04 .ᐟ
lose me in the tides of your blue

           BEING STUCK ON A ROOFTOP, watching a horde of rotters claw at a tank while another tore apart a horse, wasn't on Selma's list of things to do today.

But here she was.

Like some forgotten mortal cast high upon a mountain, watching as the gods of this new world—the undead — waged their endless battle.

Below, the tank stood like an ancient temple under siege, its armor battered, its sanctity violated by the relentless claws of the rotten corpses. A horse, noble once, now lay torn apart like a sacrificial offering, its body ravaged by the devouring swarm, as though some dark deity demanded a tribute from the living.

The scene unfolded like a twisted myth, where the boundaries between gods and monsters blurred, and humanity was nothing more than a fleeting shadow, caught between the wrath of the divine and the hunger of the earth.

There, amid the chaos, Selma was the observer, as if fate had cast her into the role of a tragic muse, or maybe she was their next victim — an unwilling protagonist in a story she never signed up for. The world below unfolded like a dark epic, where each moment stretched into eternity, and every breath felt heavier than the last.

It all started when some idiot on a horse rode into the heart of downtown, guns blazing like he was auditioning for a Western. The noise had done its job : every single one of those walking corpses had turned toward the chaos like moths to a flame.

And now, thanks to Cowboy Genius, they were barricaded inside the building with no way out.

Not only had he condemned himself with his reckless heroism, but he had dragged them all into his mess.

Selma's boots scraped against the ladder as she climbed to the roof. "Glenn, do you even know where the hell all that noise came from? Andrea's losing her bloody mind down there, and I can't blame her. Rotters are everywhere."

"Yeah..." Glenn's voice was low and distracted, his eyes glued to the binoculars. The walkie-talkie dangled from his fingers, buzzing faintly with static. "Some cowboy's trapped down there. Stupid bastard."

"What are you even talking about?" Selma asked, stepping beside him. Her words caught in her throat when she looked over the edge and finally saw it.

A catastrophe.

"Holy fucking shit," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The street below was a macabre symphony of chaos and death. The horse was gone, just a pile of glistening guts and broken bones being pulled apart by gnarled hands. The walkers moved in a frenzy, teeth gnashing, blood dripping from their slack jaws. Their moans filled the air, guttural and hungry, a sound that clawed at her sanity.

By the tank, a smaller group of the undead still clawed and banged at the metal hatch, their filthy fingers leaving streaks of gore. 

The lone man who had drawn their attention was nowhere to be seen, but she knew he was there, inside the tank, probably praying to whatever god still cared to listen.

Death had taken over the street. It didn't just visit — no, it ruled, unchallenged.

Selma's stomach twisted as she watched. The sheer hopelessness of it all hit her like a punch to the gut.

This was the world now: a place where life was hunted, where survival was an illusion.

"What the hell are we supposed to do?" Selma muttered, her voice low and tight. She wasn't expecting an answer, not really, but the silence gnawed at her nerves.

Glenn didn't reply, too engrossed in what he was seeing through the binoculars. His knees jittered, hands fidgeting with the cap on his head. The calm he projected was anything but, and it made Selma's skin crawl. How could he just sit there? Didn't he feel the weight of it all, the crushing inevitability of what was happening below?

She snatched the binoculars from him, her fingers brushing his in a gesture that was more forceful than intended. Glenn barely reacted, his gaze flicking briefly to her before returning to the walkie-talkie in his lap.

Selma raised the lenses to her eyes, bringing the nightmare back into focus. 

Her stomach churned at the carnage. 

The tank was surrounded by geeks — Glenn's term for them, though she could think of far worse names. Most of the creatures had abandoned the metal beast, drawn instead to the mangled corpse of the horse. Blood glistened like black oil under the sun, pooling beneath the writhing mass of undead.

"Do you think he's still alive?" she asked, her voice cracking at the edges.

No answer.

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't press. 

The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered and unwanted. She adjusted the focus, scanning the street for any sign of life, but it was hopeless. 

All she saw was death.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Glenn's voice.

"Hello ? Anyone out there ?"

Selma's head snapped toward him, her blood running ice-cold.

"What the hell are you doing ?" she hissed, words carrying the sharp edge of a blade. 

She lunged for the walkie, but Glenn jerked it out of her reach, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Mate, are you out of your bloody mind ?" Selma's thick London accent cut through her panic, her voice rising as she waved the binoculars at him. "We don't know him! What if he's one of those bloody lunatics who gets us all killed ?"

Glenn raised his arms, shielding himself from her assault as best he could. "Selma, stop !" he shouted, grabbing her wrist mid-swing.

"He needs our help !"

"Glenn, we already have Merle dragging us down! We can't just take in some random stranger! What if he —"

"Geez, calm down, Sel," Glenn interrupted, adjusting his cap as he gave her a pleading look. "For all we know, he's already dead!"

Selma opened her mouth to argue, but the walkie crackled, silencing them both.

Static.

It dragged on for an unbearable moment, filling the rooftop with its eerie hum. And then:

"Hello ? Hello ?"

The voice was faint, laced with desperation.

Selma froze, her heart pounding in her chest as her eyes darted to Glenn.

The idiot wasn't dead. Not yet.

"Well, looks like the bloke made it out alive," Selma muttered, exhaling sharply as she rubbed her tired eyes.

Her voice carried no joy, just weary acceptance. This was another complication they didn't need.

Glenn, crouched beside her, grimaced but didn't say anything for a moment.

"There you are," he said finally, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Relief laced his tone, though he couldn't resist adding a hint of humor. "Had us wondering for a second there."

Selma rolled her eyes, shooting him a sideways glance. "Only you did," she whispered sharply, the edge in her voice clear.

Glenn ignored the jab, grin widening. He leaned over and jabbed her lightly in the stomach with his elbow.

Selma twisted away, swatting at him with a glare. "Knock it off," she snapped, though her heart wasn't in it.

Through the static, the man's voice broke the brief moment of levity. "Where are you? Are you outside? Can you see me right now?" His words were rushed, each one dragging ragged breaths behind it.

Selma stiffened, her attention snapping back to the walkie. His desperation was palpable, spilling through the crackling line.

"Yeah, we can see you," Glenn replied, his tone deceptively calm. His grip on the walkie was firm, knuckles pale. "You're surrounded by walkers. That's the bad news."

His words hung in the air, casual on the surface, but Selma didn't miss the tension in his shoulders. He was wound tight, like a coil ready to spring.

Selma grimaced, shaking her head.

"There's good news?" the man's voice asked, tinged with disbelief.

"Nope."

"Listen," the man said, "whoever you are, I don't mind telling you I'm a little concerned in here."

"Oh, man, you should see it from up here," Glenn replied, tone almost cheerful. "You'd be having a major freak-out."

The man sounded exasperated. "Got any advice for me?"

"Yeah, I'd say make a run for it."

"That's it? Make a run for it?"

"My way's not as dumb as it sounds," Glenn said, shifting slightly to get a better view of the street. "You've got eyes on the outside here. One geek's still up on the tank, but the rest? They're busy with the horse buffet. You with me so far?"

"So far."

Selma lowered the binoculars and pointed toward the other side of the tank. "Tell him the street over there is less crowded."

Glenn nodded and relayed the information. "The street on the other side of the tank is less crowded. If you move now while they're distracted, you stand a chance. Got ammo?"

"In that duffel bag I dropped out there. Guns too. Can I get to it?"

