You have picked the option B. We won't be leaving Glenn behind! So let's dive back into it.
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"You know what? Fuck you! We are not leaving him behind, end of discussion," Negan snaps, successfully ending the conversation. In three exerted huffs, Glenn hangs limply over Negan's shoulder.
"Come on, follow me. I know the way outta this shithole!" Gertrude urgently orders, rolling her wrist for the men to follow her.
"We need weapons if we're gonna make it outta here! Did you see anything on yer way up, sugar buns?" Merle pants as they jog down the corridor.
Gertrude's face screws up in concentration for a few seconds, until she snaps her fingers. "Yeah, there's an armory just over the street. At least I think it's an armory!"
"Well, what the hell we waiting for? Let's move!" Merle is enthused, clapping his hands and urging the others to follow him down the lonely corridor.
The men jog down the deserted hallway, Negan at the back. "Jesus, Kid. You're heavier than you look!"
The five burst through the double doors and into the sunlight. Their stomachs grumble, throats are parched and eyes burn in the high-noon sun.
"Over here! Hurry the hell up!" Gertrude's feet fly as she leads them towards a small concrete building. Fresh perspiration on each man's forehead.
"A-a-alar-...trap." Negan's feet adhered to the spot as Glenn begins to mumble almost incomprehensibly. The boy's eyes open to only roll straight back. "T-trap."
"Shit, Shane! Wait!" Negan's barking command is in vain as Shane's the first to fly through the armory door. Daryl and Merle tumble in after him.
A ear-piercing whirr makes each man flinch like a crack of lightning had just struck at their feet. "Oh fuck, nice one man! I told you to wait! Now the alarm is tripped and these mother fuckers will be on us any goddamn minute, shit!" Negan growls, readjusting Glenn's partially-dead carcass.
"Right, I'm sick of this shit! Let's get these guns, then me and Merle will get a height advantage and cover you while ya retrieve the car! Simple?" Gertrude has an undeniable spring in her step as she waltzes into the gun packed shed. Everything from Remingtons to Berettas line the green-painted walls.
Gertrude snatches a pistol that Daryl reaches for, chastising him. "No, don't pick that! The recoil will blow out your shoulder, and it's prone to jamming! Everyone loves a semi-automatic pistol, but the revolver is where it's at. Take the .357 revolver. That bitch packs a punch!" Daryl's head shoots back as Gertrude replaces his chosen firearm with the Smith and Wesson.
And her face is one of a kid in a candy store. She watches, with rolls of her orbs, as the men hastily cram bullets into their pockets and clipped-in magazines.
