The Sisyphus Exodus Chapter 1, a walking dead fanfic

The Sisyphus Exodus
PenPatronus
Part 1 of 2

A bird's eye view of the Pierce Plantation after the end of the world: in blood-blackened fields that used to grow cotton, surrounding a decaying pale-yellow plantation house, crisscrossed by a desert-dry creek bed, in the throat of an elderly gray-green forest moved five enormous green tractors that dragged wooden wagons full of starving, shackled men, women, and children.

Walkers, lured out of the woods by the rumbling diesel engines and the bitter, earthly stench of fresh flesh, followed the tractors as they looped around the property. The Pierce's learned to let the creatures get within arm's reach of the wagons. The dead had to see their prey, to smell it. When they took the bait, the tractors took off at a pace fast enough to stay safe, but slow enough to keep the Walkers' attention. Neon orange flags helped the drivers avoid the hundreds of hungry bear traps, steel wire snares, and landmines like silver Frisbees filling the three fifty-acre fields. Walkers that weren't blown into confetti impaled themselves on stakes in the creek bed, and got fried by guards in half a dozen homemade watchtowers wielding shotguns and flamethrowers.

When the outbreak started, the Pierce family evacuated with the rest of the county to an Army base five miles north. While everyone else stared at the television, the Pierce's robbed the arsenal and even uprooted a quarter mile of barbed wire fencing to wrap around their house. At first, they used their own livestock to attract the Walkers. Cows, sheep, and horses were tethered to wagons overflowing with chickens, ducks, and rabbits. Eventually they had to upgrade their bait. When they ran out of neighbors they started snatching people off the roads. After dark, when their slaves were locked in the barns, barracks, and chicken coops, the Pierce family ate fresh vegetables at their pristine oak dining room table, and played Yahtzee.

One day at sunset, almost a month after Beth was killed, Daryl Dixon woke up shackled to a wagon with a killer migraine.

It was messed up, Daryl decided, that his growling stomach sounded like a Walker groan. He imagined what Merle would say about that – probably, "Who gives a shit?" He imagined what Rick would say – maybe something about the universal sound of hunger. Maybe something about how the Walkers were just stomachs on legs. No… Rick would get him food first. He'd take care of the empty stomach before talking about it. That was one of the things that Daryl admired about Rick. The man had his priorities straight.

Daryl's eyes felt so heavy that he thought they wouldn't open without a crowbar. When he could finally see – through his lashes like prison bars – he found himself staring down at his lap and the green grass visible between his knees. The grass started to move – or was he moving? The groans got louder than his stomach growls, and Daryl lifted his head to see a dozen Walkers tripping towards him. Close enough that he could smell them. Not close enough that he could kick them away.

"Hi there," a cartoonish voice crooned way too loud and far too happy. "Hello – dude with the wings – hi!"

Daryl looked to his right and found a pair of smiling blondes. Twins, he realized. At least they were twins until his double vision corrected itself. The woman reminded him of Andrea – similar age, similar hair. Slimmer, though. Skeleton-skinny. Yellow teeth and sunburned skin. She smelled like chicken shit. "The hell…" Daryl grunted. He coughed and spat a wad of blood and saliva off the wagon. "Who the hell are you?"

"Savannah," the woman said cheerfully. "From Savannah, Georgia. I'm Savannah from Savannah! Get it?"

Daryl resisted the urge to head-butt her. "Where are we?"

Savannah from Savannah spoke with the panache of a circus ringmaster and grinned with the Cheshire cat's mouth. "Hell! And who are you?" Savannah from Savannah asked. "I've been sitting beside you for a day and a half, but you haven't been very talkative. Once in a pretty while you mutter about somebody called Merle and somebody called Rick, but I'm pretty sure you were still knocked out."

"Day and a…?" Daryl sat up straighter and tested his limbs. His legs hung free – and mere feet from Walker mouths – but his wrists were shackled to the wagon floor behind his back. He turned as far as he could to his left and saw a young Hispanic boy wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. He was Carl's age, maybe a little younger, and he was crying and kicking bloody sneakers at stray Dandelions. "My friends… I was with a group. Where are they?"

"Don't know, but we can find out. Hey, everybody!" Savannah twisted further to her left and Daryl to his right. Over his shoulder, in his peripheral vision, Daryl saw that the wagon was full. At least twenty people of all genders, all ages, and multiple ethnicities were stuffed in. He couldn't tell for certain, but he was pretty sure that not all of them were alive. "Everybody, this is – wait, I didn't get your name."

"Daryl."

"This is Daryl," Savannah shouted. "Everybody say 'hi' to Daryl." When her only answer was a crescendo of the Hispanic boy's cries, Savannah continued. "He's the one with the biker vest and the blood on his head. And the greasy hair. Did anyone see people with him? Friends of his that might have been put on another wagon?"

"Marcy!" a man bellowed. "Is my Marcy here?"

"Is my mom?" a child cried. "Mom? Mommy?"

Savannah shook her head apologetically. "Sorry, Daryl. Looks like I'm your only friend here." She grinned. It reminded Daryl of Merle's delighted expression right before he delivered a vicious Charlie-horse.

"We ain't friends," Daryl snorted. "I make a point of not getting friendly with crazy people. Not anymore, anyway." He tested the shackles but couldn't raise his hands more than a couple inches.

"I'm not crazy," Savannah said with her widest smile yet. "I'm happy! This is my last day on the wagon – my last hour!"

"Last hour?" Daryl frowned at her.

"I've been here a week," Savannah said proudly. She lifted her left boot and showed Daryl the teeth marks on the rubber sole. "When the Pierces get you, you have to be on the wagons for a week. I've only been gnawed on a few times. After that you get a less dangerous job. I chose the kitchen. I told them I want to work in the kitchen. I want to make spaghetti."

"You stupid bitch," someone called from the opposite end of the wagon. "How many times do we gotta tell you? You ain't leaving the wagon. Nobody leaves the wagon alive. They told me I'd be here a week. After seven days went by they told me it was ten – just ten days – and then another week went by after that. That was almost a month ago!"

"No, no," Savannah said. She flicked her head to the side and caught a mouthful of her own hair. She chewed on it as she muttered, "They promised. Just a week and I'm safe. Just another hour and I'm safe. They promised… They promised…"

A sound like thunder nearby. A landmine launched three Walkers into the air. Body parts rained down on the wagon and twenty voices shrieked in shock and horror. Daryl watched a dismembered head sail through the air – its eyes wide, nostrils flaring, teeth chomping away. It landed on Savannah's shoulder, mouth first, and clamped on. Daryl leaned back on his hands, braced his fingers against the wood floor and lifted his legs up. He tried to kick the head away like a soccer player, but the Walker's grasp on the shrieking Savannah's shoulder was too tight. Just as the tractor pulled them across a rickety wooden bridge over a Walker-infested creek bed, Darryl got a grip on the head by using his legs like chopsticks. He smashed the skull between his heels and tugged with all his strength. The teeth were still chewing when the skull straddled a wooden stake.

Teardrops pounded Savannah's knees like rain. She wailed – klaxon like – when the tractor cab opened, and two men emerged.

"Check her! She got bit!" Dude number one had a beer belly that peeked out of black body armor splattered with Walker remains. He poked a stubby forefinger against a woman's shoulder three seats behind Daryl. The man decided something – probably that she wasn't alive – withdrew a set of thick keys from dirty overalls, removed the body from the wagon, and shot her between the eyes with a revolver. Dude number two, a tall blond teen with acne like chicken pox, started unshackling Savannah. She shrieked. As soon as her hands were free she clawed at the teen with broken nails. He grunted, and smacked her so hard that she fell to the ground.

"Hey!" Daryl barked. He reared back and kicked his legs out with the strength of a horse. Dirty boots smashed against the guy's face and blood exploded from his nose. "You little—" Daryl began.

A clicking sound in his right ear. Daryl froze. Beer belly guy glared at him from behind his gun.

Rick Grimes risked letting go of the tree limb so that he could hold the binoculars extra steady with both hands. "There you are," he whispered with relief. "Found you. Finally found you." He watched, with a slight smile in the corner of his mouth, as Daryl Dixon wrestled a Walker skull off a woman's shoulder with just his boots. His smile vanished, though, when the wagon was pulled off the bridge and two figures jumped out of the tractor. He could hear the woman's screams as one figure unlocked her chains, smacked her, got kicked by Daryl, and then shoved her into the creek. Somebody in a nearby watchtower (that looked about as steady as a sandcastle) aimed a rifle at the creek and took the shot. The two men turned their attention to Daryl. First, they aimed a gun, but then they set him free, too, and Rick almost tried to fly off his perch when he thought that Daryl was going into the creek as well. Instead, the men re-shackled him but kept his feet on the ground. When the tractor started up again, Daryl was forced to walk behind it – closest to the new batch of Walkers they were luring out of the trees.

Daryl moved… funny. That was Rick's diagnosis. He could walk, and even jog when the tractor picked up speed, but his steps were awkward. He moved like a Walker. Uncoordinated. Dizzy. Rick couldn't make out his friend's face, but he could see the red color on the back of his head. The Herders who kidnapped Daryl from the group must have hit him pretty hard to cause that much blood. He and the others had been missing for almost thirty-six hours – how much had they had to eat and drink in that time?

Another landmine exploded. Daryl tripped, and slipped trying to get back up. He went limp, and the tractor dragged him facedown through the mud. "Get up," Rick whispered, as if his friend could hear him. "Get up, Daryl."

Daryl pulled himself to his feet a second before a Walker latched onto his ankle. Rick breathed a sigh of relief. "Hang on. We're coming for you," he said. He pocketed the binoculars and started to make his way down the fifty-foot tall tree.

Carl waited with Judith at the bottom. "Finally found Daryl," Rick announced before his son could ask. "He's in the last wagon. Looks like he's hurt pretty bad but he's on his feet."

