01: The Road

Written to Present Tense by Radiohead

She's gone and it's hot outside, too hot for the crickets to chirp through the night. With his back hunched, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his fingers anxiously tapping at his empty belt holster, Rick Grimes blinks rapidly.

He's sitting on the porch, watching the neighbourhood – the surrounding houses, the neat front yards, the pond, the moon, the walls – and he comes to the conclusion that he doesn't want this, he doesn't need this. He needs something else. He needs to stop feeling like his skin is about to cave in, like this is it. Because it isn't. It isn't. It can't be.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and thinks about his people, his family. About Abraham – as strong and stubborn as they come – and Rosita, a Venus flytrap in the flesh: beautiful and absolutely lethal at the same time. He thinks about the way Abe had his arms around her and how his snoring wasn't as loud as one might expect. He thinks about Tara and Noah, about Eugene, who was sprawled out on the floor like a pale starfish, his thick limbs taking up way more space than necessary. He thinks about Father Gabriel and how he tossed and turned, how he clung to his tattered Bible.

He thinks about Sasha, her sleeping figure curled into a ball in one of the corners, about Carol and Daryl, who – even in their sleep – seemed to gravitate towards each other. He thinks about Glenn and Maggie holding each other tightly, about Carl and Judith resting side by side, their faces hidden in the darkness. He thinks about the empty couch in the middle of the room.

"Fuck."

He thinks about Deanna and her kind eyes, her mother-like charm, and her delusional mind-set. He thinks about the dark, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in her living room, the faint scent of tobacco and mulberry, and the lens of the video camera staring right through him and coercing him to share his nightmares with an over-enthusiastic stranger.

No, wait. Deanna isn't over-enthusiastic. She's insane, she's a fucking lunatic. Otherwise she wouldn't talk about crops, solar panels, and community spirit. Otherwise she wouldn't be acting like this world didn't go to shit when people began to tear each other apart with bared teeth and claw-shaped hands, growling and snarling like sick, starved-out animals.

The dead are everywhere. They're roaming the streets, the cities, the woods, and the fields, they're at war with the living – with former friends and lovers – and here's Deanna with her ridiculous optimism. Yeah. She's insane and her people are insane, too. They're all cannon fodder, that much is clear.

"Stop it."

And it's not fair: they're here – for now –they're safe – for now – they're catching their breath – for now – and she isn't, she can't. She's out there and she's alone because of him. That's what Carl told him this morning before he stepped out of the car, scooped Judith up into his arms and left Rick staring after him, speechless, hurt, and deeply ashamed because it's the truth. If it weren't for him, she would've made it.

"Stop."

He doesn't. It's no use. He can feel it coming. He can feel his face grow hot and his pulse quicken while his vision starts to blur and he's shaking his head in a futile attempt to chase away the vicious harbingers of a panic attack. It's no use. Something's clawing at his chest and holding his throat in a vice grip, squeezing the air out of his lungs and bringing his sweat glands to a boil, and there are black spots dancing in front of his eyes, there's a prickling sensation stabbing at the back of his neck, and there are raw, raucous sounds crawling out of his mouth, and he has to stop, he has to stop, he has to stop, he has to –

Back then – before he almost slept through the apocalypse – Rick used to love that time of the day when the sun would hunker down between the russet rooftops of the neighbourhood. He would watch it with Lori from the widow of their bedroom and they would marvel at the bright streaks of fierce red and blazing orange invading the sky and taking it by force before morphing into a midnight-blue sea, dark and bottomless and crowned with the silver glimmer of tired stars. It used to be a short but welcome distraction from the obvious strain in their marriage, a brief truce, a few minutes of peace.

Now everything is different because his house is gone, his wife is gone, and he is on the road again, nervously squinting at the last rays of sunshine pushing through the sparse treetops like walkers pushing through doors and windows and fences and everything that used to keep Rick and his people safe. He's riding pillion and occasionally peeking at Glenn, but he's anxious to keep his main focus on the rear-vision mirror with his jaw clenched and his brows furled.

"This is my one of my favourite shots. We took it at dawn, from one of the guard towers. You see the vegetable beds? We want to broaden the range because some of our people have started to crave artichokes", Aaron says with a lopsided grin and Rick wants to punch him in the face all over again, "Maybe we'll be lucky in a few months."

Unsure if he should either scream or break out into hysterical laughter, Rick finds himself exhaling through his nose when his glance shifts over to Michonne and the hint of a smile that's tugging at the corners of her mouth, the hint of a smile so rare it brings his anger to a halt for a moment and suddenly, he can't help but to wonder if Michonne – once they've reached Aaron's community – will be able to smile more often. He's pretty sure that would like that. In fact, he would like that a lot.

"Rick."

The alarmed sound of her voice pulls him out of his trance. He turns around, but before he has the chance to react, before he has the chance to tell Glenn to stop the car, before he has the chance to do so much as breathe, it's already too late.

The man in the mirror is not him. Or maybe he is. Maybe he just had to tear off the hominid mask that was stitched to his skull to recognise that used to hide underneath for so many years: hollow cheeks, puffy eyes, and a vacant expression. Maybe the real Rick Grimes has always looked like death personified.

His hair is greasy and matted, his face covered in dirt, dust and a ragged, caveman-like beard. He's not too shocked to see that he lost an unhealthy amount of weight, but he's afraid to inspect his teeth since judging from the stale taste in his mouth, there isn't much hope left.

"Dad."

He whips around to find his son standing in the door frame with Judith perched on his hip. The disgust in Carl's eyes is tangible, but Rick is frozen with relief because he was sure that he would never be addressed as Dad again.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he croaks, his voice nothing more than a ghost of what it used to be: clear, confident and commanding.

"Nothing", he says, "You were staring into space."

"Where are the others?"

"Outside exploring the neighbourhood", Carl answers with a small shrug before he turns on his heel and trudges away, "I'm going for a walk with Judy."

Rick grits his teeth.

"You want me to come with you?"

"No."

And with that, Carl is gone.

As frustration begins to boil in his stomach, Rick somehow finds the strength to free himself from the fetters of his stunned rigour, and wills himself to follow his son, but Carl is already out of sight. He's about go back inside when a bell-like voice rings through the air, and he tilts his head in suspicion as he watches a petite, blonde woman jog up the veranda steps.

"You must be one of the new guys", she starts off, cheerfully stating the obvious whilst taking in his sordid appearance and then opting to just go for it and hold out her hand towards him, "I'm Jessie."

Rick continues to stare at her.

"Um… well, I hope you had a pleasant first night?" when he still doesn't say a word, she diverts her gaze and throws her arms around her shoulders with a wobbly laugh, "Do you need help with anything? I heard you brought some children with you."

"They're mine."

The steel is back in his voice and he starts to back away slowly, both overwhelmed and highly irritated by the cruel familiarity of her demeanour. This isn't real. This is a nightmare and he has to wake up. He has to wake up right now.

"Oh... okay… uh… that's great. You see, I have two sons. Ron and Sam. Maybe your kids would like to –"

"No", he scoffs, sneaking his hand behind his back and blindly fumbling for the door handle, the corners of his mouth stretching into a panicked grin, "No, thank you."

"Are you – a-are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to –"

"No."

Another scoff and he's finally wrapping his hand around the door handle, finally stepping inside. She's about to open her mouth again when he shuts the door in her face. This isn't it. He knows that – he does – and he slides down to the floor with his face in his hands, willing himself to get out of here, to get back. Back to the church, back to the barn, back to when she was still with him, when she would keep his demons at bay and sit down next to him for a few minutes, so they could talk about food or ammo or nothing at all.