This is the 4th installment of my TWD Saga which centers around my OC. For the newbies, check out the other 3 parts before reading this one. It's going to be a long read and if that's your fancy, then you'll be a happy camper. Enjoy!

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

Several kilometers outside Newnan, Georgia

White clouds of hot breath escaped the man's lips. The cold began to eat at his hands, causing a light tremble. Even his cheeks had turned a rosy hue while numbness overcame his Rudolph's nose.

Daryl sniffed. Goddamn cold.

The hunter never did like the cold. He preferred summer's scorching sun than this unbearable iciness. Ever since civilization ended, it seemed Mother Nature had had the bright idea of introducing cold winters down south, destroying every southerner's dream of a cool season.

Daryl sighed deeply as his thoughts flew over the bitter cold. It wasn't winter that had him climb the last remaining intact watchtower and gaze over the horizon forlornly.

Nine months.

That was how long it has passed since they won the Woodbury-Prison war, and eight months since he had last seen his brother or the Indian. February was upon them and not even a mention of them had passed his ears. His brother had made him a promise, swore to it, but then again it wouldn't be the first time Merle broke his promises. If Merle wanted to scour all of America then Daryl had no problem with that. He just wanted to know if his last remaining family was still alive and not dead and rotting in a ditch somewhere. Hell, even Samara guaranteed she would return and she was more trustworthy when it came to keeping to her word.

Daryl was at a loss.

Life at the prison came and went. New survivors sometimes got added to the flock, but it was becoming less frequent than in the beginning. Daryl didn't know if that was a sign of their imminent extinction or that people simply left Georgia for greener pastures. He hoped it was the latter.

The screech of metal alerted him that he would have a visitor, and soon enough, Tyreese appeared holding a cup of hot coffee, the vapors rising like phantoms before dissolving into the unknown.

"Damn, it's cold outside. I thought last winter was tough, but this one…" He whistled in amused wonder. "Easily beats it."

Daryl nodded, absentminded. He was in no mood for company, especially when he brooded. He'd rather have that one time for himself. Alone.

"Still looking for them, huh?"

He felt the lines on his forehead emphasize. "Just watchin' for walkers."

"Mhmm." The man took a sip out of his coffee and shuddered. It was either that good or that bad, and Daryl had an inkling which way it bended towards. It was with no wonder he had renounced caffeine for weeks now. "I don't think anyone has ever stared longingly at the dead before, not unless they got a death wish."

Daryl felt the corner of his mouth twitch. One of the downsides of living with other people for such a prolonged time—they tended to learn each other's ticks and peeves. Figured that one of them would catch on to his regular visits to the tower.

"It's been eight months." Daryl said disenchanted.

"Yeah, I get you, man. Both your brother and Samara left on the same day and we haven't heard a word of them since. Even Michonne is starting to get nervous."

If that woman's feelin' nervous then there's definitely somethin' wrong.

"They're fine, Daryl."

The hunter scowled, not in the mood to be mollified. "And you know that how?"

"I don't, but I have to believe that they are. What's the alternative?"

"That they're dead somewhere." The words felt like bile on his tongue, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. Before, when he had no knowledge of Merle living in Woodbury, Daryl hadn't worried of his brother's fate. He had known that wherever he was, he would survive even with one hand less. He had faith, but now, after finally reuniting with his brother only for him to disappear once again, he seemed less inclined to leave it to chance. Merle was tough, but anything could happen out there. One wrong move and it was lights out. As for the Indian...

"Don't think like that, man." Tyreese interrupted his dark musings. The man had a good heart, but Daryl's doubts overshadowed any comfort words could bring. "If you do, you're just gonna start eating yourself up. Make yourself sick. It's not a road you want to go down on, trust me. When Michonne started her little hunts for the Governor I was wrecked with worries. I could barely sleep until she returned. But as time passed, I understood that this was something she had to do. This was her closure and I made peace with her comings and goings. He's your brother, I get that. And…" Tyreese paused thoughtfully on his next words, but altogether let them flow. "I know that deep down you still care for Samara."

Daryl's glare was scathing. That was not a topic he wanted to touch ever again, or even mention in passing.