Selma shook her head firmly, still watching the street. "Not a chance," she muttered.

"Forget the bag, okay? It's not an option," Glenn said into the walkie. "What do you have on you?"

There was a pause, then the man's voice came back. "I've got a Beretta with one clip. Fifteen rounds."

"Make 'em count. Jump off the right side of the tank, head in that direction. There's an alley up the street, maybe fifty yards. Be there," Glenn instructed, already moving toward the ladder.

"Hey," the man called out. "What's your name?"

Selma grabbed the walkie-talkie as Glenn disappeared down the ladder. Her tone was brisk, no-nonsense. "Have you been listening, sir? You're running out of time."

"Right," the man replied, his voice steadier now.

Selma sighed and lowered the walkie. Her gaze flicked back to the street below, watching the chaos unfold. "This guy's either brave or completely stupid," she muttered to herself.

"Or both," she added quietly.

Selma raised her binoculars again, her breath hitching as she watched the chaos unfold below.

The man pushed the tank's top hatch open, only for a walker to lunge at him immediately. He swung a metal bar across its face, sending it reeling, before hauling himself out. He jumped off the tank, landing hard on his ankle. Selma winced. That's gonna hurt later.

He didn't waste any time, though. 

With quick, sharp movements, he sprinted up the street toward the alley Glenn had pointed out, shooting the closest walkers as he ran. The noise drew more of them, but he kept moving, weaving through the chaos with surprising agility.

Selma tracked him until he disappeared around a corner, veering left.

He must've met Glenn by now, she thought, lowering the binoculars.

She turned and headed for the ladder, positioning herself to wait.

It wasn't long before Glenn appeared first, climbing up and extending his hand to her. Selma took it, hoisting him onto the roof. Then came the man. 

She reached out to help him, and he grabbed her hand firmly, pulling himself up with a grunt.

"Thanks," he said, voice steady despite his labored breathing.

Selma's gaze met his, and her breath caught for a second. 

His face was dirtied and his hair disheveled, but his piercing blue eyes were unmistakable. He looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly.

No way.

Her eyes flicked to his uniform, then his badge.

King County.

Her heart skipped.

Oh, God.

Fuck.

Richard bloody Grimes.

He seemed to study her for a moment, as if trying to place her face. Did he recognize her? She couldn't tell, but the connection ( faint as it was ) felt like a tether pulling her back in time.

"Uh, thanks again," he said, breaking the silence.

Glenn cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "Right, yeah, are you bit ?" Selma asked, snapping back to herself. 

She started circling him like a vulture, hands on her hips, her sharp eyes scanning him from head to toe.

"No, no," Rick said quickly, raising his hands.

"Scratches? Anything?"

"No," he assured her. "I'm fine."

She offered him a small smile, the tension easing. "Alright."

Rick extended his hand, his expression softening. "Rick."

She looked at it for a second before shaking it, her grip hesitant. "As in Richard?"

Yes, Richard, you idiot, her inner voice sneered, sharp and biting. 

She knew his name all too well, the way it rolled off her tongue with ease, but she chose to play it dumb, pretending she didn't recognize him, pretending she didn't care.

He chuckled, a warm sound despite the circumstances. "Yeah, but I prefer Rick."

"Duly noted." She let go of his hand and gave him a faint smile. "Selma. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, I know," he said casually.

Her smile faltered as she frowned at him.

"You know?" she asked, her brown eyes narrowing with suspicion. If he recognized her, he didn't let it show. Not that he would — back then, they'd barely exchanged more than a handful of words.

They were practically strangers.

No, scratch that — they were strangers, plain and fucking simple.

Rick tilted his head slightly, gesturing toward her necklace. "Your necklace. It says Selma."

She glanced down, fingers brushing against the nameplate. "Oh," she mumbled, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "Right."

"Thanks again for helping me," he said again after a moment, tone sincere.

Selma shifted awkwardly, gaze dropping under the heaviness of the man's piercing blue eyes. They were sharp, probing, and so intense they seemed to see right through her. 

She wasn't used to this kind of scrutiny, and it left her unsettled.

"Um — yeah, sure, of course. No worries," she said, voice faltering like a shaky bridge over turbulent waters. Then, grasping for a way to deflect the tension, she added, "It was mostly Glenn anyway."

And it was the truth. 

Glenn had been the one who insisted on saving the guy, who risked everything to pull him out of that mess. Not her. Hell, she'd been the one hitting Glenn just minutes ago, calling him out for the reckless, stupid decision to play hero.

Because it was stupid, wasn't it ? 

They didn't know this man — didn't know who he was, what he wanted, or what he was capable of. For all they knew, he could be dangerous, a ticking time bomb waiting to unravel the fragile thread holding their group together. 

That was something no one seemed to grasp yet.

Selma bit the inside of her cheek, keeping the thoughts to herself. 

It wasn't her place to speak up. She wasn't the leader, and she didn't want to be. But if they kept taking in strangers, dragging outsiders back to camp, it would be their downfall. She knew it. She could feel it in her gut.

They were already stretched thin — supplies, space, tempers — all of it ready to snap. Back at the camp, they barely had enough to keep going as it was. One more person could be the tipping point.

"Right," Glenn cut in, voice breaking through her spiraling thoughts. "If you two are done, we should get moving. We've got to get back."

Selma glanced at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. 

Glenn was always like this — so quick to jump in, to act like everything was fine when it clearly wasn't.

Instead, she just nodded, her brown eyes flicking back to the man. His blue gaze was still on her, unreadable, making her stomach twist.

And without another word, the three of them headed toward the ladder.

"Are you guys the ones who barricaded the alley?" Rick asked, glancing back toward the path they'd taken.

"Somebody did," Glenn replied with a shrug, his hands working to pry open the hatch beneath them. "I guess when the city got overrun. Whoever it was must've figured not many geeks would get through."

Rick gave a short nod, watching Glenn work. 

But he wasn't done with his questions yet. "Back at the tank — why'd you stick your neck out for me?"

Glenn paused, leaning on the edge of the hatch as he looked at Rick. "Call it foolish, naïve hope that if I'm ever that far up shit creek, somebody might do the same for me. Guess I'm an even bigger dumbass than you."

Selma smirked from where she stood nearby, arms crossed. "I can confirm that," she teased lightly, accent giving the words a dry edge.

Rick couldn't help but huff a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

The tension between them eased, if only for a moment, as Glenn pulled the hatch open with a grunt.

"Come on," Glenn said, motioning for them to follow. 

He slipped through the opening first, his feet hitting the ground with practiced ease. Selma went next, lowering herself into the dimly lit building below. Rick followed last, pulling the hatch shut behind him.

The three moved quickly through the abandoned space, their footsteps muffled by the layers of dust and debris on the floor. Their eyes darted around, scanning every shadow, every corner for movement.

Glenn brought the walkie to his mouth as they reached the other side of the building, and Selma pulled her dagger from its sheath at her side. "We're back. Got a guest, plus four geeks in the alley," he whispered.

A low growl echoed outside the door, cutting through the silence like glass. 

Rick stiffened, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon.

The sound of boots on pavement came first, followed by two men in riot gear bursting out from the neighboring building. Armed with baseball bats, they charged at the walkers, striking them down with brutal efficiency.

"Let's go !" Glenn called, motioning to the open door as the riot gear duo finished off the last of the walkers.

