends up getting his daughter hanged with the rest of 'em."

"No! Jazzy! Jazzy, no! You gotta have it wrong! Let her go – that's my little girl! Jazz!"

A rag was stuffed into his mouth, making him fight harder against Farrow who forced his arms into a deadlock. Jazz stared at him though watery eyes, looking as if she was about to faint. The jeering and boos didn't stop as the crowd edged further in, seeming like they wanted to tear her and the Dixon brothers to shreds. "Dad," she whimpered in a broken voice, staring at him from where he was pinned to the dirt. A large shotgun was trained on her at point blank, as if daring her to even think of running.

"Let me go, lemme go!" called a blonde woman – Andrea – shoving her way toward the Governor, "Let them go," she demanded, "Phillip!"

But just as quickly she was snatched up by one of the Governor's men, a gun trained on her abdomen.

"Stay out of this," was the order by another one of his lackeys.

"They're my friends!" Jack heard her explain.

"Not up to me anymore. The people have spoken," the Governor announced.

"What?" Andrea cried, shocked. The men holding her captive dragged her back from the arena grounds, planting her on the sidelines beside Jack, she stared down at him with pity and confusion.

"No, please!" Jazz wailed, tears streaming down her face, "I haven't done anything wrong! I didn't want any of this!"

But the Governor didn't look at her, only turned his head to listen to the crowd with glee. He strode forward and settled himself down on his haunches, running the metal of the gun down her cheek, following the wet trail of tears that tracked down her face, before using the tip to lift her chin up toward him, "Liar."

Jack watched horrified as the Governor fingered the trigger – one slip and Jazz would be gone. Forever.

But in a twist of his heel, the Governor stood and tucked the gun back in its holster, turning away from Jazz who released a series of catching hiccoughs, "Now, I know what you're all thinking," he boldly proclaimed, "the girl needs to be punished for her atrocities against our great town. But you have to remember who the real devious minds are – these two men banded together to manipulate this poor, grieving child – they gave her false hope – used her weak, pathetic heart against her."

The Governor turned to Merle, "I asked you where your loyalties lie. You said here – well, prove it. Prove it to us all. Brother against brother. Winner goes free," he strode forward confidently, circling the brothers, "Fight! To the death!"

He waited for the audience to calm down from their roars before he smirked, "And hey, if you're smart enough, you'll figure out how to keep the girl alive too."

Jack begged through the gag as Jazz burst into heavy, shoulder-wracking sobs, unable to hold her head up as the crowd cheered in excitement.

"Phillip please, don't do this! Don't do this!" Andrea called from next to him. Jack wheezed at her, begging her to help his daughter from behind the cloth, but she wasn't focused on him. The brother was set loose from his binds, but Jazz was left on the dirt with her arms cinched behind her back. Cheers were calling out through the crowd for Merle – he had always been the crowd favourite; knew how to put on a show. It was only last week that Jack had been one of them, hooting and hollering from the stands as he took on three biters with nothing but his bladed fist.

He watched Merle raise his single fist in the air triumphantly, "Y'all know me! I'm gonna do whatever I gotta do to prove—"

Merle swung his fist into his brother's cheek, sending him tumbling to the ground in a pained heap, "—that my loyalty—" a kick to the ribs, "—is to this town!"

Jazz let out a shriek from where she lay on the floor, Merle's brother nearly knocking into her – but she wasn't paying attention to the fight. Jack twisted his head as far as he could from where he was pinned, watching as four biters were led into the arena by catchpoles.

Merle and his brother grappled for another round, Jazz trapped between them, as the biters circled them, their flesh of their necks tearing free of the poles. Jack watched horrified as his daughter was clipped by a wayward elbow to the cheekbone, sending her tumbling toward a walker, who scrabbled furiously for her – making her shriek as she kicked at it wildly, trying to escape from its reach while the brothers grappled at each other wildly.

Jack screamed and yelled from behind the gag, his vision becoming blurry behind the rush of tears that flooded his eyes as he doubled his efforts to get away from the Governor's men.

A skinless hand narrowly missed her ankle when Merle's brother reached out, snatching Jazz by the back of her shirt and hauling her out of reach of the biters and into the centre. The brothers quickly got to their feet and turned their backs on each other, fists raised as the biters were edged further in. Jack watched amazed as they let loose a series of haymakers on the biters, sending them tumbling from their keeper's control and into the crowd. People screamed as the biters lost focus and began to snatch at the closest living creature.

Then there were gunshots. Chaos broke out. Biters and guards were taken down one by one, and there was a sudden rush of white smoke that filled the arena. Jack shoved the Governor's men off him and yanked the cloth from his mouth, sending a sharp punch to Farrow's jaw before diving for Jazz, trapped on her knees with her hands still bound in the centre of it all.