Tyreese must have sensed his displeasure as he further explained his comment. "Despite what happened between the two of you, she's still a part of us and you know that. She's been through thick and thin alongside our people. Fought with us, defended this place and everyone in it with us. Bled for us." Tyreese huffed in light amusement, a strange twinkle in his eyes. "She's like the wayward daughter of the family. Only coming for the holidays and then disappearing again."

Despite the lighthearted air about him, the smile soon weaned in favor of a much subdued outlook.

"You can't switch that off, Daryl. You can't just not care because things didn't work out between the two of you. She's still a friend."

At this point Daryl's glare was downright damning, but the more he listened the more it dissipated before finally settling into light apathy. Tyreese got him there. In that respect, he did care. As much as he tried not to think about it, Samara was one of them. She was a part of the family. If she died, it would like one of the others died.

"I know it's not really my business, but have you tried moving on?" Tyreese cocked his brow in curiosity. "There are a lot of single women now. Not like you don't have anything to choose from."

Daryl felt his muscles constrict awkwardly. This was another topic he did not feel so inclined to breach.

"I mean, I've seen the way Karen looks at you."

Daryl shot him a confused stare. Karen?

"You could try with her, and hey, maybe it could turn into something good for the both of you. It's not healthy to be alone, brother."

"There are about forty people in the prison." Daryl snarked. "How the hell am I alone?"

"You know what I mean."

The hunter shook his head, ambivalent. There was a reason he kept to himself once again, never letting anyone new past the defenses he reinforced. He'd rather not have another repeat of what happened with Samara. He didn't think he could go through that again and come out unscathed.

"I'm just trying to be a friend, Daryl. I hate seeing you up here almost daily. I can see the way it's wearing you out. The others can also. You can't keep thinking about it. You can't torture yourself like this. It's not going to magically make them appear."

Daryl kept silent. Tyreese wanted him to focus on other subjects, or people by his words, to overlook that there were two others out there, missing. If only it would be that simple to switch off. He knew the man was only thinking of Daryl's sanity and health, but this was not an issue that could be simply resolved with a distraction.

Tyreese sighed in defeat and settled his hand on Daryl's shoulder emphatically, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

"I'll leave you be. Just don't forget about the supply run for the medicine. We already got two more sick, we can't afford any more. I swear I'm gonna lose my head if we have any more people die."

In his forsaken brooding, he forgot that the man himself had his own troubled worries to deal with. "How's Sasha?"

Tyreese's lips pursed, concern written all over his face. "She's getting worse. Hallucinating. Chris also."

Sasha and her boyfriend, Chris. They were just two of the few unfortunate enough to have caught the deadly flu that had been circulating inside the prison. The first signs had sprouted a week ago, and after the intense fever took its first victim, Hershel had immediately declared that a quarantine was in order. The old vet was still working on finding a definitive cure, but for now he had to rely on antibiotics even if they only slowed down the fever. Even a little time extra meant the world in this race against the clock. Worse, was the fact that searching for medicine became harder than ever. More often than not, the scavenging team returned with empty hands to the people's dismay.

"She ain't gonna die, man." Daryl said resolutely. Sasha, despite being the younger sibling, was more determined and stubborn than her older brother. "She's a tough chic."

"I know. I just hate seeing her in pain."

Daryl understood all too well.

Long after Tyreese left the hunter on his own, Daryl kept on searching the horizon, his thoughts as erratic as the morning fog. Hesitantly, Daryl reached inside his winter jacket and took out a turquoise piece of jewelry. He could never figure out why he still carried it with him after all this time, especially considering who its owner had once been, but throwing it away had never once crossed his mind. It would be like tossing away his crossbow.

Daryl sighed resignedly.

I'm an idiot.

Monroe, Louisiana

Samara sat comfortably near a small fire she had built out of some wooden pews. Night was almost upon the small church, the dying light doing flamboyant wonders on the stained glass. It almost felt peaceful as the kaleidoscope of colors washed over her with cool serenity.

At least it was better than thinking about the cold.

The former marshal rubbed her fingers against the heat of the flames, hoping for a change in her stone cold hands. She felt chilly all over her skin and not even the fire seemed to spark any warmth in her bones.