"Morales, let's go !" T-Dog's voice came from somewhere behind them, urging everyone to move.

The men in riot gear didn't hesitate, sprinting back to the safety of their building. They slammed the door shut behind them, the heavy thud reverberating through the narrow alleyway.

Inside, the group took a moment to catch their breath. 

The faint groans of walkers echoed in the distance, but for now, they were safe.

"Close call," Selma muttered, brushing her hair back from her face. "Next time, maybe let's skip the scenic route?"

Glenn shot her a look, his lips twitching upward. "Noted."

They barely made it inside before Andrea shoved Rick back into a stack of boxes, the barrel of her gun pressing against his face. 

Her hand trembled, but her anger was steady.

"You son of a bitch. We ought to kill you," Andrea spat, voice sharp and raw.

"Just chill out, Andrea. Back off," Morales said, stepping forward with his hands raised, tone trying for calm but edged with urgency.

Selma pushed her way between them, determined to pry the barrel of the gun away from the officer's face. He remained unnervingly calm despite it, and her brow furrowed in frustration. "Put the gun down. We don't have time for this."

Jacqui, standing to the side, tried to help. "Come on, ease up."

"Ease up?" Andrea whipped her head toward Jacqui, incredulous. "You're kidding me, right? We're dead because of this stupid asshole!"

Selma's voice rose, cutting through the tension. "Andrea, I said back the bloody hell off."

Andrea didn't budge, the barrel of the gun shaking slightly as she kept it trained on Rick. He leaned back as far as he could, his hands in the air, but he didn't speak or make any sudden movements.

Morales let out an exasperated sigh. "Well, pull the trigger, then."

Andrea's grip faltered, her face crumpling as she stepped back, tears streaking her cheeks. "We're dead," she choked out, her voice breaking. "All of us. Because of you."

Selma took a step closer, voice softer now. "Don't be silly. It'll be alright."

Rick blinked, bewildered. "I don't understand."

Morales grabbed Rick by the arm, dragging him forward. "Look, we came into the city to scavenge supplies. You know what the key to scavenging is? Surviving. You know the key to surviving? Sneaking in and out, tiptoeing. Not shooting up the streets like it's the damn O.K. Corral."

"Every geek for miles heard you popping off rounds," T-Dog added, voice tight with frustration.

"You just rang the dinner bell," Andrea said bitterly, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Get the picture now?" Morales asked, his voice heavy with irritation as they reached the front of the building.

The plate glass windows stretched before them, and on the other side, walkers pressed and clawed, their guttural growls muffled but relentless. Behind them, more undead piled in, their weight straining against the glass.

Rick stared, stunned into silence.

"Bloody hell," Selma murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, God," Andrea said, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes widened in horror.

The walkers outside snarled and thrashed, the sound of their growling filling the air like a grim symphony.

The tension was thick, the kind that made every small sound feel amplified. The walkers outside were relentless, some even clutching rocks, banging them against the doors with unnatural persistence. 

Cracks began to spider across the glass, sending a chill through the group. The survivors instinctively backed away, pressing themselves deeper into the shadows.

Andrea, voice sharp, demanded, "What the hell were you doing out there anyway?"

Rick's response was calm but insistent. "Trying to flag the helicopter."

T-Dog scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Helicopter ? Man, that's crap. Ain't no damn helicopter."

Jacqui, always the realist, folded her arms. "You were chasing a hallucination. Imagining things. It happens."

Rick stood his ground, eyes hard. "I saw it."

"Richard," Selma's voice cut through, and his blue eyes shifted to meet hers. "It can't be. There's no military anymore. It's just hallucinations. When's the last time you had water? It could be dehydration."

Morales interjected, trying to shift focus. "Hey, T-Dog, try that C.B. Can you contact the others?"

Rick's expression flickered with a hint of hope. "Others? The refugee center?"

Jacqui snorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, the refugee center. They've got biscuits waiting in the oven for us."

Selma, crouched near the wall, glanced up with a smirk. "And tea too," she quipped, checking her revolver to ensure it was fully loaded. The dry humor was as much a defense mechanism as the gun in her hand.

T-Dog fiddled with the radio, shaking his head in frustration. "Got no signal. Maybe the roof."

A sudden gunshot rang out, jolting everyone.

Andrea's face went pale. "Oh no. Is that Dixon?"

Jacqui groaned, a mix of exasperation and fear. "What is that maniac doing now?"

Selma muttered, already moving toward the staircase. "The real question is why did he even come, anyway?"

Glenn, quick on his feet, motioned to the others. "Come on, let's go."

The group scrambled after Selma, the urgency pulling them together like a magnetic force. Each step up the stairwell felt heavier than the last, the echoes of chaos below only fueling their adrenaline.

The rooftop was a mess of chaos and tension, the heat shimmering off the concrete as the sound of gunfire echoed across the city.

Merle Dixon, perched with a scoped rifle, fired indiscriminately at the walkers below. Each shot cracked like thunder, drawing more of the undead to their location.

Inside, the group sprinted up the stairwell, Morales leading the charge. He burst onto the roof, out of breath but resolute.

"Hey, Dixon, are you crazy?" he yelled, his voice barely carrying over the sound of another shot.

Merle laughed, the kind of laugh that made your skin crawl — wild and unhinged. "Crazy? You're damn right I'm crazy!" He squeezed off another shot, grinning like a madman.

Andrea emerged next, stopping short as another shot rang out. "Oh, jeez," she muttered, eyes wide.

Merle turned, smirking as he jumped down from the low wall that ran around the rooftop. "Hey ! Y'all be more polite to a man with a gun, huh? It's only common sense !"

Selma desperately wanted to shove him off the roof, but instead, she crossed her arms, reminding herself that now wasn't the time to entertain murderous thoughts.

T-Dog stormed forward, his frustration palpable. "Man, you're wasting bullets we don't even have! And you're bringing more of those things down on us! Just chill!"

Merle ignored him, laughing again, louder this time, as if this was all some big joke. "Bad enough I've got this taco bender on my ass all day. Now you think I'm gonna take orders from you? Nah, bro. That'll be the day."

The nurse raised an eyebrow at his words, completely baffled. What the hell did he mean by that?

T-Dog stiffened, his jaw tightening. "'That'll be the day'? You got something you want to tell me?"

Morales stepped in, trying to diffuse the situation. "Hey, T-Dog, just leave it."

"No," T-Dog snapped, his voice steady but simmering with anger.

Morales raised his hands, his tone placating. "All right ? It ain't worth it. Now Merle, just relax, okay ? We've got enough trouble."

Rick had been watching from the side, his eyes darting between the two men. He turned to Glenn, who simply shook his head, silently urging him not to get involved.

Merle, ever the provocateur, took a step closer to T-Dog, his grin widening. "You wanna know the day?"

Selma, who had hung back near the stairwell, finally stepped forward. Her voice cut through the growing tension like a blade. "Enough, Merle."

Her accent, clipped and precise, made Merle pause for a moment. "We've got walkers down there, and you're up here playing at being a cowboy. You think bullets grow on trees, Dixon ? Or are you just trying to get us all killed?"

Merle's grin faltered, but only slightly. He turned to her, sizing her up. "Well, look at you, Nurse Ratched. Didn't know you had it in you."

The rooftop was chaos, a cacophony of shouting, the scrape of boots on concrete, and the ever-present threat of violence hanging in the air. Selma stood unfazed as Merle's insults rained down on her.