"Dad!" she shrieked when she saw him, but Jack didn't have time to comfort her as he dodged a walker. He hefted her into his arms and ran, ignoring the shrieks and the bullets and the biters, heading for the main street.

"The Humvee!" Jazz said breathlessly, nodding her head at the camouflage hard-top. Jack barrelled forward with his impressive girth, yanking open the door and tossing Jazz into the passenger seat he reached for the ignition, finding the keys missing. Without a second thought, he ducked below the dashboard, yanking wires free, sparking them together. He was an inventor that developed the first steps to inter-dimensional travel, surely he could figure out how to hotwire a car.

He nearly gave a triumphant yell when the car roared to life, but Jazz was focused on other things.

"The gate is locked!" Jazz gasped, twisting to look through the back window, arms still bound behind her back. Jack could see shadows making their way toward them in the rear view. He made a choice fast.

"We have to crash through!"

"What?" Jazz squeaked, "Dad, no! Can't we just—"

But Jack ignored her – only focusing on getting his daughter away from this terrible place. He reversed the car out nearly fifty yards and called to Jazz, "Hold on tight!"

The Carrier Humvee's engine nearly snarled as Jack shoved his foot on the accelerator, the car quickly picking up to sixty and smashed through the corrugated steel and reinforced wood, blasting the door wide open. Debris shattered over their heads in a resounding crash, metal scraping on metal in a piercing whine and the left side of the car barraged its way through a reinforcement beam, making Jazz scream as the Humvee bounced on it axis, threatening to tip them. Both the side mirrors were wrenched off by the impact. He needed to get Jazz somewhere safe. Somewhere far, far away from Woodbury and everything it stood for.

The two of them disappeared into the dark with just the glow of their taillights.

…

It was a few miles out from the camp when Jack stopped the car, looking pale and sweaty. Turning the engine off, they sat in the pitch-black, only the moon providing any light in the night time air. Jazz didn't know whether she wanted to scream, throw up or tuck herself into a corner and cry. Her head span as anxiousness overwhelmed her. The desperate need for fresh air pounded through her brain as her lungs struggled to collect air from her short, choppy breaths.

Her whole body shook as the adrenaline took over. Hands still bound behind her back, Jazz twisted in her seat and thrust a foot angrily at the Humvee's door, ignoring the tingling pain that shot up her leg. She kicked it over and over, not hearing her father's concerned calls, the metal banging loudly in the dark until it finally gave way beneath her foot, ricocheting on its hinges. Without checking, Jazz tossed herself out of the car, tripping to land in a heap onto the cool earth.

"Jazz!" Jack hissed, wrenching his own door open and jumping out after her, "What are you doing? Get back in the car, we need to stay safe!"

"Safe?" Jazz gave a high-pitched laugh that was anything but genuine, "Where is safe, dad? Back at Woodbury? Where they tried to kill meand make you watch like it was some sort of game?" She was breathing hard as she hauled herself clumsily to her knees, ignoring the way the dirt was streaked across her face from her tears.

She knew she was being spiteful – she could see it in her dad's face, but she couldn't stop herself; after being so powerless and so scared she just wanted to lash out and take control again.

"Jazz…" Jack whimpered.

But Jazz wasn't done, "For over a year now we've been cooped up behind those walls, sipping on ice teas, watching the most messed up wrestling matches and pretending that everything is fine when it's not! Stuck in that place… how were we even close to finding mum and Danny?"

"The Governor promised that he would help us—"

"Help? Help?" Jazz let out a wrenching sob as the adrenaline began to seep away, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake, "He just tried to play off a public execution as a Sunday night movie, dad. He was never going to help us!"

She burst into tears then, thinking of the photo of Danny and the way the Governor had threatened and manipulated her in his office with the promise that her little brother may be still alive. They couldn't go back – but they had no food, not water, no leads and nowhere else to go.

Jack walked up behind her, gently resting a comforting hand on her shoulder before sweeping her into an enormous bear-hug. She could hear the shuddering of his breath by her ear as he struggled to keep himself in control. She understood what he felt, being betrayed by a man he had invested so much of his hope and expectations in, that maybe – just maybe – they would find their family again.

In a ragged slice that nearly clipped Jazz's palm, hands slid free of their bonds and Jack's pocket knife tumbled to the dirt. Jazz immediately lifted her aching arms to grasp onto her father and they fell into silent sobs, both just as lost and confused as the other.

It was the low groaning that alerted them that they weren't alone.

"Quick," Jack whispered, voice still thick with emotion, "Back to the car!"

The two dashed for the Humvee, sweeping themselves inside and slamming the doors shut just as a walker crashed into the window, making Jazz shriek, it's snarling face barely visible in the dark. More groans echoed through the night and the two quickly found the car surrounded as biters began to clamber around the car, arms outstretched and grasping hungrily.

