The whimper, faint and choked, pulled Ethan forward through the rapidly darkening woods. He moved with a desperate urgency, Sophia's discarded doll clutched in one hand, his machete a grim extension of the other. The gashes on his arm throbbed, a dull counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of his heart, but he pushed the pain aside. Sophia was close. He could feel it.
His Enhanced Awareness guided him, sifting through the rustling leaves and snapping twigs. The whimper came again, closer this time, from a dense thicket of rhododendrons near a mossy outcrop of rocks. Ethan approached cautiously, his Danger Sense on low alert for any walkers that might have also been drawn to the sound.
"Sophia?" he called out softly, his voice gentle. "Sophia, it's Ethan. From the camp. I'm a friend of your mom and Rick."
A small, terrified face, streaked with tears and dirt, peeked out from between the leaves. Her eyes were wide with fear. "Are you… are you one of them?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"No, Sophia, I'm not," Ethan said, keeping his voice calm and even. He knelt slowly, holding up the doll. "See? I found your friend. She told me you might be scared and hiding."
Recognition flickered in her eyes as she saw the doll. Slowly, hesitantly, she crawled out from her hiding place. She was shivering, her clothes torn, but physically she seemed unharmed. Relief, immense and overwhelming, washed over Ethan, momentarily eclipsing his exhaustion.
"My mom…?" Sophia asked, her lip trembling.
"Your mom is okay. Everyone at the highway is worried about you," Ethan said, offering her a reassuring smile he didn't quite feel. "Rick and Daryl are looking for you too. We were all so scared." He didn't want to tell her he was currently separated from them. "Let's get you somewhere safe, okay?"
She nodded, clutching the doll he handed back to her as if it were a lifeline. Ethan quickly checked their immediate surroundings. No walkers in sight. But night was falling fast, and the woods were no place for a child, especially with him injured and alone. He knew, with a certainty born of his other life's memories, that finding Rick and Daryl in the dark, or them finding him and Sophia, was a slim chance. The Greene farm, however… he had a good idea of its general direction from the highway, based on the show's geography. It was their best bet for immediate, defensible shelter.
"Alright, Sophia," he said, making his decision. "We're going on a little adventure, just you and me for a bit. I know a place, a farm, where it should be safe. We'll try to get there." He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
They moved slowly, Ethan holding Sophia's small hand, his machete in the other. Progress was painstaking. Sophia was exhausted and frightened, and Ethan had to constantly encourage her, his own fatigue a heavy weight. The sounds of the night woods pressed in around them – rustling, snapping twigs, the distant hoot of an owl, and sometimes, the far-off groan of a walker, sending shivers down their spines. Ethan used his innate stealth skills to keep them as hidden as possible, his Danger Sense a crucial guide through the darkness.
After what felt like hours, with the moon a pale sliver through the canopy, Ethan knew they couldn't go on much further. He found a small, defensible hollow at the base of a cluster of large rocks, partially hidden by overgrown bushes. "We'll rest here for a little while, Sophia," he whispered. He cleared the small space, then sat with his back against a rock, pulling Sophia close to share warmth, his machete across his lap. Sleep was impossible for him, every nerve ending alive to the dangers of the night.
They set off again before first light, the gray pre-dawn making the woods even more spectral. Ethan's arm throbbed, and hunger gnawed at his belly, but Sophia's small, trusting hand in his kept him going. By mid-morning, as they navigated a less dense section of forest bordering what looked like old, untended farmland, Ethan's Danger Sense flared sharply. He pushed Sophia behind a wide oak, motioning for her to stay silent.
A figure emerged from a line of trees about fifty yards away, moving with a rough, uneven gait. Tall, wiry, with a shotgun slung over his shoulder. And one hand was missing, the stump wrapped in dirty cloth, a crude, hook-like blade attached to it. Ethan's blood ran cold. Merle Dixon.
Merle hadn't seen them yet. He was scanning the area, his face a mask of hard-bitten survival. Ethan knew this was a critical moment. Merle was a volatile, dangerous unpredictable. But he was also a survivor. And they were in his territory.
"Stay here, Sophia. Not a sound," Ethan whispered, then stepped out from behind the tree, his machete held loosely but ready. "Merle Dixon, I presume?" he called out, his voice steady.
Merle whirled around, shotgun instantly leveled, his one good eye narrowed. "Well, well, well. What have we got here? Some kinda city slicker lost in my woods?" His voice was a gravelly rasp. Then his eyes flicked past Ethan, spotting Sophia peeking fearfully from behind the tree. "And a little tweaker snack too?"
Ethan't tensed. "She's a child, Merle. Not on the menu. We're just passing through."
Merle spat on the ground, but he didn't immediately raise his shotgun higher. He was assessing Ethan. The machete, the way Ethan stood, ready but not overtly aggressive. He noted Ethan's torn and bloodied sleeve. "You look like you tangled with a few of the biters yourself, slick. Where's your posse?"
"Separated," Ethan said shortly. "Looking for a safe place. Heard tell of a farm nearby."
Merle's eyes gleamed with a cunning light. "A farm, huh? Safe? Ain't no such thing no more. But maybe less dead than other places." He looked from Ethan to Sophia, then back to Ethan. The presence of the child, small and obviously terrified, seemed to make him pause, some deeply buried, almost forgotten instinct perhaps flickering. Or maybe he just saw a different kind of opportunity. He was alone, and surviving alone with one hand was brutal. This man, Ethan, looked capable.
"What's it to you, Dixon?" Ethan asked, keeping his tone even.
"Maybe I'm lookin' for a change of scenery myself," Merle said, a smirk playing on his lips. "These woods get lonely. And that little brother of mine, Daryl… reckon he's still out there somewhere. Might be headed for a 'safe farm' too if he heard the same whispers." He paused, then gestured with his hook. "You lead the way to this farm of yours. I'll… provide some charming company. And an extra gun, when it suits me. But try anything stupid, slick, and the girl watches you get gutted with this here pigsticker."
Ethan weighed his options. Merle was a liability, a racist, a powder keg. But he was also an experienced survivor, and another armed adult, however untrustworthy, was better than being alone with Sophia in these woods. And if Daryl was indeed alive and might also head for the farm… "Alright, Merle," Ethan said slowly. "You can walk with us. But you watch your mouth around the girl. And you pull your weight. We're heading for the Greene place."
Merle let out a harsh laugh. "The Greene place, huh? Ambitious. Alright, city boy. Let's see if you can actually find it." He slung his shotgun a little more comfortably. "But don't think for a second this makes us pals."
Ethan nodded. "Wouldn't dream of it."
And so, the unlikeliest of trios set off: Ethan, the transmigrant with the weight of foreknowledge and a desperate need to protect; Sophia, the lost child clutching her doll; and Merle Dixon, the one-handed force of chaos, his true motives hidden, his volatile nature only temporarily, and perhaps tenuously, restrained. The road to the Greene farm had just become considerably more complicated.