"What's on the docket for you today?" I ask as I adjust my belt and secure my knife at my hip.

Daryl lays on his back, still half asleep. "Hunting, probably. Might have a council meeting later. Need to ask Hershel," he says. He rolls onto his side, looking up at me. "You?"

"Gonna see where the day takes me," I say. "Might ask Carol if I could take over storytime for today." I may have gotten Eryn a little too excited about Peter Pan yesterday.

He nods, then pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He grasps my hips, tugging me closer, and I rest my hands on his shoulders. His hands trail up and under my shirt as he gazes up at me, all baby blues and dark hair and...

I exhale, closing my eyes. "You're evil," I mumble.

He smirks, squeezing my waist again. "I didn't say anything."

"You know what you're doing."

He tilts his head back, eyes hooded, and I can't help but lean down and kiss him. His hands move further up my torso, toying with me as he deepens our embrace. I sink onto his lap, his arousal pressing against me in the most delicious way.

"You sure you can't stick around?" he asks, trailing kisses down my jaw and throat.

I groan, eyes fluttering shut. "I mean...if you aren't busy—" I gasp as he nips my shoulder, a tiny bloom of pain joining the sparks running up and down my body.

A gunshot goes off.

We jump apart, grip tightening as we look towards our door, then back at each other. Daryl's up in an instant, lifting me off of him and putting me aside as he scrambles for his clothes. He yanks his pants on as I grab him a shirt.

He pulls it on and another shot goes off, then another.

"Shit," Daryl curses.

"Is that from D?" I ask.

Outside the block, I hear shouts.

"Help! HELP!"

"Please, hurry!"

Two girl's voices—Lizzie and Mika, sisters who joined us with their father a while back. The pure panic and terror in their voices makes my blood run cold.

Daryl and I race out onto the upper level of C as Daryl snatches his bow from the wall. Glenn is already running, Tyreese and Sasha right behind him.

"The hell's going on?!" Daryl shouts as we head for the stairs.

"Walkers in D!" Glenn shouts back.

"A breach?" I demand.

"I don't think so! We've checked everything!"

In the common area, Sasha locks the entrance to the Tombs and Hershel stands near her with a shotgun, face grave. We rush outside.

"Walkers in D!" I hear Glenn shouting.

"What about C?!" Rick demands as he rushes up from the fields.

"Clear! We locked the gates to the Tombs," Sasha reports from behind us.

"It ain't a breach!" Daryl says.

More echoing gunshots. Rick curses and follows us as we keep running. I get my knife out as we run, readying myself for the worst.

Yet, the second we enter D, I still don't feel prepared.

It's chaos in every sense of the word. Panicked screams, blasts of gunfire, and the endless snarling of walkers. Daryl snatches a shotgun from a man as we rush in, turning and tossing it to Rick without a thought.

"Are you bit?!" I hear Rick shouting as people flood towards the exit in search of safety. "Are you bit?!"

A woman screams as she fights against a walker and I rush forward to help, stabbing it through the brain and shoving it away the second it releases her. The woman sobs as she sinks to the ground, her arms marred with walker gunk, but I don't see any bites. I rush off to help the others.

There's a walker crawling towards Luke, a little curly-haired boy, and he wails in terror. Daryl's there a moment later, scooping the boy up with one hand and shooting the walker with the other. He hands the boy off to Karen, a former Woodbury resident, and readies his knife.

"Molly, come with me!" Carol shouts.

It's a mess of killing walkers and pushing people into cells, just trying to stop the walkers from reaching them. I run for the stairs just as I hear another scream. A walker lunges for Eryn and she wails just as I yank the walker off of her and send it toppling over the balcony. It bursts apart in a spray of guts and gore as it hits the ground.

"Eryn, sweetie, come with me," I say.

She sobs, face red as she gulps for breath, and I usher her into the nearest cell. Another walker appears from the one beside it, lunging for us, and I throw us both into the cell just as it slams against the bars. It roars and Eryn screams.

I stab it between the eyes and it crumples, silent. I turn, trying to catch my breath as I crouch next to Eryn, shushing her. She's soaked in blood and walker gunk, but I can't tell what's hers and what's from the monster.

"It's okay," I assure her, trying to subtly check for bites as she gulps breaths of air. I push her sweaty hair from her forehead and force a smile. "It's okay. It didn't get you, did it?"

"I-It hurts," Eryn blubbers.

"Where, sweetie?"

She turns, pointing to the mess of hair clinging to her neck. It's splattered with blood and, when I push the hair away to get a better look, there's a bloody gash on her neck, still oozing. Her carotid, I realize. It takes everything in me not to gasp, not to betray my horror.

She stares at me, all round-faced and brown-eyed and oh so young, far too young to be covered in blood. "M-Miss Hope, am...am I gonna die?"