"That's everybody, right?" Carl started listing off the missing members of their group. "Michonne, Carol, and Sasha are in Wagon One. Tyreese Two, Abraham and Glenn Three, Maggie and Tara and Rosita are in Four… Right?" When his dad nodded, Carl said, "We have to get them out of there."

"We will," Rick promised.

"And the others," Carl said. "The others, too, right?" When Rick looked at his boots without speaking, Carl continued. "Dad, all of those people – there must be a hundred on those wagons."

"Son, there's…" Rick gripped Carl's shoulders. He tried and failed to look him in the eye and had to settle for looking past him. "These people have heavy artillery. There are landmines everywhere. We'll be lucky to get our people out alive – damn lucky. We need to focus on them."

Carl frowned. He looked at the dozing baby in his arms for support but found none. "Can we – after we get them back – can we talk about it then? Make a plan then? I – I don't want Daryl and the others to die but after we're sure they're all right then we can rescue people, right?"

Rick swallowed, but that did nothing to soothe the dry lump in his throat. "We'll talk about it then," he finally said. "After."

"You have a plan?" Carl wondered.

Rick nodded. "Yeah. A dumb one. And I'm going to need your help. And Eugene and Gabriel." Rick looked around. "Where are they?"

Carl's face hardened. "Napping."

Rick's face reddened. Without aword he stomped into the woods towards their camp.

Daryl didn't notice that the wagon stopped moving, so he slammed into it hard enough to knock himself to the ground. He lay there. Just lay there and stared up at the free sky as the light switched from the sun to the moon. Figures in dark camo escorted the Walker bait off the wagon. The crying Hispanic boy's baseball cap fell off and landed on Daryl's stomach. The two looked at each other for a long moment, and then Daryl gestured for the kid to lean over. The boy obeyed, and held still as Daryl put his hat back on. For a second, perhaps less than one, the child smiled. And then he was led away in chains with the rest of them towards a chicken coop. A woman around Carol's age emerged from the farmhouse carrying a big pot of what smelled like oatmeal. She tossed it into the chicken coop and locked the door.

Four other tractors stood empty outside of what looked like horse stables. Someone on #3 must have misbehaved like him, because they got the same punishment of walking behind the wagon. Only half of that somebody made it back, and Daryl couldn't tell if the Walkers got his legs or if a landmine did. He wondered if Rick had been on one of those wagons. Daryl hoped he was, then immediately hated himself for hoping that. He should be hoping that he was the only one who got kidnapped. If the rest of the group had any brains at all, they would've left him behind and gotten as far away from these assholes as possible.

A boot landed on his bruised chest. "I knew you'd be more trouble than you're worth," a voice said. It was a smoker's voice. A four pack a day smoker's voice. Guttural, rattling, coughing more than not. "When they dragged your ass here I could just smell it on you. Smell that trouble."

Daryl blinked. The man was obese and pale. He wore thick overalls over a stained undershirt. A wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth migrated from one cheek to the other. "Trouble is a man smacking a woman and using kids for Walker bait," Daryl said.

"Walker?" The man chuckled. "Haven't heard that one yet. In these parts we call 'em Chompers. In Savannah, where that Savannah lady was from, they call 'em Carnivores."

Daryl's chest ached from the weight of the man's boot. "You writin' the history books, man? Do we get a vote on what to call those things?"

Another chuckle. "Me? Nah. I'm just a farmer trying to get pests off my land. That's all. That's all I am." The man tilted his head and spit a jellybean-sized bit of tobacco into the stables.

"This little plan of yours – shepherding the dead like – like sheep… using… using children as bait…" Daryl struggled for breath. "There are people out there, good people who won't let this go on. Let me go – let us all go – and you Dead Herders might escape some heavy-duty wrath, man."

"Dead Herders? I like that. But, wrath? Big word, son. Big threat. You got an army at your beck and call?"

"Nah. A few men and women with a few guns. And a young boy." Daryl summoned a smile. "And one kickass little baby girl."

The man rolled his eyes. "Look at me all scared. Think she'll miss you? Think that little baby girl will miss you when you're Chomper supper?"

Daryl's only response was squinting his eyes.

"You ain't ate. You ain't drank nothing. What do you think will happen if I leave you chained to this here wagon all night?" The man leaned over and gently patted Daryl's cheek. "You just wait here. Maybe I'll go out looking for that baby girl. Maybe raise her as my own, maybe hang her from a fishing pole—"

Rage-fueled adrenaline kicked in, and Daryl kicked the man right in the crotch. The man crumpled, and Daryl wrapped his chain around the thick neck. He started to squeeze when a shotgun went off. A bullet hit the ground inches from Daryl's face. So much happened in less than a minute. Too much. Hands grabbed him. Rough, calloused hands. Knuckles slammed into his stomach and elbows on the back of his neck. When they were done beating him, the farmers left the one giant bruise that was Daryl Dixon lying face down in the grass.

The tobacco cheeks man called to the nearby sentries, "Don't guard the stables tonight, boys. Let this piece of shit die."

At sunset, after a powwow with Gabriel and Eugene, Rick climbed another tree to check on his friends' positions and saw the Dead Herders attack Daryl. He watched helplessly through the binoculars as blow after blow landed on his friend's back, head, and torso. Two hundred. That was how many yards Rick had to go through the woods to get to Daryl. It was too early to start his plan with the others – in fact, going in now would ruin everything – but Rick went anyway. He dropped the binoculars and took a shortcut across the field – zigzagging between Walkers, watchtowers, snares, bear traps and landmines, getting the hair on his arms singed when he jumped over a fire… He knew that he'd never get there in time, but he tried anyway. He ran as fast as he could, anyway. He called Daryl's name when the attackers and sentries were out of earshot. No response. When he was twenty feet away from Daryl's bleeding body he slowed to his tiptoes. "Please," Rick whispered to whoever or whatever might be listening. "Not him, too. Please not him, too."

Rick knelt in the mud. Carefully, with more tenderness than he ever thought he would use on Daryl, Rick rolled the bowman over onto his back. "Please," Rick whispered again when he saw the mask of blood covering Daryl's face. He didn't think he could hold his trembling fingers still long enough to feel a pulse, so Rick put his ear against Daryl's parted, swollen lips. "Please…" Eyes closed, his own breath held silently in his lungs, Rick waited for an exhale.

"Ain't gonna kiss me, are ya?" a hoarse voice grumbled.

A single short, wet laugh exploded from Rick's chest. He sat up and met Daryl's half-lidded eyes. "I might hug you," he admitted.

"That might kill me." Daryl wedged his elbows against the ground. He tried and failed to force himself up into a sitting position.

"Here. Come 'ere." Rick wrapped his arms around Daryl's upper body. He pulled Daryl far enough up off the ground that he could slide his left leg beneath his friend's spine, with his left arm pillowed under his head. "I've got water." Rick unscrewed the lid off a plastic bottle and tipped it against Daryl's mouth. "Just like feeding Judith," Rick teased.

Daryl ignored the comment. He swallowed every drop in a single breath and then basked in the sensation of not being thirsty. With no strength, let alone a reason to preserve some warped image of manliness, Daryl shut his eyes, relaxed in Rick's arms and allowed himself to just be held. Held while Rick wiped away the blood from his nose, his lips, and his chin.

Several minutes passed. Rick patted Daryl's cheek to keep him from dozing off. "Let me sleep or I'll bite you," Daryl threatened.

"The Walkers don't sleep, Daryl. You gotta get up."

With Rick's help, Daryl sat up straight, rested there for a moment, and then braced his legs while Rick pulled him up into a standing position. "Ah, shit," Daryl cursed when his knees started to buckle. He grabbed for the wagon, and Rick clutched him, and he hovered there for another long minute until he was certain he wouldn't fall over.

"Crazy shit, huh?" Daryl mumbled when a landmine exploded in the distance. "Landmines. These Dead Herders get some badass creds for that at least. So, what's the plan?"

"The plan?" Rick asked. "The plan is to get you and the others the hell out of here."

Daryl looked at him through a swollen eye. "Our people?"

"When these – these Dead Herders found the camp, Carl and Judith and I took off with Eugene and Gabriel. Everybody else is here. I've been watching for the past twenty-four hours, looking for you guys, looking for weaknesses. They're here - on different wagons that took different routes than yours. Everybody's trapped in the barn now."

"Great." Daryl rolled his eyes. "What's the plan for busting out everyone else? The other wagon people." Rick didn't respond. Daryl looked at his friend like he didn't recognize him. "Rick. Come on, man. I know you. I know you're not going to walk away when there's people being used like worms on a fishing line."

Rick's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "The one and only thing I care about right now is getting you somewhere safe." He started for the tractor cab, hoping to find keys to Daryl's shackles.

Daryl grabbed Rick's shoulder. "No," he said, his voice barely audible. "Just… No, Rick."

Rick stared at him. "No, what? Daryl—"

"If they ain't leaving, then I ain't either."

"Daryl, I need you! I need you." Rick wasn't sure where the hot, angry tears came from. They drowned his eyes. Daryl's face blurred. "I…" Rick started to say, but his emotions plugged his throat like a cork. "I need to tell you something. I need you to understand something," Rick whispered.

Daryl's facial expression asked the question: "What?"

Rick swallowed the air in his throat. "I… I don't think…" He dug his heel into the ground between them.

It was probably a waste of energy, but Daryl squeezed Rick's shoulder and said, "Spit it out, man."

"My first goal is to get you out of here because…" Rick took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Daryl's eyes. "Dammit, Daryl, my children can't survive this world without you," he whispered.

Daryl's lips parted. His eyes fixed on his boots. "Plenty of guys who can fire a crossbow," he said. Daryl wavered a bit and had to lean against the wagon. Fresh blood leaked out of his nose.

"That's not what I mean, Daryl." Rick grasped his friend's upper arms, then his shoulders, and then he cupped his cheeks with both hands. "I'd rather have this," Rick said, and he pointed at Daryl's heart. "I'd rather have you, brother, than a thousand crossbows."