With a sigh to her futile endeavor, the Native took out a photo out of her coat pocket, worn out and crumpled by time. She might as well pass the time woeing about her deceased husband than woeing about the freezing winter. No matter how much time passed, it was always a familiar comfort in gazing upon his crooked smile. Like an old childhood pastime that gave nostalgia once adulthood came rolling by. And one you knew you could never go back to.

A rustle next to her reminded Samara that she was not as alone as she would have liked. There was a woman next to her, warming her gloved hands by the fire while simultaneously trying to steal a peek at the photo in Samara's hands.

Curious, aren't you?

"Who's that?"

"He was my husband." Samara said as she shoved the wrinkled piece back in her pocket.

"Oh." She mumbled uncomfortably, but thankfully she did not ask anything further on the subject.

The younger woman returned to staring in the flames and trying to hopelessly warm herself. Samara watched the Latina closely—she was young, maybe somewhere around her mid-twenties, and not bad to look at. By pre-virus standards, she was a beauty with straight, long toffee hair and almond shaped brown eyes. Her figure was slim, but with enough curve to make men's heads turn with admiration.

She wasn't the only companion she had. The other occupant of the church already snored as his fat ass snuggled deep in his bedroll, not a care in the world. Only two more were absent to complete the whole set of her merry band.

An owl hooted in the near distance.

Speak of the devils—

It wasn't any regular owl call. It was man made, attached to a certain eccentric, wild hick that Samara had the misfortune of knowing. The Native responded with her own call to assure the outside party that everything was in order. Not soon after, boots crunched through the dirt and dust of the church and two men appeared from the shadows—the hick called Merle and the giant ginger.

Merle grinned as he settled by the fire, dropping a full duffel. He seemed pleased with himself, like a mighty caveman back from his hunt.

"Got ourselves a great catch."

Samara nodded absentmindedly, her focus on the Latina as she jumped in the ginger's arms and passionately kissed him. The Native turned away, the only indication of what she felt expressed in a wrinkle on her forehead. It was bad enough she had to listen to them fucking which was pretty often (and pretty loud), she didn't need to see their affection in the daylight as well.

The rustle of food packets snapped her to attention. Bags of pretzels, chips, mixed nuts, cans of fruit, tuna, peas, rice, beans and meat flowed from Merle's hands.

"Abraham's got more. Even found some pills and water bottles."

"No fuel, though." The ginger known as Abraham said as he disentangled from his pretty girlfriend. "You and Merle gotta head out again tomorrow, search a different side of the town. Hope you're luckier than we were today."

Their merry group had a system which Abraham insisted on—two went out scavenging while three stayed behind and the fat ass that Samara tended to scowl at was always excused unless absolutely necessary. He was just too valuable.

Samara looked them over. A burly Texan Ranger, a pretty young Latina and a mullet wearing, heavy weight peculiar man who seemed to recall a lot of odd information.

—Abraham Ford, Rosita Espinosa and Eugene Porter.

Her uninvited road companions.

"Where did you find all this loot?" Rosita asked as she dug through Abraham's bag, a hungry smile on her face.

"An untouched house. Someone packed for the end of the world, thinkin' they could outrun it. Most of the food went bad, but what we found, we brought." Abraham grinned as he kissed Rosita's shoulder, evidently proud of his find.

"This is great! We could last a month off these!"

"More like two weeks if we ration carefully." Eugene spoiled her happy bubble. Having woken up because of the commotion, the mullet wearer had waddled over to the group, his weasel eyes meticulously surveying the findings.

"It's enough to get us to Georgia." Samara interjected. "As long as we don't run into any obstacles."

"Found somethin' else, Chippewa. Here."

Samara expertly caught Merle's throw and for the first time in months, a smile bloomed over her face. A genuine, real smile of pleasure.

—Cigarettes. An untouched pack even.

Samara relished in the nicotine taste like a deprived junkie. Weeks had passed since she'd had one puff of smoke and she floated off on cloud nine. To be honest, renouncing cigarettes entirely would be the best option considering the present state of affairs, but what was life if you couldn't enjoy the little things that were still left.

