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[ season three, episode two ]
"Holy shit."
The prisoners were staring in morbid awe at the gruesome sight splayed out before them. Hershel's leg was oozing more and more blood by the minute, seeping through Marley's jacket, and if the group didn't get him back to the cell block soon, the chances of him dying were significantly higher. His body would be trapped down in the tombs. It was ironic, really. They ventured into a crypt of undead savages, expecting to make it out in one piece. Like most things nowadays, they had been wrong.
And now a new threat awaited them.
Five men clad in prisoner wear. The man standing at the end looked particularly menacing, his lip curled broodingly like a rabid dog's. The puddle of crimson blood did not appear to phase him as much as his disturbed cellmates, who were all gaunt, ghostly and slick with sweat.
Marley spared them a second glance over her shoulder. They were all watching her, scrutinising her every move, concern seeping from their features like thick tar. She didn't know what she was doing. Was it that obvious? She probably looked insane, drenched in blood with wide, frenzied eyes. Were they afraid?
Who cares. She didn't have time to think.
"What happened to him?" the menacing prisoner inquired.
Daryl was pointing his crossbow at the group of criminal convicts as they slowly padded out from behind the mesh-wall, coming into clear view. "He got bit."
The lead-man visibly tensed. "Bit?"
Marley's eyes widened when she saw the prisoner slyly reach for a handgun at his waist. T-Dog, however, was swift to reciprocate the threat, and pointed his own weapon in the direction of the five shifting men. They had it under control; the prisoners were outgunned and outnumbered.
She focused on Hershel once again. Rick had fetched a towel from somewhere, and was wrapping it around the amputated limb, adding an extra layer of protection against the jacket to stifle the heavy flow of blood. It worked for a while, but the crimson puddle only seemed to be growing, and without bandages, gauze and sterile equipment to treat the open wound, Hershel's chances of survival were extremely low.
"Apply pressure," Rick demanded. "I need you to hold it."
"I've got it." Marley assured firmly. She had taken Maggie's position — eradicating pressure from a daughter's shoulders — and the woman was crouched beside her father's head, keeping his chin elevated to open his airways, ensuring oxygen flowed smoothly while he was unconscious. Marley looked around for an extra set of hands. "Glenn. Where's Glenn?"