Daryl frowned. "To protect your kids…?" He rubbed the back of his skull and found the reason why he was starting to see more than one Rick Grimes in front of him. No Hershel was needed to diagnose this hell of a concussion.

Rick's palms returned to Daryl's cheeks. "That's a given, but what I'm really talking about is the most important part of survival," he whispered. "I want Carl and Judith to survive as people. I want them to see how to be the best kind of person. To see a man who's loyal and selfless and strong. Daryl, I want them to have someone to admire. Somebody who…" Rick sighed and shook his head. Daryl saw the precise moment when he gave in to the ultimatum. "Somebody who would risk his life for a hundred strangers."

Daryl's bangs were in his face, so Rick wasn't sure if those were tears or drops of sweat. "I ain't no role model," he whispered. Daryl wiped his nose with his fist and sniffed. "But I kinda like being Little Asskicker's uncle."

Rick grinned. "God help the first boy she dates."

Daryl's eyes flashed. "The first boy who looks at her is gonna get an arrow up his ass!" Daryl tried to talk again his words slurred together. He teetered, caught himself, and managed to say, "Rick, I can't - I can't s-stand up anymore." Daryl crumpled.

"Daryl!" Rick fell with him, clutching Daryl's cheek against his chest. Daryl stayed conscious long enough to frown about being held like a child, but then his eyes rolled back into his skull and he passed out.

"Shit," Rick sputtered.

"Double shit for you," said a female voice. Rick looked up to find a brown-haired, blue-eyed woman in her fifties pointing a pair of revolvers at his head. As she approached he caught a whiff of oatmeal from the apron she wore. "I don't know who you are, but I'm gonna call you stupid," she purred. "So, come on, Mr. Stupid. Let's go to the barn together. If you'd carry your friend there, I'd appreciate it." She tossed him a set of keys.

Rick put one hand up in surrender after he unshackled Daryl. "Ma'am, my name is—"

A bullet whizzed past Rick's neck, taking a few hairs from his beard with it. "No time for chitchat, Mr. Stupid. Time for you to get moving."

Glaring, nostrils flaring, Rick slowly stood and held up both palms. "Ya'll got good intentions, wanting to get rid of the Walkers. But this ain't the civilized way to do it."

Bullet number two missed Daryl's shoulder by an inch. "Let me be clear, sir," the woman said. "Patience ain't one of my virtues. You move right now, or I'll shoot your friend here in the face. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Rick growled. He yanked Daryl up into a standing position and then tossed him over his shoulder. The woman kept her right gun on Daryl and her left on Rick as she steered him to the barn. Two guards, one she referred to as "son," pulled open the barn door. The second that Rick's boot touched the threshold, the woman's son kicked him in the back and launched him into the room. Daryl went flying and Rick ended up face down in moldy hay.

Rick looked up to see Glenn and Maggie's shocked faces. "I, uh…" he stuttered. "I'm here to rescue you."

The Pierce's three-story barn was smaller but newer than Hershel's. They'd reinforced the walls with aluminum panels and stuffed every window with barbed wire. Like everywhere else, there was no electricity – every necessity was lit by lanterns and flashlights. The current residents – the Chomper Bait – did their best to make living there more manageable. The clean straw was shoveled to one corner, and the moldy hay to another. Saucers that used to hold milk for kittens now caught rainwater that dripped from marble-sized holes in the ceiling. Mama Pierce gave them enough oatmeal for each man, woman, and child to have almost half a cup. They were in the middle of eating when two more inmates were tossed through the door. Tyreese, Rosita, and Maggie immediately combined all their oatmeal into one bowl and gave it to Carol, who managed to coax Daryl to swallow it down.

Daryl lay on his back in a single layer of hay with his head pillowed in Carol's lap. When he finished the oatmeal, he started to fidget. "What's wrong?" she asked him, running her fingers through his hair. "I mean, what's wrong-er?"

"Not a big fan of all this attention," Daryl croaked. His pseudo-family had gathered around him in a tight circle. Ten faces stared: Carol, Rick, Glenn, Maggie, Rosita, Abraham, Sasha, Michonne, Tara, and Tyreese.

Rick gave pointed looks at some of them. Michonne, Rosita, Abraham, Sasha, Tara, and Tyreese politely excused themselves and moved a few feet away to give Daryl some space. They joined a group of adults listening to an elderly woman tell stories about her grandchildren (the best entertainment they could find). "Better?" Rick asked Daryl when it was just their original family… what was left of them: Rick, Daryl, Carol, Glenn, and Maggie.

"I'll live." Daryl took a deep breath and winced his way through the exhale. He coughed, and suddenly his eyes went wide when he couldn't inhale.

"Sit him up!" Maggie squeaked. She grabbed onto Daryl's jacket and pulled while Rick pushed. Glenn reached across Carol and smacked Daryl in the back. He coughed, and blood splashed across Carol's jeans. "Rick, keep him upright. Even if he passes out, keep him up."

Rick scooted behind Daryl. He sat up straight with his back against a haystack and pulled Daryl's spine against his chest. Daryl's head lolled against his shoulder. His labored breathing sounded like a panting dog. When he started to sag to the left, Rick wrapped his arms around his body and held him still. "Is he gonna be ok?" Rick asked. He looked around the circle for an answer. "Maggie?"

Maggie jumped a few inches. "I don't know," she whispered. "Rick, I'm sorry, real sorry, but I just don't know." She pressed the back of her hand against Daryl's pale cheek and then his sweating brow. Glenn cocked his eyebrows and Maggie just shook her head at him.

"We have to get him out of here. Get him some fresh water, have him rest," said Carol. "Rick, I think he's really in trouble. He looks as bad as I did when I was bleeding internally."

"Shut up, I'm fine," Daryl mumbled. "Can take on… all of ya…" He made a fist but couldn't lift it.

"If we can figure out where they're storing their weapons then we might have a shot," Glenn said.

"Nobody gets out of this barn unless they're in shackles," Maggie reminded him. "They take us to the wagons straight from here. If we're going to escape it needs to be before we're out there surrounded by landmines."

"I've seen at least six automatic weapons and one grenade launcher," Carol reported. "Rosita counted seven shotguns and two sniper rifles."

"Damn," Rick muttered. "Do we know anything about these people? How many there are? Who the leader is?"

Glenn pointed over his shoulder. Daryl recognized the same kid – the one in the Braves hat. "Antonio told me that this is the Pierce Plantation. He and his family lived about five miles north of here. Got snatched up just like we did."

"If we can just hold out for a couple more days, maybe we'll be able to get enough intel to plan an escape," Maggie said.

Carol's fingers returned to Daryl's hair. "He doesn't have a couple days."

"He doesn't have twelve hours," Rick said.

"Quit talkin' 'bout me like I ain't here." Daryl sounded like he was trying to talk around a swollen tongue.

"What do you mean twelve hours?" Glenn asked Rick.

"I mean I found him because they left him out there to get eaten. It was an execution. If they don't kill him tonight, they'll do it at dawn."

Tears hovered in Maggie's eyes. "Then what do we do?"

"Carl," Daryl grunted. He cleared his throat and coughed against Rick's collarbone. "Carl'll come through for us."

Carl Grimes was a lousy singer, so he just rehearsed the lullaby in what he hoped was a soothing whisper. "A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain softly blows o'er Lullaby Bay. It fills the sails of boats that are waiting… waiting to sail your worries away." He placed a delicate kiss on his sister's forehead and said, "Taka a nap, Judy. I think it's gonna be a hell of a night."

Father Gabriel's face scrunched up like he smelled something rotten or tasted something sour. "Is it necessary to use such language?" he asked as Carl put the baby in a wicker basket stuffed with tattered blankets. Judith cooed a series of vowels at him, and then passed out asleep in the middle of her own sentence.

Carl flicked his hat up a few inches so that he could look Gabriel in the eye. "Is that really what any of us should be worrying about?" the boy asked. He gestured to the Grimes group's camp. "My dad and the others are missing. All I have to work with is an infant, a cowardly priest and a socially awkward liar – hey! What are you doing with our tents?" Carl hissed at Eugene, who crouched across the campfire from him.

Eugene froze. He had a knife in his right hand and his mullet was tied off his neck with a shoestring. "We need a distraction. I'm building a distraction."

"With our tents?" Carl fumed.

"And a tricycle," Eugene said. Carl couldn't tell if he was serious. "As many stones and bricks as we can find, too. Lots of debris in the woods if you pay attention. If all goes according to plan I should be ready before sun up."

"Are we seriously considering trying to rescue them?" Gabriel asked. "The three of us verses Walkers and a horde of inbred rednecks with grenade launchers and landmines? We'll die trying."

"Yes," Carl said matter-of-factly, "yeah, we will. That's what we do. My dad and Daryl wouldn't leave you behind if you were in there, no matter how useless you are."

"They know how to shoot a gun!" Gabriel reminded him. "I don't even feel comfortable holding one!"

"Then you'll hold the baby," Carl decided. "You babysit Judith, Eugene will cause the distraction, and I'll rescue everyone. How does that sound?"

"Awful," Eugene said without looking up from his task. "Ultimately doomed to failure."

Carl ignored him. He took his dad's binoculars out of his jacket pocket and scanned the woods for the fifth time in ten minutes. The forest was empty. Most of the local Walkers were either in the fields or on their way to them. Even the birds had been scared off by the landmine blasts. It was almost midnight, and no cavalry was coming to his rescue.

Carl was alone.

With his binoculars, he located an odd-looking tree about thirty yards away. A few adjustments with the binocular's zoom and he managed to focus on something round on the tree bark. Curious, he stepped over the fire, ignored Gabriel's questions, and marched to the tree. The carving was a circle with an "X" in the center – or maybe an "X" with a circle around it, he wasn't sure. He'd seen that symbol before. Several times. But he didn't think once about it, let alone twice. Curious, Carl raised the binoculars again and looked around. There – another one – another mark on a tree another thirty yards away. After chasing down two more, Carl came across the symbol on the ground, carved into a slab of stone the size of a coffin lid. Below that was a plaque screwed into the rock. Carl kicked the stray stones and leaves away, wiped it clean with his shirt sleeve and pointed his flashlight at it. He scanned a bunch of names and dates, noted that the author was the Georgia Historical Society, and then found the miracle he was hoping for.

