After Hershel went back inside, Merle glanced at Rick, who sat slumped on the steps, looking utterly miserable. "Well, well, Officer Rick, long time no see," he drawled mockingly.
If this had been the old Merle, after what Rick had done—nearly getting him killed—he would've beaten him bloody, if not worse. But now, things were different. He'd mellowed out a little. That didn't mean he'd pass up a chance to jab at him with words, though.
Rick didn't reply. He merely lifted his head and looked at Merle with a dull expression, then lowered it again, sinking back into his spiral of guilt and self-blame.
"Come on, Merle, enough," Daryl said, unable to bear it. "Rick's already down as it is—just let it go. We used to be a team, remember?"
At that moment, Shane came out after delivering the medicine and surgical tools inside. He spotted Merle glaring daggers at Rick and immediately realized trouble was brewing. Rushing forward, he stepped between them—he knew full well how little these two got along.
"Okay, Merle, chill. Now's not the time for this. Whatever you two have to settle can wait until Carl's better." Throwing an arm around Merle's shoulders, Shane pulled him a few steps aside, speaking in a low voice. He didn't know exactly how much Merle had changed, but he wasn't about to risk a fight breaking out.
Shane knew how Merle worked. The man had a temper, and after nearly dying because of Rick, expecting him to act like nothing happened was just asking for trouble. That kind of naive idealism only made things worse.
"...Just let it go for now," Shane continued. "You two can hash it out one-on-one later if you want, but right now, we need to focus." He released Merle and sighed in relief when he didn't object. Patting him on the shoulder, Shane turned back toward Rick.
"Rick, hang in there. Hershel's a doctor—Carl's gonna pull through," Shane said, trying to encourage him.
Rick took a deep breath, visibly struggling between hope and despair. "How can I not worry? Hershel's a veterinarian."
"There's no other choice," Shane said softly. "We just have to trust Carl can make it." He sounded helpless. Under these conditions, it was the best they could do.
"Veterinarian?!" Daryl blurted out, horrified. "You're letting a vet perform surgery on a kid?!"
When Rick and Shane nodded grimly, Daryl's expression softened. If it had been a stranger, he might've stayed out of it—but Carl wasn't just anyone. He'd known the kid back when the group was still whole, before everything went to hell.
He shot Merle a look, silently asking for help. "Merle... help them."
Merle understood immediately. Daryl wanted him to use one of their medical robots to assist.
"Ah, damn it. Can't say no to you, can I? The boss'll chew me out for this later," Merle sighed. Then he turned toward the truck and shouted, "Medical unit! Go help that poor kid!"
Selene had given Merle limited authority over the military robots, enough to issue basic commands. As soon as he spoke, a white-colored robot—distinct from the standard matte-black combat models—powered up inside the truck. It bore a red cross on its chest, marking it as a medical unit.
With a thud, it jumped from the truck and marched swiftly toward the farmhouse.
Inside, Hershel had just finished setting up a makeshift operating table and was preparing to start the surgery.
Suddenly—crash!—the door burst open. Assuming it was Rick, Hershel didn't even look up. "Rick, I know you're worried, but—huh?"
Before he could finish, he felt a powerful shove that sent him stumbling aside. Irritated, he spun around to scold whoever it was—only to freeze at the sight of a white robot marked with a red cross.
Before anyone could react, the robot strode to the operating table. A panel on its head opened, and a red scanning beam swept across Carl's entire body.
Soon, a cold, metallic voice echoed through the room. "Preliminary examination: internal bleeding caused by shrapnel has led to insufficient blood supply and cardiac weakening..."
The robot's fingers shifted, a surgical blade extending from one. It sliced open the bandages on Carl's chest with machine precision, then produced a square-shaped medical device. Pressing it against the wound, several strange metallic imprints appeared, glowing faintly.
"Cardiac stimulant injected. Dopamine 70 milligrams, norepinephrine 110, fibrinogen 800..."
"Analyzing blood type... confirmed. Locating shrapnel fragment... regional anesthesia complete. Commencing extraction."
...
"Y-112 reporting to Command: patient stabilized, operation complete." The medical robot's voice came again as it reported through its communication module. Without waiting for a response or reaction, it placed a small vial of special medicine beside the table and exited swiftly.
Hershel stood frozen, staring after the robot's retreating form. It took him several seconds to find his voice. "The level of medical technology out there... it's this advanced now?"
The others opened their mouths to speak, but before they could, Rick burst into the room, rushing to Carl's bedside. "Carl... you're safe. Thank God, you're safe."
Outside, Shane watched as the medical robot climbed back into the truck. He didn't ask questions—he simply turned to Merle and said sincerely, "Thank you."
Merle shrugged. He didn't like Rick, but he wasn't the type to hold grudges against a kid. "Daryl," he called, seeing his brother exit the house, "let the boss know we'll be heading back a bit later."
"Got it. I'll let her know."
...
Carl was lucky. Instead of being operated on by Hershel's old veterinary hands, he'd been treated by a specialized medical robot. The damage was minimal, and by morning, he was awake and recovering.
Early the next day, Dale and T-Dog arrived at the farm. Rick's group was finally reunited.
As they celebrated their survival, Merle suddenly spoke up. "You all want to come to my camp?"
His words caught everyone off guard. They exchanged uncertain looks—but deep down, they all wanted to say yes.
They had experienced firsthand how brutal the apocalypse could be. Unlike Hershel's family, who had been sheltered on their farm and remained relatively ignorant of the true horrors outside, Rick's group had seen it all—death, chaos, and loss.
Judging by Merle and Daryl's condition, his camp must have plenty of supplies and strong defenses. No one said it aloud, but they all understood—if they joined Merle's camp, they'd have to follow his lead.
Glenn and T-Dog looked tempted. Even Dale, ever the moral compass, had a conflicted expression. Merle might be crude and rough around the edges, but compared to the constant fear of death, living under his authority didn't seem so bad.
Safety had a way of dulling pride.
But not everyone agreed.
"I'm not going," Carol suddenly shouted, standing up. Her eyes were red, tears glistening. "I have to find Sophia! I can't leave her!"
Her outburst silenced everyone. Guilt washed over them. Sophia was still missing—and instead of organizing a search, their first thought had been to find safety for themselves.
No one could meet Carol's eyes.
"Sigh..." Dale finally broke the silence, his voice soft but weary. "Let's wait until Carl's fully recovered before we make any decisions."
Outside, Daryl and Merle finished clearing the area of nearby walkers and met again near the barn.
"The farm's safe for now," Daryl said, scanning the fields, "but the number of walkers wandering nearby is increasing. And without defenses, this place won't last long." His brow furrowed as he watched Dale's group setting up tents. "They're not coming with us?"
"Not yet," Merle replied. "Sophia's still missing, Carl got shot, and this place feels safe enough for them—for now. They said they're thinking about it."
"So what, we just wait around?" Daryl asked, frustration creeping into his tone. "What about the boss—"
"We wait twenty-four hours, no more," Merle cut in. "If they still can't make up their minds, we leave." He glanced at his brother. "Any sign of Sophia?"
Daryl's expression darkened. "No. But in times like this... missing usually means dead. Carol won't be able to handle that."