TAINTED YOUTH.
019   sickness
—————————

Hallie groaned as she rolled off the top bunk, the familiar creak of the old wood punctuating her movements. Her back cracked slightly, a reminder of the countless days spent hauling supplies, clearing walkers, and doing what needed to be done. The dark of early morning wrapped around her like a heavy blanket, but that was her routine now. Her body had grown accustomed to waking up before the sun, like an automatic response. It didn't matter how late she'd stayed up—if there was work to be done, Hallie was already up, already moving.

She pulled on her jeans, the fabric stiff from wear, and a plain shirt before slipping on her boots. Her feet hit the cold concrete with a dull thud, each step echoing through the otherwise quiet prison. Her torch was already in hand, the faint glow illuminating the darkness around her as she made her way down the hall. Her lips pursed in a tired pout, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. She paused, her eyes drifting down to a small blood splatter on the floor. She shook her head, her mind immediately focusing on the tasks at hand. There wasn't time to dwell on the small things right now.

The sounds of the prison, the dull hum of things still holding together, were the only background noise as she washed her face and brushed her teeth. By the time she was finished, the sun had risen, its light spilling through the grimy windows and into the prison ward. It was always strange, how the place felt a little more alive when the light hit. As if the rays were trying to push back the darkness that always loomed over them.

Rick was already up, Judith babbled softly. It seemed Beth had joined them at some point, probably to help with the baby. Hallie glanced at Rick but didn't acknowledge him. She never did. Their conversations had become brief, detached—like two strangers passing in a crowded room. She'd learned to avoid the small talk, especially after everything that had happened.

Turning her attention to Beth, she spoke quietly, her voice a soft rasp from sleep. "Daryl still asleep?" she asked, her tone casual, but there was a hint of something else beneath it—something that resembled concern or perhaps impatience.

Beth nodded without looking up from feeding Judith, her focus entirely on the child in her arms. "Yeah," she murmured, glancing toward the hallway.

Hallie didn't waste time. She knew the drill. She climbed the stairs quickly, taking them two at a time until she reached the last cell block. She knocked once on the metal doorframe, just enough to make noise. "Daryl," she said loudly, her voice breaking the quiet. She could hear him stir inside.

He groaned from the other side, the bed creaking as he shifted under the sheets. Hallie didn't wait for him to gather himself. She pulled the sheet off him with one swift motion. "Get up, sun's up," she said, a note of urgency in her tone.

Daryl grumbled something unintelligible from under the covers, his voice muffled by the blanket. Hallie rolled her eyes, trying to stifle the small smile that tugged at her lips. She wasn't amused, not entirely, but there was something comforting about the way he always resisted getting out of bed. It was part of who he was.

"Get up, and take a shower," she said again, her voice firm now.

Before he could protest any further, gunshots rang out, the sound of the crack of gunfire slicing through the air, sharp and jarring. Hallie's heart jumped into her throat, her body moving instinctively. She didn't hesitate, grabbing her knives from her waistband and raced toward the source of the chaos. Her footsteps were heavy against the concrete floors, loud in the quiet of the early morning. As she rounded the corner, some of the others were already running, their faces grim as they sprinted toward the sounds of screams.

The cellblock was a mess of noise and violence. The air was thick with the sounds of groaning walkers, their once-human forms barely recognizable. Hallie's breath hitched in her throat when she saw what was happening. The walkers—they were their people. Family. Friends. Faces she had once known, now turned into monstrous husks, shuffling and biting in their eternal hunger.

A woman — Stephanie, ran past her, her eyes wild with panic. "My boy!" she cried out, her voice breaking. "I can't find my boy!" The desperation in her words made Hallie's stomach twist.

Without thinking, Hallie grabbed the woman's arm, her grip firm, and pushed her toward Rick, who was already trying to herd everyone to safety. "Go to Rick!" Hallie shouted, her voice cold but commanding. "He'll help you."

Stephanie nodded, her face streaked with tears, and Hallie didn't wait to see what happened next. She pushed forward, climbing the stairs quickly, the sound of footsteps behind her as others followed. She knew what she had to do. Kill or be killed. She had no time to waste.

She was fast, too fast for the walkers to catch up to her. She killed them one by one, each strike clean, efficient—there was no hesitation, no time for second thoughts. As she made her way down the corridor, she saw a young child—a boy, no older than four—cornered by a walker. The child's sobs echoed through the hall, loud and piercing, and Hallie's chest tightened.

The walker was taller than her, heavier, its grip tight around the child's ankle. Hallie moved quickly, pulling the walker away with all the strength she had. Her body collided with the floor, the force knocking the air out of her lungs. But she didn't stop. She fought through the pain, focusing on the child's cries, using all her energy to twist the walker off of him. With one sharp motion, she drove her knife through its skull, watching as the thing crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

The boy gasped, his small body trembling in fear, and Hallie scooped him up into her arms without a second thought. He was light, fragile in her grasp, his tiny hands clutching at her shirt for comfort. She hurried down the stairs, every step feeling like a mile as she ran toward safety.