"Got my own, too." Merle then glared, a stubby finger pointed at her menacingly. "I catch you stealin' my cigarettes again because you chain-smoked through yours, I'm gonna kick your ass, squaw."

As Merle moved to his side of the church, he mumbled obscenities underneath his breath and something about properly hiding his stash from now on where the Indian couldn't find them. Even knowing that cigarettes were a rare commodity, Samara still finished them sooner than expected. It was impulsive, but Samara might as well relish in them than starve herself of the pleasure. Unfortunately, once she got a taste of it she needed more and that left Merle's unfinished pack, to his greatest displeasure.

By the time night had fully settled in, Rosita had prepared dinner for all of them—beans and ham. It wasn't much, but it felt like a full course dinner after living off woodland creatures and stale food (and the occasional dog treats). They ate mostly in silence, occasionally chatting. Samara did not join the conversation, her mind still far away.

They had a long and dangerous road ahead of them. Abraham and his people had their eyes set on Washington DC, and Merle and Samara were their escort on one condition. Their road would lead through Georgia with a quick detour to the outskirts of Newnan. It was time to make good on that promise and Samara could barely wait.

It was the early hours of the morning when Merle and Samara walked through the almost deserted streets of Monroe in search for gas. A light fog settled over their world, giving off an eerie feeling.

Merle spat and coughed as bitter fuel flooded his mouth. The hick had the unpleasant job of siphoning fuel from abandoned cars. Samara stood as lookout atop the car, gaze and compound bow vigilant for any dangers lurking in the mist. It was not the only weapon on her body—her trusty shoulder holsters with two handguns, a knife hidden in her boot, self-made tomahawk at her waist along with a few other throwing knives and a hunting rifle slung across her back. Some might call that excessive, but Samara liked to think of herself as precautious.

March was a shitty month in Georgia, as Merle put it. Half the month it rained while the other half was cloudy. And it never got above twenty degrees Celsius, so it was perpetually chilly. An unpleasant combination.

Samara had found a long, beige trench coat and black cargo pants that covered her legs and ended in army boots. As per her usual fashion, Samara wore dark rounded sunglasses and her skeleton face mask. Merle always called her silly for wearing what he essentially called 'a movie getup', but she didn't care. Samara felt good in them. Wasn't this what a survivor of the post-apocalyptic world should look like?

Merle wasn't any different. He wore a camouflage hunting jacket, a cap on his head, dark brown pants and the same brand of dark army boots as Samara's. He too was armed to the teeth with knives, machete, handguns, a sawed off shotgun strapped to his thigh and a one-handed crossbow given to him as a parting gift. He treasured that thing since it wasn't any bigger than a handgun with the same handle and trigger as one. It wasn't as powerful as a real-sized crossbow, but it still penetrated undead skin like butter. He even hunted fish and smaller animals with it.

The world had cycled again. In just two years, nature had taken over, slowly but surely reclaiming its rightful dominion. The roads and buildings deteriorated as they remained unattended by human hands. Plants grew through the cracks in the pavement, slowly spreading over. Houses now lay abandoned and forlorn, used as animal refuge or for the occasional survivor looking for a temporary safe place to recharge.

—It was beautiful.

Samara had often wondered how long it would take until everything man-made was covered in vibrant green; until the world finally began healing itself after they had so recklessly and greedily poisoned it. If the human race was as unlucky as Samara believed, they would in a hundred years or less become extinct and nothing but these shambling corpses will be left behind as the last unliving testament of their existence here on Earth. The Native wondered how long the walkers would keep on moving until they too finally expire—

"See anythin'?"

"Sleepers only." That was what Samara called the upright walkers that, unless stimulated from up close, remained catatonic. Not to be mistakes with their ever deadlier cousins, the lurkers. In these two years she had seen quite a few variations, all with cute little tags on them—roamers, lurkers, floaters, sleepers, flamers, crawlers and so on. Merle's favorites were the berserkers. The ones that stumbled into a frenzy whenever fresh meat was about. They were the most fun to tackle and it seemed Abraham shared the same opinion as he too enjoyed 'playing' with them. Two peas in a pod, those two.