The plaque read:

Although the escape routes that slaves used during the American Civil War were called the Underground Railroad, they were never on train tracks, and were rarely located under ground. This is a common misconception. The slaves walked north, usually at night, from safe house to safe house. Some traveled with a guide, others followed the North Star, and a variety of secret symbols carved into trees.

Carl shined his flashlight back on the symbol on the trees. Lips twitching in a slight smile, he returned his attention to the plaque.

One exception to the rule is the Pierce Plantation. The Pierce family settled on this property in 1777. They owned several dozen indentured servants – as many as a hundred at one point. According to local folklore, the Pierce's only removed their slaves' chains when they were locked in the barracks at night. They were shackled all day, even in the cotton fields. That left the slaves no choice but to spend their nights digging an underground tunnel from the barracks into the woods. From there they would find the symbols and start their journey north.

"Holy cow," Carl breathed. Grunting, he shifted the stone slab as far to the side as possible, and discovered a fathomless, Tyreese-sized, dead dark hole in the earth. A flick of Carl's head and he dropped his sheriff's hat on the ground, and then jumped into the tunnel.

Carl began to crawl on dirty hands and even dirtier knees. He remembered seeing Daryl hold a flashlight in his mouth and Carl did the same so that he could pick up speed. The sloping tunnel twisted around tree roots. As he traveled he lost all sense of direction, and a fair amount of time. It was at least fifteen minutes before the tunnel sloped upwards again. Wider, more compacted dirt awaited Carl at the end. He pointed his flashlight up and found a slab of wood. It was heavy, and with each inch more loose stones and spiders rained down on him, but he was able to scooch it far enough to peer out.

"Holy crap," Carl whispered. The slave barracks had long since been converted into a tool shed. Carl found hammers, saws, drills, crowbars, and many more tools that he didn't know the names of. Since The Turn, the Pierce's had converted the tool shed into their arsenal. Carl couldn't begin to count all the guns, packs of ammo, grenades, etc. He tiptoed through the bus-sized shed to the moonlight that snuck through the closed door. It was locked from the outside, but Carl had several pairs of bolt cutters to choose from. When the chains fell away, Carl opened the door as slowly as possible, and just as silently.

Seeing no one, hearing no one, Carl emerged and said, "Holy shit" when he realized where he was. Carl clamped his hands over his mouth. He didn't want a shout of joy to wake up the people in the plantation house. The shed was attached to the rear of the chicken coops. Carl was only twenty yards away from the barn.

Gabriel was pacing when Carl got back to the camp. Eugene was hyper focused, concentrating so hard on his little tent-tricycle project that he hadn't even noticed that Carl had left. "Where the hell did you go?" Gabriel bellowed. He immediately clapped his hands over his mouth, shocked at the words he'd used.

Carl, all smiles, said, "I know how to save them."

It wasn't the sound of Rick's voice that woke Daryl up. Daryl had slept through a lot of things in his life. But the urgency, the anxiety that tinted Rick's words, that was what his unconscious brain determined was more important that sleep. Daryl blindly reached for his weapons, but his knife and crossbow were nowhere to be found. Gentle hands grasped his wrist, and a calloused thumb rubbed his palm. "You're missing it," Carol whispered.

"Is he giving another damn speech?" Daryl grunted. He started blinking his eyes before he tried to see with them. The barn came into view – three stories of nasty hay and sunburned faces and scared kids. Almost a hundred people, he reckoned. Every flashlight was pointed at Rick. It put him literally in the spotlight.

A swift exhale through her nose was the closest that Carol came to a laugh. "It's a good speech. You don't want to miss it."

"How many times has he used the word 'together'?"

"Enough that if we made a drinking game of it we'd both be on our asses."

"I'm not on my ass I'm just…" Daryl did a sit up and managed it without getting dizzy. Nauseated, yes, but not dizzy. "Well, now I'm on my ass. But that's an improvement." Carol gave him a patient smile. "Stop."

"And this is the most important thing," Rick was saying. He stood in the center of the barn on a bale of hay, and rotated as he spoke to make eye contact with everyone. "We have to stick together. This won't work unless we're all in. Our only advantage is our numbers. We gotta use it." Rick glanced at Daryl and saw that he was awake. He checked his watch, took a deep breath and said, "The sunrise is in thirty minutes. Get ready."

"You ever think of going into politics?" Daryl asked. The second that Rick jumped down from the hay, two-thirds of the people in the barn jumped up and started looking for stray nails, sharp pieces of wood, string, anything they could use to fight their captors.

Rick smiled a tired smile. "It's not hard to convince people to fight for their own lives."

"What's the plan?" Daryl asked.

"The Pierce's, they'll open the barn at sunrise. We'll all gather at the door and storm them, hard and fast. People who have been here the longest say that there aren't any more than four men escorting them to the wagons at once. We catch 'em off guard, get their weapons, make for the woods. Make for the camp."

Daryl squinted. "Got me thinking about Terminus. About how they gassed us through the roof of that train car. Are you sure this is gonna work?"

"From the sound of it they never vary their routines. I'm not worried," Rick said. Daryl caught him glancing at the ceiling, and Rick blushed. "Maybe a little bit. Mostly because it'll slow me down if I have to carry your ass out of here."

"You better not leave me behind. I'm precious cargo. If you'd avoid any pressure here or here," Daryl said, pointing at his head and his ribs, "I'd appreciate it."

Rick's smile widened. "If I said that you'd call me a pussy."

"Yep. Yeah, I would."

"So charming," Carol said, rolling her eyes. "Let's get you on your feet, Prince Charming." Carol took one hand and Rick took the other, and together they helped Daryl stand up.

"See, I'm better – feeling a lot better," Daryl said a tad too quietly. He kept his arms around their shoulders for a good twenty seconds before removing them. He stayed up, solid and still. "You don't have to carry me, Rick. Now there ain't nothin' to worry about."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," a new voice boomed so loudly that it echoed off the wood and aluminum walls. A dozen guns were cocked at once, reminding Daryl of popcorn popping. "Where you see strength in numbers," the voice continued, "I see camouflage. I see infiltration." A figure walked forward out of one of a million shadows. Tobacco rotated between his cheeks. His tongue rolled, and his lips molded, and the patriarch of the Pierce family spit a wad of tobacco at Rick's boots. "It's just so easy to hide in this crowd." Figures stepped forward with handguns pulled out of overalls and vest pockets. Rick recognized half of them from his observations in the trees. He shifted to his left one slow inch after another until his chest was between the bullets and Daryl's heart.

"I told this one that I could smell trouble on him," the Patriarch said, gesturing at Daryl. "But it's you. You're the real threat. The voice of any group is stronger than the muscle."

"Stay behind me," Rick whispered to Daryl and Carol. He sensed others moving closer, guarding his flank. Shapes in his peripheral vision that were Sasha-shaped and Abraham-shaped.

The Patriarch jumped on the same bale of hay that Rick just vacated. He turned in a circle as he spoke, too. "I like to do this every so often. Sneak myself and a few of the boys in with the crowd. See if anyone here is stupid enough to plan an escape." His attention returned to Rick. "I'm sorry, son. You won't be alive long enough to see how your little revolution works out."

The barn seemed to hold its breath. One hundred people stared at the Patriarch as he took a small jar of chewing tobacco out of his back pocket and stuffed the contents into his cheek. "Jeremy," he said to one of the armed men, "would you escort Mr. Grimes up here, please? Thank you, son." He gestured at the floor at the foot of the hay bale. Rick gave Daryl and Carol an 'it will be all right' look and allowed the man to take him by the arm and lead him to the Patriarch's feet. Jeremy kicked his knees from behind and Rick ended up kneeling right in the tobacco spit splash zone. "Rick Grimes…" the Patriarch began. "Sir, it's been a privilege listening to you and your friends' adventures these past few hours. You've been through hell time and time again. And you, Rick, you always come through. You think you'll come through for these people." The Patriarch gestured to the crowd. "You're their own personal Moses – destined to lead the slaves out of captivity and into the Promised Land." A wad of tobacco the size of Rick's thumbnail splattered on the ground an inch from his knee. "I respect you, sir." After the jar was back in his left pocket, the Patriarch retrieved a handgun out of his right. Like an anxious child clicking a pen, he cocked his gun, un-cocked it, and cocked it again. "I respect you, but I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you, and all of your friends."

Rick's skin instantly transformed from bone-dry to soaking in sweat. He glared up at the Patriarch with clenched teeth. "I'm not trying to be Moses," he declared. "I'm just trying to protect the people I love from crazy sons of bitches like you."

"Crazy?" This time the tobacco hit Rick's pants. "The world's gone to hell, boy. What's crazy is failing to do anything and everything we can to save it. Sacrifices must be made. Many must die so that a few can survive. My family and I are alive because we use Chomper Bait. You must die because you're trying to take our bait away. And I have to wonder…" The Patriarch snapped the clip out of his gun, turned it over and dumped all the bullets into his palm. "I have to wonder why you bother. Do you really not see the patterns in your stories?"

Rick dug his fingers into his thighs and held his tongue.

"Please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong," the Patriarch said. "I only heard your story once, but I'll do my best to summarize it." He held up one of the bullets so that the whole barn could see. "You, Rick Grimes, you fought your way to your family. You had a nice safe campsite and then… Then it all went to hell." The Patriarch dropped the bullet back into the clip. He picked up another. "You went to the CDC and that went to hell." Number two slid down into the clip. "You went to a farm – hell. A prison, a terminus, a church…" After each location he dropped another bullet. "Did I forget anything?"

"Yeah, the part where I paid your mom a visit," Daryl quipped. He made a lewd gesture that caused the Patriarch's face to turn red. Jeremy didn't wait for the order. He grabbed Daryl by the jacket and shoved him down to the floor beside Rick, who helped him back up to his knees.