"Dad?" Jazz begged desperately.

Jack ducked beneath the steering wheel, and Jazz heard the clicking of electricity before the car flared to life, the high-beams flickering on to reveal the road was flooded with biters. Jack didn't hesitate, throwing the car into reverse and flying backwards. Jazz flung her hands out to catch herself, smacking her palms against the glove-box to stop herself from careening through the windscreen. The glovebox popped open to reveal a handful of protein bars and a box of cigarettes.

Jack let out a warning, "Seatbelt!"

Jazz clipped the strap around her just as Jack wrenched the hand-break at full speed and heaved the steering wheel. The dark world became a blur as the car spun in its axis, before coming to a sudden halt facing the opposite direction, biters trundling behind them.

"Go! Go! Go!' She yelled.

Jack yanked off the hand-break and they flew down the road back the way they came. Biters clipped the car as they leapt for them, tumbling to the earth in their wake. Jazz grasped the edge of her seat, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds.

They drove on in silence, shoulders tense even as they sun began to rise over the horizon and Jack switched the head-lights off. The road was emblazoned in red and gold, making Jazz squint and tug down the sun visor to block the harsh rays.

She paused. There, strapped to the visor, was a map. Red ink was scribbled across it with arrows pointing to a location labelled the State Penitentiary – Andrea had mentioned something about a prison. About Danny.

There was a sign coming up. Unfurling the map, she ordered Jack, "Take the next left!"

"What?"

"Go left! There's a prison not far from here – Andrea's old friends are there! And maybe…" reaching into her pocket she pulled out the crumpled, worn photo and held it up for her dad to see.

"Danny?" Jack whimpered. The car slowed to a stop as Jack gingerly reached out for the polaroid, smoothing it out on his knee with hesitant sweeps, as if he might wipe away the ink. Danny's frown looked much deeper with how creased and worn the photo was, but it was undeniably him.

Jack grasped the photograph to his chest and let out a quivering breath. A look of determination spread across his face and he grasped the steering wheel again, stomping his foot on the accelerator.

They took the next left.

…

The Humvee drove them nearly half a mile out from the prison before it died. Jack groaned as the gas light flickered once before fading.

"There wouldn't happen to be a spare gas canister in the back, eh, Jazzy-pants?"

Unclipping her seatbelt, Jazz tumbled through the car to the trunk, searching through empty bottles and rags for anything useful.

Sitting back on her haunches, she muttered, "Nope, just a tool box and, oh! Here, this might fit."

She tossed him a military-grade camouflage jacket. Jack eyed it before giving a firm nod and slipped it on. The material was tough and durable, and fit his ginormous frame with ease. Jazz tugged on her own jacket, her arms swimming in the sleeves, but she was protected from the morning chill that was starting to seep into the car.

"Grab the toolbox," Jack ordered as he pocketed the map and protein bars.

Jazz hauled the box into the passenger seat and popped the safety locks, pulling the lid open. Seated right on top of a miniature hack-saw was a large serrated knife the length of her forearm and a pistol.

Jack reached for the gun with a grin, but was too slow. Jazz snatched it from his grasp, "Nu-uh!" she stated firmly, "Who's the better shot?"

Jack gave her a disgruntled look before muttering, "You are."

"That's what I thought," she said smugly. "You can have the knife."

The two stepped out of the car onto the road. They were surrounded by tall, barren pine trees. There was a sign up ahead that had been spray-painted over, the words no longer legible but Jazz could assume they were once directions.

Jack pulled the map from his pocket and pointed, "If we cut through the woods we could reach the gate in under ten minutes."

Jazz frowned, "Should we risk it? What if we come across more biters?"

"Were just as exposed out here as anywhere else," Jack said in a tone unlike himself.

Hesitantly, Jazz nodded and they made way for the trees.

It was a terrifying ten minutes before they reached the stretch of field that surrounded the prison like a wasteland. A handful of biters skulked around the chain fence perimeter, staring hungrily at two figures in the courtyard secured within a secondary internal security fence. A man stood on security scaffolding, binoculars in hand as he scoured the grounds while a woman wandered the yard, rummaging through a prison bus that had been upheaved onto its side, head bent low.

"Wait, I know her…" Jazz told her dad excitedly, "Michonne—!"

The binoculars swept toward them.

"Get down!" Jack hissed, yanking Jazz down into the overgrown lawn. With a muffled scream, she dropped to the dirt hissing as her elbow scraped a loose stone. She waited with baited breath, staring wide-eyed at her father who watched through the tall reeds growing from a nearby embankment.