Samara gave Merle a reproachful look, one that he missed entirely as he focused on siphoning fuel.

"You and Abraham are close."

Merle looked at her flatly before a grin spread his lips thin. "Ain't gonna run away with him, Pocahontas, if that's what you're worried about. You ain't gettin' rid of me that easily."

Unfortunately. "I'm just saying you shouldn't get attached. We're not going to travel with them forever. The moment we hit Washington, we part ways."

"Come on, darlin'. Don't kill the fun. He's the first hombre since the gang that hasn't tried to kill or eat me, got a sense of humor, and likes fightin' and boozin' it up. Hell yeah we're gonna be best of buds! I've been livin' with your cynical ass for months now. A breath of fresh air would do me good. There's a reason men had 'guy time' back in the day."

To Merle's annoyance, Samara rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion.

"Christ, this is what married life must be like. Bitches always naggin'."

The duo continue on to the next car in the same formation. Merle siphoned, Samara watched. After leaving Georgia months ago, they had traveled up and down the west coast. They had even stopped in Las Vegas, but the city overflowed with the undead making it impossible to approach. Dangers had been about at every turn, even escaping some hairy situations that could have ended much worse.

Running into other humans had been interesting. In California they had met a group of somewhat approachable survivors. A biker gang. Fun people once you got past their rough and tumble attitudes and their general distrust of outsiders. Merle especially had taken a shine to them. But for Samara, it had been Arizona. The community surviving there had made it fairly difficult for Samara to leave behind, but in the end she did.

It was time for the last stop of her journey. The northern east coast called to her like a lulling siren, urging her to put the remains of her demons to rest.

Regrettably, upon reaching Texas a month ago they ran into the Brady Bunch back at the church. At first, a fight broke out between the peacocking Merle and the stubborn Abraham over a canister of fuel. The women had to peel the men off each other with caution as fists flew haphazardly. Samara sustained an ugly shiner for an entire week thanks to Merle's rogue elbow, but once their spirits quieted, they began talking. The duo learned of their super classified mission—save Eugene, save the world. Apparently, the giant bacon was a scientist who knew what caused the pandemic and Washington was the location where he could reverse the effects and save the world.

Horseshit.

Samara didn't believe it for a second. There was no reversing the plague. No salvation. As long as humans still walked the earth, the virus would never fade away. They were stuck with it until their last breath. Moreover, something about Eugene screamed manipulator and Samara had always been of the mind to listen to her instincts. Merle was of the same thought. He didn't trust Eugene, but no matter how hard he tried to convey that to Abraham, the man was deadest on Eugene being their savior.

The older Dixon had been the one to decide their course. He wished to reach Washington, not for the sake of the mission, but because he needed to see if there was anything left of the capital. If maybe people had united there and molded a community. Merle was looking for the metaphorical phoenix in the ashes. Salvation from this nightmare and if this was Merle's way of keeping hope alive then she would not take that away from him with her negativity.

"Can't wait to reach the prison." Merle said as he screwed the cap on a full canister. "Wonder how Daryl's doin'."

"Wonder how everyone's doing."

"Maybe you. The others don't matter none to me."

Samara stilled the need to roll her eyes, but Merle's words did spark a certain matter that had recently kept her from decent sleep.

"Do you think they're still there?"

"'Course they are. Where else would they be?"

"Dead or just…gone." This had been Samara's recurring nightmare the closer they got to Georgia. "Maybe they abandoned the place or were forced to. A hundred things could have happened since we left."

At this point, Samara wouldn't be surprised if the prison was nothing but rubble. It wasn't like she could keep in touch with the people back in Georgia and unfortunately, anything was possible these days.

"You know, that fucked up view you have gets me mad sometime." He glowered. "Daryl ain't dead. He's still there. Probably bored out of his mind with those people."

Even after all this time, Merle was still a sourpuss when it came to the others. There was someone on this planet that could hold a grudge worse than Samara, to her utter surprise.

"You know, you might want to ease up on Rick and the others. It's been quite a while. They might have forgiven what you've done. Hell, even I did." Reluctantly. "Maybe they're even prepared to welcome you back into the fold."