"This is my point," the Patriarch growled, his eyes darting back and forth between Rick and Daryl. "This is your pattern: no matter what you do, Rick, it goes to Hell. Everywhere you go is dangerous. Everyone you save will die." The Patriarch jumped down from the bale, put his fists on his knees and leaned towards Rick's face. "You listed some of their names. T, Sophia, Dale, Andrea, Hershel, Lori…" In his peripheral vision, Rick saw Daryl reach for him. His hand gripped Rick's shoulder – to show his support or to steady himself, Rick wasn't sure. "You aren't Moses. You're Sisyphus."

"Who the hell is Sissy-puss?" Daryl asked.

Maggie, who stood between Glenn and Carol, spoke up. "Sisyphus is a Greek myth," she said. Muscles in her throat vibrated as she cleared it. "A deceitful man went to hell. His punishment was to roll a giant boulder up a hill every day for all eternity. And every time he got the boulder to the top, it rolled all the way back down."

"That's right, Maggie." The Patriarch smiled at Rick with a mouth full of yellow-brown teeth. "You aren't on an exodus to the Promised Land, Rick Grimes. You're just pushing a boulder up a hill." He raised his gun and gently pressed it against Rick's forehead. "How about I put you out of your misery?"

Daryl's fingers trembled and the muscles in his cheeks twitched. "Don't," he said, and then whispered, "please."

Déjà vu passed through Rick's heart. He knew what his friend was going to say next. "Stay out of this, Daryl," he begged.

"It's me you wanted to execute." Daryl spread his arms. "You want blood? Take mine."

"It's not blood I want," the Patriarch growled. "What I really want is…" Suddenly he sheathed his weapon and stood up straight. "Chad, how many Chompers are in the field right now?"

"Two dozen, last I saw, Pa," the blond guard reported.

The Patriarch pointed at Rick and Daryl. "Lock up the barn," he barked. "Let's take these two for a walk."

Fog hovered in the Pierce Plantation fields. The neon orange flags that marked the safe routes between rows of landmines were only visible when Rick and Daryl were almost on top of them. Jeremy, Chad, and the Patriarch seemed to have the path memorized. They steered Rick and Daryl by pressing their guns against their spines. Rick looked at the eastern horizon and saw the first ray of sunlight sneak through tree branches. He took a deep breath, savoring the oxygen, the mist, and a whiff of lavender coming from the woods. Not a bad palette of scents for his final seconds. Rick dug deep into his heart's mind and found four memories to hold him afloat: racing bikes in the school parking lot with Shane, Lori smiling on their wedding day, Carl saying "Daddy" for the first time, and Judith giggling while Daryl played peek-a-boo.

CRACK

Rick jumped at the shotgun blast. He whirled left, half-expecting, and one hundred percent terrified to see if the gun took Daryl's head off, but it was just Jeremy sniping a Walker. Daryl mirrored Rick's expression of terror and when both saw that the other was intact, they shared a relieved smile. "It's been a hell of a ride," Daryl said. "Guess this is the part where I'm supposed to say that, uh, of all the cops who have pointed a gun at me, you're the least… pussy-ish."

"Pussy-ish?" A crack of a laugh erupted from Rick's chest. "Love you, too."

Daryl nodded. Rick nodded back, and then wrapped the four memories around his heart and prepared himself.

Prepared to fight like hell.

A landmine went off less than fifty feet away. Rick felt it in the ground and his ears started to ring. "Pa…" Chad said from behind Daryl's shoulder. "We're almost at the creek. Is this, uh, is this far enough…?"

"The watchtower," the Patriarch said. He was huffing and puffing from the long walk. "There's rope in the closet. I want them tied up. Nice and pretty like Thanksgiving dinner."

Rick saw the watchtower rise from the fog like the mast of a ship. "Tower" was far too flattering of a word to describe it. It was little more than a fifteen-foot-high staircase in the middle of the field. The plywood that encircled the stairs seemed as flimsy as a bed sheet on a laundry line. Rick imagined a support beam snapping like a toothpick when he leaned against it but, unfortunately, those columns were practically made of steel compared to the rest of it. While the Patriarch pointed the guns, Chad flattened Daryl against a column as wide as he was. He tied Daryl's wrists behind his back. Next, he wrapped thick cords across Daryl's chest, rendering his arms less than useless. When he bent to tie up Daryl's knees, the Patriarch stopped him. "Leave their legs free," he ordered. "It's only fair to give them a little bit of a chance to defend themselves." Jeremy tied Rick up the same way against the other pole. Daryl was on Rick's left, more than an arm's reach and a half away.

"I'm staying down here. Up you go. Both of you." The Patriarch pointed at the watchtower. "Keep your guns pointed down at them. When I give you the signal, or if one of them manages to get loose, shoot them both in the head."

The two boys exchanged glances. "You're not coming up?" Chad asked. "Pa, you can see them get chewed up just fine from the tower. It ain't a front row seat but it's close enough."

The Patriarch answered them with the sternest of looks. Jeremy and Chad shrugged and climbed up the stairs. Rick felt the vibrations of their boots on the wood. When the boys were out of earshot, the Patriarch walked up to Rick. Before Rick could react, he took a knife out of a sheath hidden in the small of his back, lifted it high and plunged it down. Rick shut his eyes. He heard Daryl yell, "NO!" and felt the rush of wind of the descending weapon.

The Patriarch embedded the blade in the wood two centimeters from Rick's ear. When Rick opened his eyes, he found the man's face inches from his – nose nearly touching nose, sour breath against his chin. "Tell me," the man hissed, "tell me what you did to get those Chompers out of that prison yard."

Rick was taken aback. Far back. "What? We killed them."

"No shit." The Patriarch's eyes looked watery. "Not all at once. Not through three layers of fences. You had to get inside to corral them. How did you do that?"

"Uh, we, uh…" Rick stammered. "We drew them away from the door. While I made a run for it the others got their attention – yelled, banged on the fence, stuck their fingers through—"

"Ha!" the Patriarch said with half a laugh.

Rick heard the frown in Daryl's voice when he spoke. "It's not the same thing, man."

"You used them," the Patriarch said to Rick. Excitement bumped his voice up an octave. "You lured the Chompers by using living humans. Just like us."

"Those 'living humans' were my friends!" Rick spat back. "They helped willingly. They were out of danger behind the fences. They weren't slaves shackled to a wagon!" The Patriarch's face fell for half a moment before it flickered back to normal. Rick scrambled to get his thoughts together. Part of him calculated that this conversation would either save or damn him. He sensed the man's desperation, his confliction, his confusion. Rick knew what the man wanted him to say.

And he wouldn't say it.

"Never, ever in a million years will your actions be justified," Rick said. He felt something wash over him – something resembling peace. "I won't tell you you're right. I won't tell you that you had no choice. You and I are not the same and you are not forgiven."

The Patriarch opened his mouth to speak.

That was when a tricycle flew out of the trees.

Glenn pressed his nose against the barn door and watched, through an infinitesimal hole, as Daryl and Rick were marched into the fields. Maggie came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll see them again," she said, and it was the worst lie Glenn had ever heard her tell.

Abraham was pacing the floor. "We can still do it," he said in a drill Sargent's voice. "We can all still pounce the next time those doors open. Just because Rick and Daryl are gone doesn't mean we're dead."

Michonne stepped into his path. She didn't say anything, didn't do anything but stare him down. He got the message. He shut up.

"Can you see them?" Sasha asked Glenn. She tried to find a peephole of her own but most of the barn was watertight.

"It's too foggy," Glenn complained. The noise of a shot echoed off the house, off the stables, off the chicken coops. Everyone gasped. They looked to Glenn for answers he couldn't give. "I don't know," he said. "I can't see if – if that hit them."

"It didn't." Carol spoke with finality. Like a prophet. "Those men… They're walking miracles. Almost like nothing can kill them."

"Knock on wood," Tara said. She bumped her knuckle against the barn wall for luck.

Tyreese, who stood in the rear of the group, jumped when a hand tugged on his sleeve. He looked down and saw Antonio, the boy in the Braves hat. "Hey, little man," Tyreese greeted. "You need something?"

The boy's English was strong, but so was his accent, and he had to ask his question twice for Tyreese to understand. "That man's name was Daryl?"

Tyreese shook his head. "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

Antonio adjusted his hat. "He was on the wagon. He was nice to me."

More noise – more of a crash than the clap of gunfire. "The hell…?" Glenn whispered. He leaned up from the door, wiped his eye and then peeked through again.

"Glenn?" Maggie pressed.

"I, uh…" Glenn cleared his throat. "I swear I just saw a red tricycle fly out of the trees and hit a landmine. Holy shit – there's a hubcap – there's a boulder!"

"What?" half of the group gasped. An almighty racket rose from the fields. Individual landmines every other second, but then so many that they merged together. It was like someone was jumping on a sheet of bubble wrap – if the bubbles were the size of hot air balloons.

Glenn clapped his hands over his ears and kept reporting everything he saw. "It's coming from the south tree line. Bricks, logs, shoes, hammers, ashtrays, basketballs, coffee cups… That – that was a possum. Holy – that's a bowling ball!"

Rosita lied down on her stomach. She pressed her ear against the floor and crawled until she discovered a small gap between the wooden wall and the wooden floor. She found one just in time to see a small television smash into one of the watchtowers. A nearby Walker got caught in the blast and flew in four different directions. "It's just a bunch of junk!" she reported to whoever was in earshot. "Somebody's throwing it!"

"There's no way someone could throw a bicycle that far!" Sasha said.

"So, what, is somebody shooting stuff out of a cannon?"

Michonne shook her head. "Wouldn't fit. It's gotta be a slingshot of some sort. Somebody built a damn catapult in the woods!"

"Eugene?" Rosita and Abraham said.

Sasha laced her fingers and rested her palms on the top of her head. "Why?"