She stepped forward, her revolver still in hand, but angled downward — held with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Rick watched her for a moment, gaze lingering on the way she gripped the weapon. It wasn't like Andrea's careless hold; no, Selma handled it like a professional.

Her voice was steady, cold as ice, cutting through the chaos. "I have it in me to survive," she said, her eyes locked onto him with unwavering intensity. "That's more than I can say for you if you keep this up." She clicked the revolver, the sound unmistakable as she deliberately released the safety.

Merle chuckled darkly, his face twisting in disdain. Before he could spit another venomous remark, T-Dog chimed in, shaking his head. "He won't listen, like always."

And then Merle's voice rose even more, his usual venom boiling over. "I'll tell you the day, Mr. 'YO.' It's the day I take orders from — "

Before the vile word could leave his lips, Selma snapped, her composure cracking. "Racist prat— " she started, already surging forward, but Glenn grabbed her arm, holding her back.

"Mother —" T-Dog growled, lunging for Merle himself.

The fight erupted in an instant. 

T-Dog threw a punch, but Merle blocked it with ease, countering with a jab to T-Dog's ribs.

"Hey, come on, Merle, that's enough!" Morales shouted, trying to wedge himself between them.

Andrea's voice rang out, sharp and desperate. "Dixon!"

The scene devolved into an all-out brawl. 

Rick jumped over a nearby pipe to intervene, but Merle clocked him with a hard left, sending him sprawling backward. Selma, torn between rushing to Rick and staying out of Merle's reach, darted toward him as he landed hard on the ground.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice tight with concern, but Rick waved her off, his focus already shifting back to the fight.

Merle's fists rained down on T-Dog, who struggled to block the blows. A particularly brutal punch slammed T-Dog's head into a pipe, the sickening thud making Selma wince.

"Stop it!" Jacqui shouted.

"Dixon, get off him!" Andrea's plea went unheard.

T-Dog fell to the ground, his body limp against the metal. Merle climbed on top of him, continuing the beating. Morales tried to pull him off, but Merle shoved him away with a snarl.

Finally, Merle pulled his revolver, cocking it with deliberate menace. He pointed it at T-Dog's face.

"No, no, no!" Andrea's voice broke with panic. "Please, stop!"

"You're going to get him killed, stop!" Selma snapped, stepping forward to shove him away, but Merle swatted her arm aside with a forceful gesture.

T-Dog whimpered beneath him, blood dripping from his mouth. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a dark omen over the scene. Merle spat on T-Dog's chest, rubbing it in with a twisted smirk.

"Yeah! All right!" Merle barked, standing up with the gun still trained on T-Dog. "We're gonna have ourselves a little powwow, huh? Talk about who's in charge. I vote me. Anybody else? Democracy time, y'all. Show of hands, huh? Let's see 'em."

Selma knelt beside T-Dog, her hand cradling his head gently. "Let me have a look, love," she whispered, her voice tender despite the tension.

Jacqui and Glenn helped steady T-Dog as he coughed weakly. Morales and Andrea exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what to do.

Morales lifted his hand hesitantly.

Andrea turned on him, incredulous. "Oh, come on."

Merle chuckled, a cruel sound. "All in favor ? Yeah, that's good," he sneered.

Jacqui raised her hand but made sure her middle finger was the one pointed. Glenn followed reluctantly. Andrea sighed and raised hers last.

Selma, however, didn't move. Her expression darkened as she glared at Merle, then she spat on his boots.

The laughter died in Merle's throat. "Really?" he said, voice low and dangerous. He started toward her, brushing Morales aside when he tried to intervene.

The nurse stayed still, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of flinching. But Merle was on her in an instant, yanking her back by her arm. His rough hand grabbed her face, squeezing her jaw harshly as he forced her to look at him.

"You gonna do that again, bitch? Huh? You fucking terrorist."

The words flew out of his mouth, and though it wasn't the first time he'd said them, each time he did, it cut deeper.

It wasn't that Selma was ashamed of her father's origins, but she had hoped, maybe foolishly, that in the chaos of the apocalypse, race would become irrelevant. That people would have more pressing concerns than old prejudices. But Merle proved her wrong.

The way he treated T-Dog, Morales, her, and Glenn — it was as if the world could burn, and they would still be trapped in the same narrow, hateful mindset.

Because even when cannibals were at their doorstep, they couldn't escape the cruelty of people like him.

"Merle!" Glenn shouted, stepping forward.

"That's enough!" Andrea's voice joined the chorus of protests, but Merle ignored them all.

He let go of Selma with a violent shove. She stumbled but was quickly caught by Jacqui, who steadied her. Selma's face was flushed, her breath ragged, but her glare never wavered.

"Now," Merle announced, standing tall and puffing out his chest, "that means I'm the boss, right? Yeah. Anybody else ? Huh ? Anybody ? "

His triumphant smirk froze at the sound of a voice behind him, steady and resolute.

"Yeah," Rick said, stepping forward.

Merle's eyes darted around, calculating, but before he could make a move, Rick swung the butt of his rifle, striking Merle hard in the jaw.

The force sent him to the ground with a heavy thud, stunned but far from out. Rick didn't waste a second. He grabbed Merle by his shirt, pulling him up roughly, and shoved him toward the nearest pipe.

With practiced efficiency, the sheriff slapped the handcuffs onto Merle's wrist and secured him to the rusted pipe.

Merle grunted, trying to regain his bearings. "Who the hell are you, man?" he spat, his voice still thick with anger.

Rick got right in his face, not an inch of hesitation in his posture. "Officer Friendly," he muttered flatly.

Merle's face twisted with disbelief and defiance. "Go to hell."

Rick didn't flinch.

He reached around, yanked Merle's gun from his holster, and swiftly removed the clip, his gaze never leaving Merle. "Look here, Merle," he began coldly, his southern drawl thick in each word. "Things are different now. No more racial insults. No more dumb-as-shit, inbred white-trash talk. There's only dark meat and white meat. There's us and the dead. We survive this by pulling together, not apart."

Damn right, Selma thought, rubbing her jaw, still tender from where he'd gripped her. The pain was nothing compared to the memory of his hands on her.

Merle scoffed. "Screw you, man."

Rick's gaze hardened. "I can see you make a habit of missing the point."

Merle sneered. "Yeah? Well screw you twice."

The sound of the gun cocking echoed through the tense air.

Rick raised the gun, pointing it directly at Merle's temple. "Ought to be polite to a man with a gun. Only common sense."

Merle scoffed again, as if daring Rick to pull the trigger. "You wouldn't. You're a cop."

Rick's expression didn't change. Slowly, he lowered the gun, the weight of his words heavy. "All I am anymore is a man looking for his wife and son. Anybody that gets in the way of that is gonna lose." He paused, letting that sink in. "I'll give you a moment to think about that."

Searching for his family ? Selma's instinct was to scoff, but she bit back the bitter remark forming in her throat. Good luck with that, she thought dryly, her gaze drifting down to his hand. There it was : a wedding ring, a small glimmer of hope he still clung to in this godforsaken world.

As Rick stepped back, his eyes caught something on Merle's face. 

His hands went to Merle's pockets, patting him down. His fingers brushed against a small bag of white powder. Rick's eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, looking at Merle with a knowing expression. "Got some on your nose there," he said, flicking the tip of Merle's nose with his finger for emphasis.