"Right, and if I'm a good little boy my hand's gonna grow back." He snorted in high disbelief. "Grow up, Pocahontas. Sheriff ain't one to forget so easily. Besides, who says I wanna be a part of them? Goddamn yuppies."

"You want to because your brother is there." He didn't fool her.

Merle paused in his work and shot her an unwavering stare. If his head had been transparent, Samara could have seen the wheels turning furiously. Patiently, she waited for whatever his mind would concoct, knowing full well that his words would either annoy or make her want to punch his lights out.

"Why didn't you wanna be with them, huh? Why the hell did you leave all those months ago? You were part of the inner circle. Could've been a big boss there."

I guess he's going for the throat.

"Had my reasons."

"Cold feet, huh?"

His smirk was a combination of deeper knowledge and intuition, but Samara could only perceive the mocking nature of his words. The man realized that Samara had more or less ran away, what he didn't know was her exact reason for it and the woman did not feel inclined to share it.

"That's cold, darlin'." He tutted. "Makes me sad for my little brother."

Pursing her lips, Samara evened her temper. He was goading her, trying to make her reveal the truth, but she would not give fuel for his fire. Whenever the urge itched him, Merle would taunt her with her decision, leaving Samara torn between the belief that he was either messing around for the shits and giggles or he actually wanted a clear, definitive answer. The man was an enigma.

"Do me a favor, Sammy." Merle got to his feet, both hands occupied with gasoline canisters. There was a looming shadow over his face, and Samara knew it wasn't from an erratic sleeping cycle. "When we get back to the prison. Don't you give my baby brother hope. Don't you dare trick him into thinkin' you're capable of somethin' you ain't. Because if you do…I'm gonna break your neck."

This time he wasn't joking. It wasn't the threatening manner that tipped her off, but the use of her name. Merle had a bizarre tendency to only use her name in serious situations, otherwise it would be any other derogatory nickname his mind recycled. Considering that it was his brother they were speaking about, it was understandable that he would become overprotective in his own brutish style.

But what Samara found cynically amusing was his continuous prying interest in her defunct relationship with Daryl.

"Hypothetically speaking, what the hell makes you think he'll even let me get that close?"

"Because I know my brother. He don't let go so easily. He's stupid like that. Always told him, but he never listens. Women bring nothin' but trouble. "

Samara jumped off the roof of the car and followed the hick down the deserted street of Monroe. She tried not to think on Merle's words, but her brain decided to be sadistic and wonder 'what if'. It was a steep road to walk down on. Risky and treacherous. She had tried putting Daryl out of her mind for the entire length of her trip, but those sneaky thoughts always managed to claw their way to the surface. A part of her dreaded returning to the prison while the other half was elated in it. Once that moment was upon her, Samara felt torn on how she would react in seeing him again, but she realized on one soul-searching night that whatever happened she would just go with the flow and try not to resist it this time.

Life was too short and she might as well enjoy what moments she still had left.

A bright eye scrutinized in predatory silence. Watched as familiar, treacherous faces went about their business, as his enemies walked with leisure about their home, free of any impending doom.

—As Rick walked down to his little animal barn with buckets of food no doubt for the pigs he now raised like some foul-smelling, ignorant farmer.

This was not the Kentucky sheriff he remembered. The fearless and bold leader of the prison that repelled his merciless onslaught and proved that despite the losses he suffered, he still managed to outdo him with surprising strength and cunning. The man he both loathed and respected seemed to have been dethroned to the menial task of caring for animals while others decided the fate of the whole.

How curious. They both lost everything and reduced to nothing but peons. Lost to their true purpose of taking destiny by the steering wheel and steadily driving its course instead of letting it decide for itself.

But unlike Rick, he had the drive to take it all back, with force if necessary, and he did, right out of Martinez's hands. Now, with a small army at his command, he was more than ready to take control of his one true purpose and make himself a new home. The utopia he had always dreamed of with him at its top.

The man slipped away into the protective cover of the forest, his steps as silent as his rage. Soon, the sound of vengeance would echo once more and this time, it would be their screams and blood that would splatter the cool pavement.

Just like planned, all those months ago.