Maggie could barely be heard over the sound of so many landmines erupting at once. "To set off the mines! To spring the snares and the bear traps!"

"Well that's quite a show but we're still stuck in the barn!" Carol sputtered.

"No, we're not." Tyreese was the only one facing the back of the barn. His grin took up his whole face. He tapped on Carol's shoulder, who tapped Maggie, who tapped Glenn, who tapped Michonne, and so on. The whole group turned just in time to see a chainsaw take out the last panel of wood in the center of the back wall. Nobody heard its rumbling over the cacophony outside. It powered down, went silent, and then a boot kicked the new door to the ground. Standing there with a chainsaw in his hands, a Samurai sword over one shoulder, and a crossbow over the other, with his dad's hat perched lopsidedly on his head, was Carl Grimes.

Carl tried to stifle his proud smile, but he couldn't help it. "Follow me."

Rick watched, with eyes so wide they hurt, as the little red tricycle smashed into the ground and tripped a landmine. It exploded into smaller pieces that were still large enough to set off more landmines. The Patriarch frowned at Rick's expression – assuming that it was just a ruse to make him turn around – but he couldn't help but look when so many bombs erupted at once. He pivoted, and stumbled back in shock. A muddy football beheaded a Walker on its way down, missed a landmine, and rolled into the creek bed. Two lace-less boots ricocheted off the watchtower, flew spinning to the left and right, and exploded into nothing but rubber confetti. At that second, Daryl kicked the Patriarch's handgun out of his grasp, jumped, and wrapped his legs around the man's neck. Sweaty hands clawed at Daryl's pants, punched his boots, elbowed his shinbones. Daryl roared in pain when the Patriarch kicked him in the chest. Rick heard something crack.

Rick rotated his head to the left. The Patriarch's knife stuck out of the wooden column at his eyelevel. By standing on his tiptoes, Rick was able to clamp his teeth onto the sweat and tobacco-soaked handle. Pulling a knife out of solid wood with his teeth was harder than holding a Walker back with one hand. He tried to wiggle it back and forth, up and down, and back and forth again. One of his teeth cracked right down to the gum. When it finally loosened, the weight hit him all at once. Rick wasn't prepared for the bulk of it and it nearly slipped out of his bite. Using his tongue and shaking his head to the side little by little, Rick managed to rotate the knife until he held onto it with his front teeth and it stuck straight out of his mouth like a tongue. "Dare-oh!" he grunted at his friend. "Dare-oh!"

The Patriarch was too strong for the weakened archer. Daryl just couldn't adjust his grip enough to break his enemy's neck, or squeeze his knees enough to suffocate him. So instead, he lined the Patriarch up with Rick and kicked as hard as he could. With a cry, the Patriarch stumbled backwards, just as speedy as the bricks raining down around them. The space where his neck and skull met slammed right into Rick's knife. He was dead before he hit the ground. "Toss it," Daryl grunted. He slid straight down, twisted as far as the ropes would let him, and wiggled his fingers at Rick.

Rick had to throw the knife three feet and miraculously managed to only be three inches short of his goal. "Left," Rick directed. Daryl's fingers scratched through the grass. "Another inch." When the pads of Daryl's fingers found the hilt, the knife was instantly flipped over and he started sawing through the ropes.

Another series of explosions courtesy of a couple of tires. Those ones were close enough that Rick's ears started ringing, and for a whole minute that was all he could hear. His brain tried to comprehend what was going on. Nothing about a porcelain poodle falling and shattering on an iron bear trap made sense. He was going over every option when Daryl finally cut and shrugged off his ropes. He took one step towards Rick, stopped, and threw the knife. Rick felt it whizz by his ear and heard a grunt when it hit its target. Rick looked back over his shoulder and saw Chad topple over with the blade in his throat. Daryl stumbled over, dislodged the knife and started sawing away at Rick's bonds. "You see the other one?" he asked.

"Jeremy? No. Think this is Eugene's doing?"

Daryl looked around the field at the Walkers getting knocked down like bowling pins, the bear traps snapping like crocodile jaws, and the wire snares zipping left and right. He shook his head in awe at the sight of a crooked golf club flying end over end out of the tree line to pierce a Walker right through the eye socket. "Don't give a shit if it's the Easter Bunny," Daryl snorted, "we're getting out of here."

"You son of a bitch!" a voice roared. Jeremy appeared out of the fog of smoke and dust. The shotgun he pointed alternated between Daryl's face and Rick's. "You better say your prayers right now!"

"Don't!" Rick screamed when Daryl pounced between him and the gun.

A torrential downpour of bullets. Somewhere beyond the fog a dozen automatic weapons opened fire. Jeremy was shot in the head right as his finger twitched against the trigger. Daryl caught the shotgun with one hand as Jeremy dropped to the dirt. A bullet nicked the watchtower and Rick slid down the pole, landing on his butt with his upper body still tethered to the column. "Stay low!" Daryl shouted. He started to cut the binds but first things first – he crouched behind Rick and shielded his friend's body with his own. Rick couldn't be a smaller target with the ropes situated where they were, so Daryl opted to be a bigger one. "Are they shooting at the Walkers?"

"At the tree line." Rick looked up at the sky. He saw sunlight, Walker bits flying about with the bullets, but no more tricycles. "Dammit, whoever was catapulting that debris isn't doing it anymore. Might've got hit."

Daryl finally broke through the ropes around Rick's wrists, so he got to work on his torso. "I'm sure it ain't Carl. I'm sure."

"I'm sure it is Eugene," Rick said sadly. "We have to get back to the others. Maybe this chaos gave them a chance to escape." When he was finally free, when the bullets faded out and then stopped altogether, Rick held up his hand and let Daryl pull him to his feet. Both men heard gunshots again. They judged the sound and calculated that the weapons weren't facing them anymore. Rick started to move out from the shelter of the watchtower.

"Whoa, hey, whoa." Daryl grabbed Rick's elbow. "You best look where you're going."

Rick followed Daryl's pointing finger. "Oh, no," he moaned.

A neon orange flag was on fire. More were scattered about on the visible ground. The landmines had uprooted the markers. There was no safe passage through the field now.

Glenn went into kid-in-a-candy-store mode when Carl opened the shed door. He stuffed his pants pockets with ammo and grenades, hung two knives from his belt and hoisted a semi-automatic over each shoulder. "If people hurry they can make it through in ten minutes," Carl was explaining about the Underground Railroad. Michonne was reacquainting herself with her sword while Tyreese and Sasha examined the tunnel. "Everybody should arm themselves – take a weapon before then go into the tunnel, just in case."

Rosita and Abraham stood just outside the door with ten civilians. "In case of what?" she asked.

"Eugene's in the woods and I left Gabriel guarding the other end of the tunnel," Carl said. "With all this racket we might find some Walkers waiting for us. He's got Judith. He'll just run."

"We should hurry!" Abraham barked. "That commotion'll wake the Herders up any second."

"I'll lead the first group," Rosita volunteered. "See you all on the other side." She took a rifle and a flashlight, and slid feet first into the hole. Antonio tossed his Braves hat aside and crawled in after her.

Glenn, Sasha, and Michonne joined Abraham outside. "We should move people from the barn in groups of ten," Glenn recommended. "I don't want them standing in line. The Herders will notice us for sure."

Carl led the group back towards the barn. "I think they're pretty damn distracted," Abraham said. Four men and two women armed with automatic weapons ran from the front porch of the plantation house to the edge of the field. One of the bricks catapulted so far that it nearly hit the Pierce's matriarch in the head.

"Carol!" Glenn yelled when he entered the barn. "Grab ten people and follow Sasha to the shed. Tara! Gather up ten more. You, too, Maggie." The crowd was reluctant at first, and moved in brief, short distance blobs, but as soon as they were outside in the fresh dawn air they seemed to snap out of some sort of apathy. Adults started pushing kids towards the front of the line. It was slow going. Some people complained about claustrophobia, or fear of spiders or snakes. They picked up the pace again, though, when the Pierce's started shooting their guns at the forest.

When almost half of the people were in the tunnel, including Carol, Tara, and Maggie, Carl noticed that others were missing. "Glenn, where's Daryl?" he shouted. "Where's my dad?"

Glenn grasped Carl's shoulder and leaned over so that he could make eye contact at eye-level. "They were taken out to the field. Once everyone else is in the tunnel, I'll go after them."

Carl paled. Landmines were still exploding in the distance. Rustles and growls from the south side of the woods preluded more Walkers. "I'll go with you," Carl said to Glenn. He stood up straight and stuck his chin out, expecting an argument. "I want to help!"

Glenn had his game face on. "Good," he said. He held Carl's eyes and nodded firmly. "I'm going to need your help." The Pierce family stopped firing at the ghosts in the woods and stood on the edge of the field staring, dumbfounded, at the smoke rising from the landmines and the herd of approaching Walkers drawn by the sound. One of the watchtowers collapsed like a tower of Jenga blocks. Glenn turned to the others. He cocked his shotgun by shaking it once up and down with one hand. "Listen up—"

Even with all the noise, somehow one gunshot stood out. It was meant for Glenn's head. It should've hit Glenn's head, but Abraham must have seen the sniper in the plantation house window because he stepped forward and accepted the bullet into his own body. It sliced his heart in two and his spine into pieces. He was gone – long gone – before he hit the ground. As one, Glenn, Carl, Tyreese, and Michonne pivoted towards the window and opened fire. Daryl's crossbow slid, unnoticed, off Carl's shoulder. Tyreese started sprinting towards the house. The others called him back, but he shouldered his way through the front door. Sasha heard the commotion and ran in after him.

Their shouts of fury combined with the automatic weapons fire drew the rest of the Pierce family's attention. One of the civilians – a middle-aged woman – was gunned down as she jogged towards the shed. "Cover them!" Glenn shouted, his voice more broken than whole. He winced as he stepped over Abraham's body. Focusing all his anger into his gun must have empowered it because he hit two Pierce-shaped silhouettes. Michonne and Carl stood on either side of him and laid down cover fire as the last group ran from the barn to the tunnel. The Matriarch and several others took shelter behind the stables.