Merle's cocky grin faltered. "What are you gonna do? Arrest me?" he chuckled bitterly.

Rick didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he walked to the side of the building and tossed the packet of powder high into the air, sending it sailing off the edge. "There, it's gone. Forget about it," Rick said, voice void of sympathy.

Merle's face turned red with rage. "Hey! What are you doing? Man, that was my stuff! Hey!" His voice cracked with desperation.

Rick's expression was unchanging as he walked back to Merle, eyes cold. "You should've thought about that before you started running your mouth."

Merle's voice broke into a desperate yell. "If I get loose, you'd better pray — yeah, you hear me, you pig?! You hear me?!"

Rick stood still, gaze unwavering. "Yeah, your voice carries," he replied, deadpan.

Merle's anger flared even more, his words growing more venomous. "Do you hear me, you filthy pig ?!"

Rick ignored him and turned, flexing his hand in pain, the tension from the confrontation still running through his fingers. He was stopped when Morales, having watched the exchange from a distance, stepped up beside him.

"You're not Atlanta P.D. Where you from?" Morales asked, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Rick gave a brief, distant glance toward the city beyond. "Up the road a ways," he answered quietly.

Selma stood by the railing, her stance casual but her eyes sharp. 

She glanced sideways at Rick, her gaze lingering for a moment before she pulled a cigarette from her pocket, the smooth paper between her fingers a momentary distraction from the chaos around them.

She lit it with a flick of her lighter, the glow briefly illuminating her face in the dim light. She took a long drag, letting the smoke curl out of her mouth slowly as she exhaled. Her eyes met Rick's for just a second.

Morales, leaning over the edge, broke the silence with a dry chuckle. "Well, Officer Friendly, from up the road a ways, welcome to the big city," he said, his voice a little louder than usual as he surveyed the street below.

Selma's lips curled into a bitter smile as she pushed the smoke out of her mouth. "More like welcome to hell," she muttered under her breath.

The moans of walkers below grew louder, echoing up to the rooftop. The distant shuffle of feet and the heavy silence of the city was almost suffocating.

Rick, standing a little ways off, squinted at the street below, his eyes tracking the movement of the walkers. His jaw tightened. "God," Andrea whispered, her voice heavy with disbelief, "it's like Times Square down there."

Morales shrugged, glancing back at T-Dog, who was hunched over the radio. "How's that signal?" Morales asked, his voice laced with the barest hint of impatience.

T-Dog didn't look up, his hands still twisting the knobs, but his words were laced with sarcasm. "Like Dixon's brain — weak," he said, barely able to mask the amusement in his voice.

Dixon, who had been standing a few feet away, flipped T-Dog the finger, his face scrunched in annoyance.

Morales, unfazed, nodded. "Keep trying."

Andrea, her frustration evident, threw up her hands and stormed away, glancing back briefly at Rick. "Why?" she snapped, her voice filled with bitterness. "There's nothing they can do. Not a damn thing."

Selma took another long drag from her cigarette, watching Andrea walk off in irritation. She flicked the ash off the end of the cigarette, speaking softly but pointedly. "She's right, you know."

Rick, turning to her, met her gaze for a moment before responding. "Then she's right. We're on our own. It's up to us to find a way out."

Morales nodded, a cynical look in his eyes as he leaned on the railing, scanning the horizon. "Got some people outside the city, is all," he muttered, the hopelessness in his voice nearly palpable. "There's no refugee center. That's a pipe dream."

Selma took another drag, letting the smoke linger in her lungs for just a moment longer. The weight of those words settled over her, just like the city that lay below them — quiet, dangerous, and unforgiving. They were all alone, just like Rick said, and the thought made her heart sink.

"We'll find a way," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. "But it's not gonna be easy."

They all knew that much.

Selma blew the smoke out slowly, her eyes narrowing as she observed the situation. She looked sideways at Rick, her gaze meeting his briefly again before she returned to the others, her posture tense.

"Good luck with that," Dixon muttered with a smirk, still chained. He was clearly enjoying the chaos, even as the group tried to plan their next move. "These streets ain't safe in this part of town from what I hear."

He turned to Andrea, giving her a lecherous grin. "Ain't that right, sugar tits? Hey, Honeybunch, what say you get me out of these cuffs; we go off somewhere and bump some uglies? Gonna die anyway."

Andrea's response was quick and sharp. "I'd rather."

Dixon snorted, his grin widening. "Rug muncher. I figured as much."

Selma couldn't help the roll of her eyes, her patience wearing thin. She wasn't one to get easily riled up, but Dixon's constant comments were starting to push her limits. "This guy never shuts up, does he?" she muttered under her breath to no one in particular, taking another drag from her cigarette, her fingers twitching slightly with irritation.

Morales, watching the exchange, shook his head in exasperation. "'The streets ain't safe.' Now there's an understatement," he said as he looked out over the street, a hint of bitterness creeping into his words.

Rick, sensing the rising tension, tried to shift the focus of the conversation. "What about under the streets? The sewers?" he suggested, his voice sharp with urgency.

Morales paused, then nodded. "Yeah, good idea. Glenn, check the alley. You see any manhole covers?"

Glenn, already moving into the alley, scanned the area. "No, must be all out on the street where the geeks are."

Jacqui, who had been quietly observing, chimed in. "Maybe not. Old building like this, built in the twenties. Big structures often had drainage tunneled into the sewers in case of flooding down in the subbasements."

Glenn looked over at her, raising an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"

Jacqui shrugged nonchalantly. "It's my job — was. I worked in the city zoning office."

Rick's eyes flicked toward Selma, as if expecting her to chime in. Selma exhaled another cloud of smoke, her lips twisting into a slight, knowing smile. "If there's a way out, we need to take it. The longer we stand here, the more we risk getting stuck with no options."

She flicked the cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it under her boot. "I'm with Jacqui. This place was built to last, and if there's a way out, we might just find it down there." Her voice was firm, as if already resigned to the fact that whatever plan they came up with, it wasn't going to be easy.

Rick nodded, a faint appreciation in his eyes. "Alright, Glenn, go check it out. We need to know if there's any way to get to the sewers. The alternative is staying here and hoping the walkers just forget about us."

Glenn gave a quick, determined nod and moved further into the alley, disappearing behind the corner. The group remained tense, waiting for any sign of whether the sewers were their ticket out or just another dead end.

Selma glanced back at Dixon, who was still making lewd comments, and let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. "I swear, if we survive this, it's gonna be a miracle."

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The eerie growls of the walkers pressed against the plate glass doors echoed through the salesroom as Rick and Selma worked in tandem.

Their movements were purposeful, swift, but tinged with the underlying tension of the grotesque audience on the other side of the glass. The walkers' clawing was relentless, their hunger palpable.

Selma's lips curled in distaste as she glanced at the creatures once more, their frenzied movements resembling ants swarming over a crumb.

The sight filled her with unease, but she quickly turned her attention back to the racks of clothing, sifting through them with focused efficiency.

She grabbed a handful of t-shirts and shorts, muttering, "Right, we need some clothes — t-shirts mostly. Grab anything you think is useful."

Her hand hesitated as it brushed against a pink t-shirt. She pulled it out, staring at it for a moment longer than she intended before placing it on the counter with the others.

It was hard to avoid small flashes of the life they'd all left behind — the kind of life that included brightly colored t-shirts and a world where walkers didn't exist. To think it was only months ago, and now... now the world had crumbled into chaos.