I want to lie to her. I want to pretend everything will be okay so she doesn't pass on with her last thoughts being of terror, but I can't. I can see that she knows. The words clog in my throat.

"I..."

She wobbles a bit, far too pale. "I...I don't feel good."

"I know. I know, sweetie," I say. My voice is pinched, an inch from straining. "Can you lie down? Close your eyes and get some rest. It'll make you feel better."

She nods. "I want my mama."

"I'll find her. I will."

I help her onto the cot, thankfully empty and blood free, and I tuck her in as she snuggles up against the pillow, still sniffling a little. As she closes her eyes, I step back look out at the block. The noise has died down, less gunshots, less snarling, and I hope that means it's over.

"I'm going to close the door, okay? Just rest. I'll be right back with your mama."

Eryn doesn't answer me, curled up and peaceful as if she's just having a nap, and I close the cell door as once again, I try to swallow back everything welling up inside me. With her throat bitten like that...

Daryl, Rick, and Glenn are already up here, searching the cells for anyone left to turn. Daryl comes to me the second I shut the door, looking towards the curtain.

"I have to find Theresa," I say. "Eryn...she's bit."

His eyes dart from me to the cell. "Did you handle it?"

My mouth is dry. "N-No. I...she..." I blink, sucking in another breath, my heart pounding way too fast. "Keep the door closed. I need to find Theresa."

"Saw her downstairs. I'll keep an eye out here."

"Thank you."

I head back down the stairs. I pass Chloe's body on the way, throat ripped out, but there's already a wound in her head. No reanimation. On the bottom floor, Karen sobs in Tyreese's arms, her cries mingling with plenty of others. There are more bodies, familiar faces painted red, frozen in pain.

My head feels so full, straining with the effort of not falling apart, and I make a beeline for Theresa's cell. I pull back the curtain only to see her sobbing as she pulls a sheet over her son's body.

"Theresa," I say. My voice doesn't seem loud enough.

She cries harder. Blood stains her blonde hair. "Owen...oh, Owen, my baby..."

I kneel next to her, gripping her shoulder, and she spares a look at me. She shakes her head, face twisted with pure grief.

"Hope, have you seen Eryn?" she asks. "Please, t-tell me she's okay."

My lips part, but words fail me. For a second, I see hope in her eyes, and then it's snuffed out. She lets out another gut-wrenching wail, screaming.

"No! No, not her too, please—"

"I..."

She collapses onto Owen's shroud, shaking and sobbing, inconsolable. I push myself to my feet. There's nothing I can do, nothing I can say. I stumble back outside, moving like I'm in a daze.

"Hope," I hear Daryl call from the second level.

I look up and he gestures, beckoning me to come. I obey. The cell I left Eryn in is open now and, when I start towards it, Daryl puts his arm in my path.

"Don't do that to yourself," he murmurs.

I purse my lips tightly even as I press my hand to my mouth. "Oh, God..."

He rubs my arm. "Did what you could," he murmurs. "She went peacefully. Just...fell asleep."

Peacefully, I repeat to myself. The word feels wrong in this case. I stare at the cell and I wonder if Daryl waited for her to reanimate, or if he took care of it as soon as I was gone. I decide I don't want to know. I'm grateful he handled it.

"Daryl. Hope."

Why does everyone suddenly want my attention? I close my eyes, take a breath, and look towards Rick. He's standing by the last cell on the second floor, lips pursed, knife coated with fresh blood.

Daryl puts his hand on the small of my back as Rick motions us to him. He disappears into the cell. When we reach it, there's another body on the ground. Charlie's face is covered in blood, streaking down from his pale, lifeless eyes like tears, coating his nostrils, his lips, his chin.

"Oh, God," I mumble.

Dr. S arrives, Hershel close behind along with Bob, and Daryl and I step back to let him through. That's all the medical personnel present—Dr. S as our official doctor, Hershel's a given, and Bob the combat medic. Dr. S kneels next to Charlie, lips pursed.

"No bites. No wounds," Rick says, looking up at all of us. "I think he just died."

"Horribly, too," Dr. S says. "Pleurisy asipiration."

"Choked to death on his own blood. Caused those trails down his face," Hershel says.

"I've seen them before," Rick says, "on a walker outside the fences."

"I saw 'em on Patrick, too," Daryl says.

My throat tightens and I swallow hard. Patrick's dead too? Just yesterday, he brought me food and we chatted about life. He wanted to know if there was any chance Daryl could teach him how to hunt.

"They're from the internal lung pressure building up—like if you shake a soda can and pop the top," Dr. S explains. "Only...imagine your eyes, ears, nose, and throat are the top."

"It's a sickness from the walkers?" Bob asks.

"No, these things happened before they were around," Dr. S says. "Could be pneumococcal. Most likely an aggressive flu strain."