Carl noticed that Michonne wasn't pointing her weapon in the right direction. "What are you doing?" he yelled at her.

Michonne's teeth rattled from her gun's intensity as she said, "I'm taking a page out of Carol's book." Half a moment later she hit the target.

The tractor closest to the stables (and its wagon) exploded sky-high. Three more wagons caught fire, and so did the stables. The Pierce family hightailed it back to the plantation house. "Dammit," Glenn cursed, worrying about Tyreese and Sasha. "All right, ok, all right… Everyone else is in the tunnel, so that leaves us three to find Rick and Daryl."

Carl reloaded his rifle and picked up the crossbow. "Let's go!" He started to run without checking to see if the others were following.

Rick pinned a Walker to the ground and pierced it so hard between the eyes that his hand ended up wrist-deep in its skull. He rolled to his right and tackled another whose teeth were inches from Daryl's throat. After he stabbed it, Rick half-stumbled, half-crawled back to the watchtower. Daryl used the stair railing to hoist himself up into a sitting position. A hack, a gagging sound, and he spat blood onto the grass. "Good news," he coughed, "only one of my ribs is broken."

Rick pocketed the wet knife, cocked Jeremy's shotgun, and handed the Patriarch's revolver to Daryl. "Keep the bad news to yourself," he said. He crouched on Daryl's right and aimed the weapon.

Daryl patted Rick on the back. "Your elbow's bleedin', brother."

"Not as bad as your head." Rick shielded his eyes against the new morning sunlight and squinted. "The fog and smoke are starting to clear up. In a few minutes we'll be able to see more than four feet ahead of ourselves."

"Which means the Herders'll see us." Daryl attempted a deep breath but the pain of his inflating lungs pressing against his rib was too excruciating. "They won't…. be thrilled to see… their boys dead…" Daryl managed to say.

Rick scanned the horizon through the shotgun's sight. "Can I ask you something?"

"Ain't in the mood for 'Twenty Questions," Daryl grunted. "Hated playing that with Merle. He always picked some part of the female anatomy."

A Walker wandered towards them and Rick shot it right through the ear. The shotgun made a chachick sound when he cocked it. "It wouldn't be formal or legal or anything, but I'm thinking about asking Michonne to be Carl's godmother. Think she'd be ok with that?"

Daryl was busy trying to stop the blood flowing from the reopened wound on the back of his head. "Godmother. What, like, in fairy tales?"

Two bullets, two more dead Walkers. Rick stood up to get a better view. "Regular godmother. Not a fairy godmother. Carl isn't Cinderella."

"That story always bugged the hell outta me," Daryl said. "The cinder-chick isn't motivated to escape that hellhole until she meets some douchebag prince?" Daryl took his handkerchief away from his hair and frowned at how red it was. "Girl's gotta wanna be free for herself, you know? Not to hook up. Not for some party. For herself." Daryl pocketed the handkerchief and the revolver and grabbed onto the railing with both hands.

Rick scooted closer. He let Daryl struggle to stand for a whole half-minute before he lent a helping hand. "I want Carl to have a godparent in case I – for when I die." Rick cleared his throat. "Somebody I know and trust to take care of him. I know you all would help but it's good to have someone committed. Someone to help him with his science projects." Rick chuckled at his own joke.

"People do that who ain't in fairy tales?"

"Yeah, Daryl."

Daryl shrugged. "She was a mom. I bet she was good at it. She cares for the kid. She'd raise Carl right. Teach him important life lessons like what beer to drink and how to use a samurai sword." Daryl let go of the railing, finally, and stood firmly on his feet. He cocked the revolver and held it firmly, too.

Rick turned his back on Daryl as he pivoted around, on the lookout. "I want you to be Judith's. I want you to be Judith's godfather."

"Uh…" Words failed Daryl. "You – you want me to raise your kid? Rick, I didn't even finish high school."

"I want her to learn important life lessons like how to cook a squirrel and use a crossbow."

Daryl started to scratch his right arm furiously. "I don't know, man… We're family. You know if anything happened to you we'd all take care of your kids. Tyreese would breastfeed Lil' Asskicker if he could."

Rick snorted. "Thanks for that image." A fourth Walker ambled out of the fog. It must have had a near-miss with a landmine because the clothes on the left side of its body had burned off. Because it was limping, and extra-slow, Rick waited for it to get within arm's reach, and then he used the knife. "I know the group would care for Judy, but she needs a father. A clear role model. Someone to call 'Dad.'"

Daryl's nose scrunched up not unlike a squirrel's. "Would she have to call me 'Dad'? Couldn't she just call me by my name – or better yet: Big Asskicker?"

Rick rolled his eyes, but the curl of his lips betrayed his amusement. "Hypothetically, you can have her call you whatever you want."

"Do I have to sign something?" Daryl clamped his front teeth around a fingernail and chewed. "Do we do a blood oath or something?"

"Just shake on it, Daryl. Just shake on it."

Daryl spat the first fingernail aside and started chomping on the next one. "Rick, my household growing up wasn't the best. My mom basically killed herself when I was a kid, Merle was always in jail, my dad was a drunk and he…" Daryl's mouth went dry, even of blood, but he took a long second to spit at the ground anyway. "He… he…"

Without looking, Rick reached his hand back and gripped Daryl's shoulder. "I know," he said quietly. "After Andrea shot you at the farm, I was helping Hershel clean your wounds and I saw the scars on your back, Daryl. I saw them."

A quiet minute passed before they spoke again. "What if I turn out like my pops?" Daryl shuddered. "All I know about being a dad is what I learned from watching him and, well, you, now that I think about it. But I'm so much like Merle already and he was just like my dad…"

Rick pivoted all the way around. "When I first me you, yeah. But the only thing similar between you and your brother now, Daryl, is that you're the toughest SOB around. No way would I be on my feet with a fractured skull. Look at you. Look at you, man."

Daryl's cheeks flushed red for half a second. "I'll give it a shot. Lil' Asskicker and I will make you proud." Daryl spat on his palm and held it out to Rick. "Shake on it."

Right then, before their hands could touch, a dozen Walkers attacked.

Carl heard human grunts amongst the Walker growls. He picked up speed – as much speed as he could tiptoeing around landmines. Michonne was on his heels and Glenn was on hers. Around them the combination of morning fog and smoke from the explosions started to dissipate. The scene ahead appeared like magic. "Dad!" Carl screamed at the sight of so many Walkers surrounding Rick. Two empty guns sat useless on the grass and Rick and Daryl were fighting with one knife between them. "Daryl, catch!" Carl yelled, and he threw the crossbow over the crowd like a javelin. The archer jumped into the air, and Carl saw him catch the weapon before he was enveloped by the mob. War cries erupted from Michonne and Glenn and they dove into the herd. Carl sprinted halfway up the stairs of the last standing watchtower and sniped Walkers with his rifle.

Glenn muscled his way to Rick and tossed him a shotgun. The two men stood back-to-back and laid down enough cover fire to allow Michonne to make her way to Daryl. He was on his back, propped up on one elbow, and firing bolts as fast as he threw punches. Michonne sliced the remaining Walkers – three in one mighty baseball-bat-swing of her sword – and yanked Daryl to his feet. Rick and Glenn joined them at the watchtower. When his dad was within arm's reach, Carl jumped off the stairs and into a tight hug. "Oh, god, are you all right?" Rick asked, examining his son for any injuries. "Are you all ok? Where's everybody else?"

"Safe," Glenn was happy to announce. "Carl found a tunnel that led them into the woods."

"Way to go, kid," Daryl grunted. He patted his crossbow and nodded a thank-you at the boy.

Michonne was ripping arrows out of Walker skulls and wiping them clean on the grass. "We have to go back for Tyreese and Sasha," she reminded them. "They're in the house. The plantation house."

"Maybe they got out already," Glenn wondered. "They might be in the tunnel by now."

Michonne held out the bushel of arrows. To her surprise – to everyone's surprise – Daryl shook his head and handed the crossbow over for her to load them. He leaned heavily against the watchtower railing and rubbed his eyes with a dirty thumb and forefinger. "We'll go back for them," Rick agreed, "after we get the wounded somewhere safe." Although he didn't say Daryl's name, the others knew that Rick was talking about him when he rushed to Daryl's side and pulled his arm across his shoulders. "We have to check on Eugene, Gabriel and Judy, too."

Glenn and Michonne exchanged glances. "We'll get you three to the tunnel and go get them ourselves," Michonne said in a tone that left zero room for argument. "It might already be too late to—"

A metal object that looked like some alien crossover between a pineapple and a pinecone sailed past the watchtower, bounced off some random Walker's noggin, and exploded when it hit the ground. A third grenade followed a second one in quick succession. When the Grimes group turned to see who was throwing them, they saw the remaining mobile Pierce family members chucking them from beside the chicken coop. Cut off from the house, and cut off from the tunnel, they all started running in the opposite direction – across the field, towards the tree line. A hundred yards of landmines to go.

They only made it as far as the creek bed bridge when Daryl's knees buckled. Glenn doubled back to help. "Keep going!" Rick ordered Carl and Michonne. "The camp is due south. We're right behind you!" Rick and Glenn divided the weight between them, and they trudged forward with very little help from the wounded archer.

"Rick," Daryl wheezed. A grenade fell into the creek bed and blew Walker bits into the sky. "Rick, I can't… I can't…"

"Shut up," Rick ordered. He coughed into his sleeve and repeated, in a gentler but shakier voice, "Shut up, Daryl."

Daryl groaned as the rough ride aggravated his broken rib. His breaths shorted and sharpened. "Rick, I think… rib punctured… lung…"

Ice crept up Rick's spine, and then dragged his stomach down to his heels. A collapsed lung was as much of a death sentence as a Walker bite. "Just… Just keep going," was all he could think to say.