Rick, scanning through another rack, nodded at her suggestion. Occasionally, he grabbed an item and added it to the growing pile. His expression was thoughtful, brow furrowing. "You don't sound like you're from around here," he said, tone casual, though his curiosity was evident.

It was obvious he was attempting to strike up a conversation.

Selma paused mid-motion, smirking faintly as she raised an eyebrow at him.

She tugged her jacket tighter around her shoulders. "What gave it away? The accent?" she asked, voice laced with dry humor. Her British accent, distinctly London, was impossible to miss.

Rick allowed himself a small smile. "That, and the way you carry yourself. Not your average ER nurse."

Her amusement gave way to confusion. "How do you know I'm a nurse?"

"Glenn mentioned it in passing," Rick admitted.

Of course, he would. Leave it to Glenn.

Selma arched an eyebrow, her lips quirking upward. "Really ? And what do you know about ER nurses?"

Rick leaned lightly against a nearby shelf, a hint of a grin on his face. "Enough to know they don't usually handle guns like that — or stay this calm when surrounded by a herd of walkers."

Selma's smirk deepened, but her eyes betrayed a hint of guardedness. "So, what's your story?" Rick pressed.

She hesitated, as if debating how much to reveal, before responding in a measured tone. "Was here on an exchange program. ER nurse before all this, but I trained as a military nurse first." Her gaze flickered briefly to the walkers, then back to Rick. "Guess those skills are coming in handy now."

Rick nodded, visibly impressed. "It shows."

Her chuckle was low and dry. "Figured as much. Can't say I ever imagined patching people up in the middle of the apocalypse, though."

Rick straightened, his tone warm but firm. "Glad to have you with us."

"Don't thank me yet," she said with a half-smile, pulling her revolver from its holster and checking the chamber. The smirk quickly faded, replaced by a sharp, determined look. "We're not out of this bloody mess."

Rick hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on her before he spoke, voice quieter now. "Are you alright?"

"Huh?" She turned to him, her ponytail swishing with the movement.

"Your jaw," he clarified, nodding toward the spot where Merle had gripped her. "I mean... are you okay?"

She paused, then offered a faint, reassuring smile. "You don't have to apologize for him. It wasn't your fault." Her voice was soft, almost soothing, but the steel in her eyes remained.

Rick looked down, nodding slowly, his hand instinctively going to his jaw, clenching it as if trying to push the weight of everything away.

The sound of walkers grew louder, their moans rising in a terrifying chorus. Their relentless clawing at the glass quickened, a maddening rhythm. Rick's attention snapped back to the doors, watching as the glass started to give under the constant pressure. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing.

"You think that glass is gonna hold?" Selma asked, stepping closer, her voice dropping into a quieter, more serious register.

She stared at the walker gripping the rock, its dead eyes hollow, its only purpose to break through and feast. It was no longer human, just a mindless creature driven by an insatiable hunger. The only thing that mattered to it was fresh meat, and it would stop at nothing to get it.

Rick's expression was grim. "Not for long." He glanced toward the alley, his eyes scanning for any sign of Glenn and Morales. "We need that sewer route."

Selma's grip on her revolver tightened, her jaw setting. "Let's hope they find it before we're lunch."

She turned back to the counter, her hands moving with a practiced rhythm, folding the clothes and stuffing them into bags with a quiet, methodical precision.

"You know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I didn't want to save you at first. I thought it was stupid." She paused, her hands still for a moment before she turned to face him, catching his gaze. "And dangerous." Her eyes locked with his, and for a heartbeat, everything felt suspended in time. Then, with a sigh, she added, "But Glenn insisted."

The officer leaned against the counter, his hands resting casually on his utility belt. 

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he met her eyes, southern drawl slipping effortlessly into his words. "Do ya' regret it?"

The nurse smiled shyly, but she didn't falter in her task. "Not for a second." It was a simple answer, but there was something in her tone — quiet and certain — as though she knew something he didn't, something that made all the danger and doubt worth it.

Rick watched her for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly.

There was something about her, like a vague familiarity that nagged at the edge of his mind. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, tone probing but not accusatory.

Selma didn't freeze, didn't falter in her movements, but there was a moment's hesitation before she responded. Her eyes stayed focused on the task at hand, her posture carefully neutral. 

She didn't want to lie, but the truth — that she had known him briefly, as her last "normal" patient before the world fell apart — felt too strange to admit.

She turned to him slowly, the groaning of the walkers still filling the air like an oppressive soundtrack. Just as she opened her mouth to respond, Andrea entered the room.

"Did you guys take clothes?" she asked, stepping into the room where Selma and Rick were sorting through a pile of garments. The blonde woman's face was a mix of exhaustion and wary determination, her hands resting on her hips as she surveyed the scene.

Selma, her focus still on folding a t-shirt, raised her head and smirked faintly. "Yes, darling," she quipped, holding up a bag of neatly folded clothes. British accent carried a wry edge. "Here. Fashion essentials for the end of the world." She tossed the bag lightly onto the counter.

Andrea caught the humor in her tone and gave a small nod, glancing briefly at Rick. Her expression shifted slightly, guilt flickering across her face. "Sorry about the gun in your face earlier," she said, her voice quieter now, almost apologetic.

Rick adjusted his stance, hooking his thumbs into his belt. His face was calm, though his eyes were sharp and watchful. "People do things when they're afraid," he replied simply, the weight of his own recent fears coloring his words.

Andrea tilted her head, her arms crossing defensively. "Not that it was entirely unjustified," she shot back. "You did get us into this mess."

"If I get us out," Rick countered, his tone firm but not unkind, "would that make up for it?"

Andrea gave him a measured look, her lips curling into a faint, almost reluctant smile. "No, but it'd be a start."

Rick's eyes softened slightly, though his posture remained steady. "Next time, though," he said, his voice taking on a slight edge of authority, "take the safety off. It won't shoot otherwise."

Andrea blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Oh."

Rick gestured toward her weapon. "Is that your gun?"

Andrea hesitated, her hand instinctively brushing against the firearm. "It was a gift. Why?"

Rick held out his hand. "Mind if I take a look?"

After a moment's pause, Andrea handed it over. Rick examined the gun with the practiced ease of someone who had handled weapons for years. He adjusted a small lever on the side and held it up. "See this little red dot? Means it's ready to fire. You may have occasion to use it."

Andrea nodded, her expression thoughtful as she took the gun back. "Good to know," she murmured, tucking it into her waistband. Her gaze drifted to a nearby display case, where a delicate mermaid-shaped pendant hung from a silver chain.

Selma caught the shift in Andrea's focus and quirked an eyebrow, her hands still deftly folding clothes. "That's a nice one," she commented casually. "Bit whimsical, but it's pretty."

Andrea chuckled faintly, her fingers brushing over the pendant. "Not for me," she said softly, her voice tinged with a bittersweet edge. "But I know someone who'd love it. My sister. She's still such a kid in some ways. Unicorns, dragons — she's into all that. But mermaids? They rule."

Rick moved closer, leaning slightly against the counter. His gaze softened as he watched Andrea. "Why not take it?"

Andrea hesitated, her fingers hovering over the necklace. "There's a cop staring at me," she said dryly, throwing a quick glance at Rick.

Rick chuckled, a rare hint of warmth breaking through the tension. "I don't think those rules apply anymore. Do you?"