Hershel sighs. "Someone locked him in just in time."

"Nah, man," Daryl says. "Charlie used to sleepwalk. Locked himself in. Hell, he was just eating barbecue yesterday. How could somebody die in a day just from a cold?"

"The pigs," I say. Rick and I lock eyes and his lips purse. "I checked on Violet yesterday morning. She was dead by night. I thought she had pneumonia."

"There was a sick boar in the woods," Rick adds. "Saw it when I checked the snares."

"Pigs and birds. That's how these things spread in the past," Hershel says. "We need to do something about those hogs."

"Maybe we got lucky. Maybe these two cases are it," Dr. S says.

"Haven't seen anybody be lucky in a long time," Bob sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Bugs like to run through close quarters. Doesn't get any closer than this."

"All of us in here; we've all been exposed," Hershel says.

It's a heavy thought, just adding to the load on our shoulders. I close my eyes as I let out another sigh, reaching for the small notebook I keep in my back pocket.

"Council meeting should happen sooner rather than later," I say, nodding to both Daryl and Hershel. Daryl's lips purse as he grunts an affirmative. "I've gotta..." I stop, another burst of emotion hitting my square in the chest. "Gotta take note of the dead."

I take my leave, flipping open the notebook as I pull the pen from its spiral spine. When I agreed to take a death ledger, I didn't let myself picture something of this scale. I wanted to pretend days like this were behind us.

----------

Patrick, I write. Greg. Owen. Chloe. Mr. Greg Richards. Thomas. Ryan. Charlie. Raymond. Alice. Missy.

With the council already gathered in the prison library, I'm left to keep cleaning up D block. I'm not alone—Tyreese and Rick haul bodies outside, preparing them for burial. I write down the name of every shroud that passes me.

I can't go back to my cell yet, not until the council makes a move. Judith, Beth, and Carl are in there and I refuse to expose them. I can't stand the idea of writing down another child's name on my list and especially not theirs.

As I approach another body, David comes down the stairs carrying a child-sized shroud. He meets my eyes and purses his lips.

"Eryn?" I ask.

He nods. I add her name to the list, biting the inside of my cheek as he lays her down next to the others awaiting transport outside. He straightens up and coughs into his elbow, rough and harsh. I take a step back from him just before he looks back up at me.

"You okay?" I ask slowly. Looking closer, he seems pale, his dark hair sticking to his forehead.

"Just got an itch in my throat. I'm sure it's nothing," he says.

If my brain had alarm bells, they'd be going off. I purse my lips and he looks towards the doors as Karen and Tyreese come back in. They don't greet each other, wordlessly lifting another body up.

I watch them walk away, fingertips white as I grip my pen.

----------

I go to Daryl the second he returns from the council meeting.

"What's the decision?" I ask.

"What you'd expect," Daryl says. "Gonna see how this goes, see if it spreads. Karen and David were coughing, so we've got them in the Tombs. Hershel and Dr. S are gonna get cell block A ready for any other sick folks."

"Karen, too?" I ask. He frowns a little and I shake my head. "Sorry, I...I heard David coughing. I was going to tell you."

"We took care of it," he says. He exhales. "Gotta find gloves, a mask. Gonna start digging graves."

"I'll join you."

"You sure? I can handle it."

I purse my lips. "I want to help." I tap his arm. "Come on, think I know where to find some gloves."

----------

It's hot, dirty work, and I throw my all into it as the shovel hits the earth again and again. T-Dog, Lori, Axel, Oscar, and Merle's graves sit and watch Daryl and I as we unearth more dirt, digging deeper and deeper.

How many friends have I buried now? Too many. Far too many.

I glance up at the sound of approaching footsteps, only to see that Rick's come to join us. I nod to him, adjusting the bandana clinging to my nose as I wedge the shovel back into the ground.

"Glad you were in there," Daryl says.

"Wasn't much use without my gun," Rick says.

"No, you were," Daryl insists. He looks up, tugging his black bandana down and letting it hang around his neck. "All this time you've been taking off, you earned it. Wouldn't be here without you."

"It was all of us," Rick says, picking up a shovel as Daryl digs back in.

"Nah, it was you first. You gonna help us figure this out?"

I look up at Rick. Daryl's already watching, waiting, and Rick's lips purse.

"I...I screwed up too many times," he says. "Those calls you gotta make, I start down that road..." He shakes his head. "I almost lost my boy—who he was."

The Woodbury boy and his lifeless, marionette body flashes across my mind. I stab my shovel into the earth with extra ferocity, like I could dig out the memory and throw it away.

"Whatever else this place needs, I'm here for it," he says.

"Like I said, you earned it," Daryl replies, digging again. "But for what it's worth, you see mistakes. I see when the shit hits, you're standing there with the shovel." He looks over. "How's yours looking, Hope?"