There was a clank of metal and wire before footsteps rushed toward them, thudding heavily against the soft earth. Jazz whimpered, covering her mouth with her palm and slamming her eyes shut. She felt her dad wrap his arms around her protectively, shuffling further back toward the cover of the woods.

But the footsteps halted nearly a dozen yards away from them. Hesitantly, Jazz peeked her eyes open; gliding across the narrow wooden bridge that covered the embankment was Rick, the man who had invaded Woodbury. He stood in the centre of the bridge, staring wistfully at the woods, before he slowly lifted a hand, cupping the air to something unseen by Jazz or Jack.

Jack tugged on her jacket, "C'mon," he muttered carefully, watching Rick with wary eyes she wasn't used to seeing.

"No!" Jazz hissed back, "We can't leave! Danny could be in there!"

"I'm not risking you getting hurt—!"

"And I'm not losing the one lead we have at finding my little brother!"

The resounding click of a safety echoed through the field. Jazz and Jack froze, both turning to find Rick standing over them, a shiny silver gun aimed at their heads.

"How did you find us?"

…

"In," Rick ordered, jabbing toward the armoured door with his handgun.

Jazz swallowed thickly before she marched into the prison, her dad close on her heels. The inside of the prison was frigid compared to outside, the large concrete walls protecting them from the heat and humidity. She was met with a narrow, undecorated corridor before Rick urged them forward, an obvious look of suspicion glued to his face. He led them through a pair of doors and down a platform into a sparsely decorated room with locker cabinets and large round tables bolted to the floor. It was far from the comfort Woodbury had provided.

'Rick?" called a soft voice, crinkled with age, "What's going on?"

An elderly man hobbled his way into the room on a pair of crutches, an empty trouser-leg trailing behind him, along with a girl around Jazz's age carrying a newborn in her arms. A woman with short-cropped hair and a man with a peculiar moustache followed shortly after.

"Sit," Rick ordered, motioning to the picnic tables. They sat.

Rick took a seat across from them, staring intently. The vague and wistful look they had seen cross his face by the trench had long disappeared. Jazz could feel sweat building up at the base of her skull that had nothing to do with the Georgia heat.

A barred door on the far side of the room was flung open then, and a boy wandered through carting behind Maggie and Glenn whose bruises looked even worse in the daylight.

"Who's this?" the boy asked excitedly, rushing forward. He came to a sudden halt when he reached the side of the old man, gaping at them in shock. Jazz looked at him – he seemed to recognise her, but she knew for a fact she had never seen him in her life.

"Not now, Carl," Rick bit out, looking furious, "Who are you and how did you find us?"

"Whoa, don't you recognise her, Rick?" called Glenn, "That's the girl that helped us get out of Woodbury!"

Rick looked at her with fresh eyes before turning to Jack, "And you?"

Her dad proudly jutted a thumb at himself, "The name's Jack Fenton. Jazzy-pants here my daughter and we—"

"How did you find us? What are you doing here?" Rick interrupted.

"Er…" Jack mumbled, uncertainty flickering over his features. He shared a quick look with Jazz who took a deep breath.

"Back in Woodbury I met a woman – Andrea," she began. The mismatched group were staring at her with their full attention, except Carl, who couldn't seem to maintain eye contact, "She told me that she used to be part of your group, and there were rumours about a prison nearby…"

Solemnly, she untucked the polaroid she had hidden in her pocket, holding it tightly in her grip, "She said she knew my brother—"

"He's not here!" Carl blurted out.

Desperation hitched in her throat, "W-what?"

"What are you talking about, son?" asked the man on crutches.

Carl strode evenly toward Jazz and Jack, stopping beside Rick who was staring at him with glazed eyes, as if he wasn't all there. He tugged a folded scrap of paper from his back pocket and unfurled it with shaking hands to show them.

"I… I took this from him right before the farm was overrun. I was really mad at him, and I knew he'd be angry if he found it missing. I meant to give it back, but…"

It was a photograph, one she instantly recognised; the last their family had taken, just a few months before the outbreak. Her mum and dad were standing proudly behind her and Danny, all grinning happily and carefree. A sob escaped her throat at the sight of her mum and her brother in all their worn glory and she carefully held up the polaroid of a scowling Danny next to his smiling face.

A muffled gasp escaped the woman with the short-cropped hair, and with a terrified glance at Jazz and Jack, she fled the room.

"Carol!" called the blonde with the baby, racing after her.

The others didn't move, staring down at the photographs of Danny with varying expressions of sadness and horror. Maggie broke the silence first, slipping into the seat next to her to lay a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry."

Jack burst into tears.

...

I really enjoy writing Jazz — she brings a sense of rfeality to the story that the other characters can't with their hardened attitudes. It's interesting and refreshing. The story really begins to diverge more from here-on out too. Please leave a comment if you are enjoying this story.