The blonde woman smirked, pocketing the necklace with a small nod. "Guess not."

Selma observed the exchange from the corner of her eye. She didn't comment, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

It almost felt normal — like a brief glimpse of humanity amidst the chaos.

The moment shattered as the sound of glass breaking filled the room. The walkers had managed to claw through enough of the outer doors to reach the inner layer. Their grotesque hands stretched through the gaps, their growls rising to a fever pitch.

Rick's face hardened instantly. "They're through," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the noise.

Andrea immediately drew her gun, stepping back into position, her earlier hesitation replaced by grim resolve. Selma followed suit, gripping her revolver tightly. Her movements were precise, expression calm, but her eyes burned with quiet determination.

"We're running out of time," Selma muttered, her voice low but steady as she positioned herself near Rick. "What's the plan?"

Before Rick could answer, Morales, Jacqui, and Glenn came running into the room, their faces drawn and tense.

"What did you find down there?" Rick asked Morales, his gaze flicking briefly to the group before returning to the walkers.

"Not a way out," Morales replied, breathing heavily.

Andrea's voice rose above the chaos, sharp and urgent. "We need to find a way... and soon."

Selma's jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening around the grip of her revolver. She glanced at Rick, her tone laced with both determination and dry humor. "No pressure, then."

Despite the tension, Rick almost smiled, his focus shifting back to the walkers. The pressure was mounting, and time was running out.

But for now, they stood together, ready to face whatever came next.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Long story short, they barely made it out alive.

It had taken everything. Every ounce of willpower, every shred of sanity, to pull it off.

They had to come up with a plan, and of course, Rick had one. It was the only option: take a truck. But to get there, they'd have to walk straight through a sea of walkers. And for that, they had to make sure they didn't smell like fresh meat.

So, in a grotesque twist of necessity, Glenn and Rick volunteered for the unthinkable. They took a walker's body, dragged it inside, and began the gruesome task of tearing it open. They ripped out its insides ( its organs, its blood, everything ) using the filth of death to mask their scent. It was the most revolting thing Selma had ever witnessed, the stench so foul it felt like it was suffocating her. The sound of the body being shredded, of viscera spilling across the floor, made her stomach turn, but there was no other choice.

Wayne Dunlap was his name.

With the smell of decay now clinging to them, Glenn and Rick walked among the undead, blending into the chaos. From the rooftop, the rest of the group watched in silence, hearts hammering in their chests. It was a slow, agonizing crawl toward survival. Selma's eyes were fixed on the scene below, her hands fidgeting, nails digging into her palms as she passed the binoculars back and forth, unable to tear her gaze away. 

Every step Rick and Glenn took was a gamble — each moment a breath held, a prayer sent out.

Merle, still tied up and ranting to himself, was the only sound that broke the stillness. His voice, though loud, was nothing more than a background hum, ignored by the group. They were too consumed with the pressing danger around them, too focused on surviving to care about Merle's incessant chatter.

But Glenn and Rick made it.

Despite the rain, despite the harrowing seconds where it felt like the walkers were just about to rip them apart, they made it. It was a close call — each step forward a fight against the endless tide of the undead, each breath one more prayer whispered into the chaos. But they got the truck. And Glenn, ever resourceful, took another stolen car, using the sound to draw the walkers away, creating just enough of a diversion for Rick to make it to the rendezvous point.

And then, finally, they got the hell out of the city.

But freedom, as always, came with a price.

Merle was left behind. The key to the truck had slipped from T-Dog's hands, and in that moment, there was no choice but to leave him. It wasn't a decision made lightly, but it was the only one they had.

Nobody would mourn Merle's absence — not really.

Still, Selma couldn't shake the gnawing feeling of guilt that tightened in her chest. She didn't know the man, and truth be told, she hadn't liked him.

But for Daryl, his brother, it was a wound that would never heal.

Now, they were all inside the truck. 

Rick at the wheel, Selma beside him, her eyes darting between the road and the map, giving directions as if they could somehow outrun the nightmare. The others were slumped in the back, most of them asleep, some just staring blankly out the windows, lost in the silence, glad to be alive.

Glenn, though, had probably already reached the camp. She could tell by the speed he was driving the stolen car, the roar of the engine piercing the air, the sound careening through the streets like a beacon. She worried the noise would draw the walkers. But they couldn't stop now. Not with the camp so close. Not when they had to get away.

The sheriff at the wheel beside her was churning a finger at his mouth, deep in thought, the other hand on there wheel. She turned her neck toward him, and assessed him.

Sweat slicked his skin, the adrenaline of a near escape still coursing through him. Dark curls clung to his forehead, framing a strong jawline and freshly shaved face. The sheriff's uniform, damp and wrinkled, clung to his frame with an air of unintentional authority. His slightly arched nose lent a subtle refinement to his otherwise rugged features, but it was his eyes that held you captive.

They were blue.

Not just any blue, but the kind that stretched across the sky before a storm : profound, restless, and commanding, yet somehow calming in their intensity.

He was undeniably handsome, there was no doubt about it. But he was also a married man, a thought that flickered through Selma's mind as her gaze drifted to his hand on the wheel. The ring, glinting subtly in the sunlight, was a quiet reminder of the life he was fighting to return to. A man in search of his family, in search of something more than this chaos.

Selma didn't even know what they looked like.

Sure, she'd seen his son once or twice ( fleeting glimpses ) but nothing more than shadows in the distance. And she'd heard whispers about his wife, gossip that circulated like a slow, steady current, but never anything solid. She never saw the face of the woman who held his heart.

All she knew was the sheriff, and even he felt like a stranger to her.

Yes, a stranger.

Because he had never really noticed her.

Or, if he did, he never made the effort to show it. 

She was just another face in the crowd, easily overlooked, easily forgotten. Her only defining feature was likely her dark red hair, and even that didn't feel like enough to leave a lasting impression. So why would he remember her?

The truck was mostly silent on the ride back to the camp. Selma sat in the passenger seat, her fingers busy with dirt under her nails, anything to keep herself from spiraling into her thoughts. She knew she should've felt relief at having survived, at being on her way back to relative safety. But dread curled in her stomach, a feeling she was sure no one else in the truck shared.

It wasn't the camp itself she dreaded — she didn't hate it, not really. But she hadn't delivered. Of the long list of supplies the group had desperately needed, all she'd managed to scrounge up were some clothes. No hygiene products, no treats to lift the children's spirits, and, most damningly, no medication.

Medication wasn't just important in the apocalypse : it was vital. 

Every scrape or cut could mean infection, every untreated fever could spell death. Antibiotics were worth more than gold, painkillers more precious than bullets. A single dose could mean the difference between life and loss. Without medication, the smallest injury or illness became a death sentence. It wasn't just about survival; it was about hope — hope that if something went wrong, they'd have a fighting chance.

And Selma had come back empty-handed.

She spotted the familiar dirt path leading up to the quarry, the makeshift camp hidden behind a veil of trees and rocky terrain. As they climbed the incline, Selma shifted in her seat, trying to ease the ache in her back and the soreness from sitting so long.

At the top, the sight of Glenn's bright red stolen sports car came into view, parked haphazardly near the cluster of tents and RVs. Families were already gathered near the edge, waiting with eager faces for their loved ones to return. The relief in their body language, the way they leaned forward, straining to catch sight of anyone stepping out of the truck — it was all too much.