I look around at the hole I'm in. "Getting there." I set the shovel down, flexing my fingers as I grip my wrist. "I—"

"Rick! Daryl! Hope!"

It's Maggie's voice, panicked, and we all snap to attention as she skids to a stop a couple dozen feet from us. She points towards a fresh cluster of walkers piled against the fence. The hoard is one thing, but the fact that the fence is starting to bow is a whole other problem, and I tug my bandana down.

"Oh, shit," Rick curses, already running.

I throw my gloves off just as Daryl reaches down, hauling me from the grave, and then we're off like a rocket. Sasha, Tyreese, and Glenn are already in the dog run, skewering heads like there's no tomorrow, and the four of us scramble to grab our own weapons as we join them.

"The noise drew 'em out and now this part's starting to give!" Maggie shouts as we spread out along the run. She stabs a walker with the sharpened end of a crowbar.

The walkers snarl, all gnashing teeth and gnarled grabbing hands as they push against the chainlink. I'm not sure if I feel like I'm spectating at the zoo or part of the exhibit, but I do know that being this close to them will never not be unnerving.

I stab one through the head and it slumps. I wrench the bar from its brain and aim for another. The barbed wire rattles and no matter how many walkers fall, more replace them.

"Are you seeing this?" Sasha shouts from the end of the line. She points to a bunch of half-eaten rat carcasses littering the gravel. "Is someone feeding these things?!" she asks, aghast.

"Heads up!" Rick yells.

"This part of the fence, now!" Maggie shouts.

We rush back to the task at hand as the fence starts to sink further in under the crush of undead. There are some already halfway up, creeping towards the barbed wire the more it slopes.

"It's gonna give!"

"Woah, woah, watch it! Watch it!"

We try to press against the fence, pushing it back, but there are so many teeth, so many dangerous, infected bites just waiting to happen. The fence doesn't budge in our favour.

"Everybody back! Back!" Daryl shouts.

We retreat, panting, sweating. The walkers snarl and shake the fence.

"Fence keeps bending in like that, those walkers are coming over it," Sasha says.

I try to breathe, try to focus, try to think. We have logs supporting other parts of the fence; if we could get more of those under here, we could reinforce it, but there's no time. Those walkers don't tire. They don't rest. They don't stop. We do.

"Daryl, get the truck," Rick says. "I know what to do." Daryl nods, taking off at a sprint, and Rick looks back towards the animal pens as his jaw clenches.

"Rick?" I ask. He doesn't look at me, but I come closer. "How can we help?"

He runs his hand down his face, turning to look at the rest of us. "Sasha, Glenn, stay here and keep downing them. Maggie, Tyreese, get the gate. Hope...I'm gonna need you for roundup."

We split off and I follow Rick towards the pig pens. I can hear the truck engine revving as Rick hops inside the pen. The pigs scatter from him, snorting and snuffling, and I follow him over the fence. Daryl pulls up in the truck, a flatbed trailer attached with a wooden crate still loaded on the back. The last time we used that was when we first trapped Violet. Now...

"Help me corral them. We've gotta make this quick," Rick says.

I don't question him, climbing over the fence. The pigs squeal, putting up a fight even as we scoop them up and hand them off to Daryl one by one. When they're all loaded into the crate, Rick climbs onto the trailer and they're off, leaving me lingering by the pen.

Outside the fence, Daryl pulls the truck around and slows to a stop near the horde. Some of the walkers at the back take notice of them and, as they shamble towards Rick, he stands up.

He pulls the first pig from the crate, hesitating for only a second before he cuts their femoral artery. The animal squeals, shrieking as Rick drops it from the back of the trailer, and Daryl drives forward.

The poor thing never stood a chance.

Rick does it again and again, and I stand, almost numb, listening to the silence turn to squealing shrieks of pain, then back to silence. Sasha and Glenn reinforce the fence as the walkers turn their attention to a fresher, easier meal, and I slump against the boards of the pig pen.

Rick returns with blood splattered across his cheek, the front of his shirt soaked in blood and pain in his bright blue eyes. He slides off the trailer and Daryl drives back to the parking area.

Rick stares at the pen, at the emotions on my face that I'm horrible at hiding, and his shoulders sag.

"Gonna have to dismantle this," he says, gesturing to the pen. "Burn it."

I nod. He keeps looking at me like he's waiting for judgment, but I think I'll lose it the second I try to speak.

"It was the only way," he says.

I nod. I know. I tug my bandana off my neck and hand it to him. He takes it, staring at it for a second before wiping his face. Whatever blood doesn't immediately soak into the fabric smears across his skin.

He grips the bandana, pensive, as if debating whether to give it back. When he tries to do so, I push his hand away.

"Burn that too," I say. "Please."

What's one more thing?