When she reached the bottom, she handed the boy to Karen, who was waiting anxiously. Tyreese was right behind her, his eyes filled with concern as he took in the sight of the boy in her arms. Hallie stepped back, her hand running over her forehead, leaving a streak of blood across her skin. She didn't care. Not yet.

Her mind was already shifting back to the children—she needed to check them for bites, scratches, anything. She moved quickly, her hands checking each of them with practiced precision, thankful that they were all unharmed.

Outside, the noise of grief was suffocating. The air was thick with it—families torn apart, people screaming, and the crushing weight of loss hanging over them all. Hallie walked out of the cellblock, her eyes scanning the chaos. She could feel it, the heaviness of the grief washing over her, making the air thick and suffocating.

She didn't cry. She didn't even feel the grief the way others did. She was too tired for it, too numb from the weight of it all. Hallie wasn't religious. She had never been. Shane had never taken her to church as a kid, and when she was a teenager, Hallie only ever went to church if the Grimes family invited her. But she had seen the cross—fallen, abandoned—and something inside her shifted. Without thinking, she bent down, picking it up, placing it carefully back on its hook.

Her fingers lingered against the worn wood for a moment longer than she expected. There was something almost soothing about it, something grounding. When she finally pulled away, she left the cell behind, stepping out into the noise of the world they were trying to hold together.

————————

Hallie sat in the library, the council sat around her. Carol, Sasha, Daryl. Jeremy, Lee, Glenn, and Hershel. The air was thick with unease, like something heavy had draped itself across their shoulders.

"Patrick was fine yesterday, and he died overnight," Carol spoke, her voice laced with disbelief. "Two people died that quick? We'll have to separate everyone who's been exposed," she stated, more firmly this time, trying to anchor herself in action.

"That's the whole cell block. That's all of us... maybe more," Daryl said, his words softer than usual, like they might shatter if he spoke any louder.

"It's half the prison," Hallie stated, her elbows harshly dug into the table, her knuckles pale. The table creaked under her weight, but no one moved.

Hershel sighed. "We know that this sickness can be lethal. We don't know how easily it spreads." His words hung there, heavy, like fog. "Is anyone showing symptoms that we know of?" he asked, though he already feared the answer.

"It's spring," Lee chimed in, almost too quickly. "Allergies could be mistaken for symptoms."

"We can't just wait and see. There's children—" Carol's voice cracked, her composure slipping. "It isn't just the illness. When people die, they become a threat." Her hands trembled where they were clasped together in front of her, white-knuckled.

Hershel nodded grimly. "We need a place for them to go. They can't stay in the cell blocks."

Jeremy shifted in his seat. "D's already had the brunt of it," he muttered, shrugging one shoulder, his eyes flicking to Daryl.

Hallie shook her head. "Too close. Too open."

"Death row?" Glenn offered, hesitant. "I'm not sure that's much of an upgrade."

"It's clean," Hallie nodded. "That's an upgrade."

Daryl leaned forward slightly, hands on his knees. "Think that'll work for Dr. S?" he asked Hershel.

The older man nodded slowly. "I'll help Caleb get it set up."

"We need masks. Bandanas. Spare bras—" Hallie started, but her words were cut off as a harsh coughing echoed from outside the door. All movement stopped. Every head turned.

Without a word, the group stood. Chairs scraped against the floor, the tension snapping like overstretched wire. They moved quickly to the hallway, voices dropping as they approached Karen. Hallie stayed back, her eyes on the group, the way they clustered, the way fear pulsed beneath every glance.

Then she turned. Quietly, she broke away, slipping down the opposite hallway. Her footsteps echoed, uneven and fast, as she jogged through the dim corridors. Fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead, buzzing faintly.

She found herself in the supply room, the air stale with dust and disuse. Boxes were stacked high, some crumpled, half-crushed. She dragged one down, flipped it open, and began rifling through sweatshirts and old clothes. Her hands moved with purpose, but her jaw was tight, her breath quick.

She took out her knife and began slicing fabric into strips—long, rough, uneven. She tied two pieces together, made makeshift bands. Over and over. Hoodies, t-shirts, scraps of denim. Her fingers worked fast, trembling just slightly with each knot.

The pile grew, ragged but usable. She shoved the improvised masks into the now-empty box and pulled it close to her chest. Her arms wrapped around it tight.

The halls were quieter now, eerily so. Her boots thudded dully as she made her way down to death row. The silence wasn't calm—it was waiting.

And Hallie could feel it, the shift in the air, the weight of what was coming pressing closer with every step.