Selma felt a pang of discomfort, embarrassment blooming hot in her chest. Scenes like this only reminded her how out of place she was, how little she mattered in the grand scheme of things. If she'd been the one left behind or, worse, if she'd died, she doubted anyone would be standing there waiting for her now.

Maybe Glenn would care. Maybe Jenna, too. 

But even then, Selma couldn't shake the feeling that her worth here began and ended with her role as the camp's nurse. She wasn't a sister, a mother, a best friend — she was just...useful.

And being useful didn't feel like enough.

Selma sighed, her shoulders slumping as the sound of people piling out of the truck filled the air.

Outside, joyful cries and frantic footsteps broke the camp's usual quiet. She could distinctly hear Andrea calling out for Amy, followed by the sound of their tearful embrace.

Still, the deputy sheriff remained in his seat, his hand dragging tiredly down his face. The weariness was etched into every line of his expression, like the weight of the entire world had found a home on his shoulders.

"I hate these reunions," Selma said, her voice low, almost a whisper. "Always makes me feel... out of place, you know?"

Rick dropped his hand into his lap, his blue eyes turning to her as he slowly tilted his head. "Don't you have any family left?" he asked.

Selma sighed again, leaning back against the seat. "Not really. None that I know of," she admitted. "My family's scattered — most of them are in England, and the ones I know of are in L.A. And, well..." Her voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. She closed her eyes, listening to the joyful chaos outside. "I hoped the refugee center in Atlanta would give me something — a name, a lead, maybe even a chance to join them. Fly out there somehow. I don't know. Silly, isn't it?" She let out a bitter chuckle.

"It's not," Rick replied, his voice steady and serious. 

His gaze lingered on her, and when she opened her eyes, she found him watching her with an intensity that caught her off guard.

Clearing her throat, she averted her gaze. "When Atlanta got bombed to bits, I knew there wasn't going to be a way out," she added softly.

Rick nodded, his jaw tightening as he gazed out the window, his thoughts clearly miles away. "Doesn't mean you stop hoping," he said finally, voice low, almost as if the words were meant more for himself than for her.

Selma studied him for a moment, the faint lines of strain around his eyes, the way his fingers curled tightly against his lap. She knew, without needing to ask, that he wasn't just talking about hope in the abstract. He was talking about them — his family. 

The wife and son he believed were still out there somewhere, waiting to be found, waiting for him.

And for a small second, she envied that hope, even as she wondered how long it could sustain him in a world like this.

Selma hesitated, then shifted slightly in her seat, her voice softer now. "Hope's a dangerous thing out here, though," she said, looking out the windshield at the reunited families. "It keeps you moving, sure, but... it can break you just as fast."

Rick turned his head, his blue eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her feel like he could see right through her. "Hope's all we've got," he said firmly. "Without it, what's the point of any of this?"

She opened her mouth to respond but faltered, her thoughts catching on the unspoken truth in his words. Instead, she exhaled a quiet laugh and shook her head. "You're more optimistic than I thought, Sheriff."

He smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not optimism. Just survival."

Selma leaned back in her seat, letting his words sink in. "I guess survival's all any of us can aim for."

"Survival, and the people we're fighting for," Rick added, his gaze drifting back out the window.

Selma's lips tightened at that. "Not everyone has someone to fight for," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sounds of laughter and chatter outside.

Rick glanced back at her, his expression softening. "Then maybe you fight for yourself. For whatever it is that keeps you going."

She didn't reply immediately, her mind wandering to the faces she used to know, to the family she lost contact with, to the small moments that felt like a lifetime ago. Finally, she nodded, a quiet acknowledgment that his words carried more truth than she was ready to admit.

"You know," she said after a beat, "you're not what I expected."

Rick raised an eyebrow. "What'd you expect?"

"More... I don't know. Lawman swagger. Less introspection." She gave him a half-smile.

He chuckled, low and brief, then shook his head. "Guess the end of the world has a way of humbling a man."

Selma smiled faintly, leaning back against her seat as the weight of his words hung between them. The noises of the camp drifted through the cracked window — laughter, hurried footsteps, voices calling out in relief. It was the sound of survival, of people clinging to hope despite everything.

She glanced at him, noticing the way he stared out the windshield, his thoughts clearly somewhere far away. His profile was etched in the golden light, the sun catching on the lines of exhaustion carved into his face.

"I hope you find your family, Rick," she said quietly, the words sincere.

He turned to look at her again, blue eyes meeting hers with a mixture of gratitude and determination. "Thanks," he said, voice steady. "And yours too, Selma. I mean that."

She gave a small laugh, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm not holding my breath," she admitted. "But... thank you."

Before the moment could linger, Morales' voice boomed from somewhere outside. "Hey, Helicopter Boy ! Come say hello !"

Rick sighed and shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might've been a reluctant smile.

Selma chuckled as she pushed her door open. "Looks like you've got a fan club. C'mon, I'll introduce you."

She stepped out of the truck, her boots crunching against the gravel as the chill of the autumn air nipped at her skin. Adjusting her cap against the biting breeze, Selma caught sight of Dale making his way over to her. His familiar, easy gait brought a small smile to her face.

Selma liked Dale — a lot.

He reminded her of an uncle, the kind who always had a kind word or a calming presence in the storm.

"Happy to see you," he greeted warmly, arms opening slightly for a hug. "You okay?"

Selma stepped into the embrace, patting his back before pulling away. "As perfect as it can be," she replied with a faint smirk, rubbing his arm in reassurance.

Before she could say anything else, a sharp cry rang out, piercing the din of the camp.

"Dad!"

The single word made her freeze. The voice, high and desperate, was unmistakably that of a young boy. Carl.

Selma turned just in time to see a blur of motion—a boy sprinting across the camp, his feet kicking up dust as he yelled again.

"Dad!"

The cry hit Rick like a thunderclap. She saw him pause mid-step, his entire body going rigid as the boy's voice cut through the air. His blue eyes widened, and in that moment, she saw the disbelief and fragile hope etched across his face.

And then she saw them—the boy and his mother running toward him. He reached Rick first, throwing himself into his father's arms with all the force his small body could muster. Rick caught him, dropping to his knees, clutching the boy like he was afraid to let go.

"Carl," he choked out, his voice breaking as he buried his face in the boy's shoulder.

The woman — Lori, it had to be Lori — was there a heartbeat later, falling to her knees beside them. Shock was written all over her face, her skin pale and almost ghostly, as if she couldn't quite process the reality of what was happening.

Selma stood rooted to the spot, watching the reunion unfold. Rick was shaking his head, tears spilling freely now as if he couldn't believe this was real. He kept whispering something she couldn't hear, his hands clutching his son's shoulders, then his wife's, like he needed to confirm they were solid, tangible, here.

Against all odds, he had found them.

Selma's mind echoed with the words of her colleague from back at the hospital, the ones spoken in half-jest after his surgery. "That man's got the devil's luck."

And bloody hell, they'd been right.

A/N : 11k words. Well, here you go, I guess ( for anyone reading this fic, that is, lol ).

Anyway, we finally get to see Rick for the first time, and a little glimpse of Rick and Maryam. I tried to keep him as true to season 1 as possible, since God knows how much he changed throughout the seasons.

I hope you guys like Selma! And if you were wondering, she's Egyptian on her father's side :)

As always, feel free to drop comments — I absolutely love reading them !!!! And sorry for any mistakes; English isn't my first language!!!