"Rick," Daryl whispered, "stop – wait, just a minute… just a minute." Daryl summoned the strength to dig his heels into the dirt. Keeping his grip on Rick, he unraveled his right arm from Glenn, spit into his palm and held his hand out. "Shake on it."

Emotions clogged Rick's head. "Daryl, we have to keep moving. Thirty yards to go."

"I want to… die as… Lil' Asskicker's godfather…" Daryl wheezed.

"You won't—!"

"Rick."

Rick glared at his friend. "You keep going," he ordered through clenched teeth. "You stay conscious and you keep moving, and then I'll shake your hand." Some hybrid between love and rage surged through Rick and he pulled Daryl's forehead against his own. "Please keep going," he whispered.

A shriek in the woods. Michonne or Carl – they couldn't tell. Glenn looked, wide-eyed, at Rick. "Go!" Rick pleaded. Glenn took off at a sprint with Rick and Daryl limping in his wake.

Rick almost dropped Daryl when they reached the camp. The scene awaiting them seemed to psychologically amputate his limbs.

It wasn't the sight of Eugene lying beside his homemade catapult with half a dozen bullet holes in his body.

It wasn't the sight of Father Gabriel's body chewed up by Walkers that Michonne just beheaded.

It was Carl kneeling beside an empty wicker basket.

Judith was gone.

Daryl sensed a sob brewing in Rick's body. With his arm around the officer's shoulders he felt the subtle quaking of muscle and the shuddering of joints. Skin paled with shock, then flushed red with emotion, then turned white in the absence of oxygen. With a start, Daryl realized that Rick hadn't breathed in nearly two minutes. Daryl didn't know how to help, so he defaulted to some sort of basic instinct and punched Rick's back between the shoulder blades. Air, spit, snot, half-digested oatmeal and tears simultaneously exploded from Rick, and he slumped forward to his knees. The noise that followed was a wordless two-syllable sob so loud that it made Daryl's ears ring as if a landmine exploded nearby.

Daryl kept a hand on Rick's shoulder until Carl dove into his dad's arms. Then he backed up, waved aside Michonne and Glenn's helpful hands, and leaned against a tree with his arms around his chest like a bandage. To suppress his own emotions, Daryl's tracker eyes examined the camp. He identified the Walker tracks easily enough. The current group's footprints were the freshest, followed by Eugene and Gabriel's cumbersome steps. Anger at the priest momentarily blinded Daryl. He was supposed to protect Judith! Anger at himself followed almost immediately. If only he'd taken the time to train Gabriel, to equip him… Daryl's already short breaths were halved, and the pain of his broken rib shifted from sharp to piercing to searing. He pressed his forehead against the tree and shut his eyes.

Daryl assumed that the cooing sound in the background was a bird looking for breakfast. His brain began to sort through hundreds of birdsongs in an automatic attempt to identify the species. When he couldn't, he did a push-up against the tree, righted himself and looked around the camp for the source. Michonne and Glenn were silently gathering up what supplies were still intact. The bundle of trembling limbs that was Rick and Carl wouldn't be moving anytime soon. Daryl tiptoed between them and the smoking campfire ashes towards the coos. He found the tree ten yards south of Eugene's slingshot. A dead tree with sagging branches and more than one hole scraped out of the hollow trunk. Daryl inhaled deeply through his nose. Squirrel nests. Unoccupied, but still reeking. One hole about six and a half feet up the trunk once housed an owl. Daryl could smell the moldy, mothy scent of coughed up rodent remains. Another coo caught his attention. It was coming from the owl nest. Nature had created an oval-shaped hole almost three feet tall and two wide…

Tracks. Tracks right at the foot of the tree. Gabriel stood right where Daryl was now – stood on his tiptoes facing the tree. Why…?

Another coo. Puzzle pieces fit together in Daryl's mind.

"Glenn!" Daryl called. The breath needed to yell was barely available from Daryl's collapsing lung. "M-Michonne!" He couldn't catch enough breath to continue speaking when they ran over, so he just pointed at the tree, pointed at the hole, and mimed Gabriel lifting something over his head and dropping it into the owl nest.

Michonne got the message before Glenn did, because she gasped, "Oh my god," and stood on her tiptoes, trying to reach into the nest. "Help me," she barked at Glenn. "Give me a leg up!" Glenn laced his fingers together, palms up, and held them steady as Michonne braced one foot against them and jumped. Relief hit Daryl like a snowball down his shirt when she got her chin over the lip of the hole and gasped Judith's name.

Flurries of motion so fast that Daryl couldn't keep track of who was who. Mouths spoke, and bodies climbed. And then a minute later – or maybe five – a grinning, but still teary-eyed Rick pulled Daryl's face against his chest in the closest hug he could give without hurting the other man. His forehead against Rick's sternum put Daryl's nose directly above Judith's, who huddled, cooing and unharmed, in her dad's arms. One tear – only one – slid off Daryl's nose and splashed against Judith's. She froze briefly, shocked by the sensation, nostrils twitching like a rabbit's, fingers clawing at her face… But then she grinned, and giggled, and the sound warmed Daryl's heart like nothing else ever could.

"That's my Lil' Ass-kicker," Daryl whispered. "You're a survivor, sweetheart."

When they had everything worth carrying, the group followed Carl to the tunnel opening. They expected to find their friends waiting for them there. Maggie, Carol, and the rest, and maybe a few of the other survivors of the Herders.

They found nobody. The clearing was empty. Smoke poured out of the tunnel and they smelled gas. The Pierce's were cleansing the tunnel like a rabbit warren. Glenn asked the question that everyone was thinking: "Where would Maggie and the others go?"

"That way," Carl said with confidence as he pointed south. He saw the adults exchanging glances and spoke again before they could doubt him. "I left a sign for them. For all of them." He led them to the nearest tree marked with the circled "x" carved into it. Sure enough, there was a white pillowcase nailed to the bark with a message written in mud in Carl's handwriting, and an arrow pointing at the symbol:

STAY TOGETHER – FOLLOW THIS SOUTH

Michonne, Glenn, Carl, and Daryl stared at Rick. He nodded back. "Let's find our people," he declared, and the group started following the symbols – and the dozens of pairs of footprints – south.

A bird's eye view of the Towers of Eden after the end of the world: In the Georgia woods eight miles south of the Pierce Plantation, surrounded by a rushing ten-foot-deep river, on a patch of dusty dirt that refused to sprout grass, three apartment complexes stood in a triangular setup around a dry swimming pool. Each tower wore a colored "Now Leasing!" banner that faced the one remaining bridge over the river. The ten-story tower on the left had a green banner. The twenty-story tower on the right had a blue one. The one in the middle, towering at thirty-stories, had the red banner. Gardens flanked the cobblestone sidewalk that led from the bridge to the pool that had been converted into a pen. Pigs, ducks, rabbits, a raccoon, one deer and two possums were getting fatter by the day living in that pool and eating the scraps that people threw out the windows. Almost four hundred people lived in the Towers of Eden. They drank from the river and ate from the garden. The one or two Walkers that managed to cross the bridge (instead of getting swept away by the water), were no threat to anyone in the upper floors. It was a fortress. The apartment complexes were castles and the river was their moat.

Rick Grimes was deep in thought about the image of a castle when Daryl stirred. Relief trickled down his veins like ice water. Daryl had been unconscious for almost a day and Rick had started to worry that he might never wake up. But he did, and like a Dixon would when finding himself in an unfamiliar place, he woke up swinging, and bashed his left fist against the upended bulldozer protecting him from the setting sun. Daryl cursed, then cursed again when he tried to sit up. Rick got to him before he tried to roll over onto his cracked rib. "Don't move," he urged. "Daryl, you'll just hurt yourself. Don't move."

"…the hell?" Daryl grunted. He looked down at his unbuttoned shirt, then past it at the swollen black bruise on his chest the size of his hand. "What happened? Rick, where are we?"

"You fainted."

"I'm not a chick, Rick. I don't faint."

"You passed out," Rick huffed. "We were hiking and then you just…" Rick mimed a falling body with his hand.

Daryl grabbed the front of his friend's shirt and held on like it was a cliff face. "Judith… Carl… Everybody ok? Did we catch up with Carol?"

"First things first. Open up," Rick said softly. Daryl tilted his head up as a bottle of water descended to his lips. He didn't know how thirsty he was until that first sip. When the water was gone he looked expectedly at Rick. "Think you can sit up?" Rick asked.

Daryl winced at the thought, then nodded. He started to argue when Rick gripped his upper arm, but his breaths were so short and sharp that he didn't want to waste them. He allowed Rick to hoist him up and then scoot him back so that he rested against the bulldozer. The scene came into focus. Scattered around them, huddled in groups of five to ten, were the Herders survivors – the 70 or so that decided to stick with their group. Carl and Antonio were playing Go Fish with a raggedy deck of cards. Glenn was changing Judith's diaper, and getting yelled at for doing it wrong by three older women. The edge of the woods squatted twenty yards to their left. Ten yards to their right was a ten-foot rickety wooden bridge over a deep rushing river. Michonne stood on their side of the bridge, glaring at three armed men standing guard on the opposite shore. Daryl squinted as he studied their clothing. Each man wore a patch on his left hip. The first sported a blue "3," the second a red "18" and the third a green "7."

"We caught up with everybody?" Daryl confirmed. His spirts rose when Rick nodded. "Carol's here?"

Rick tried to hide a wince. "I saw her," he said. "I spoke to her. Maggie, too. Tara, Rosita… Abraham's dead. No sign of Tyreese and Sasha. They might still be on the plantation…" Rick rubbed his eyes with one knuckle. His sigh sounded like a groan and he avoided Daryl's eyes.

Daryl sensed the lie of omission. It was probably for his own good, knowing Rick, but this was no time for lies of any sort. "Rick, what's going on? Where's Carol?"

Rick pointed at the apartment towers beyond the bridge. "She's in there. She's one of our ambassadors."

Surprised, Daryl said, "You didn't go with them?"

"Couldn't." Rick pursed his lips together. "That's the strangest thing we've encountered here… They insisted that four women go. Just women."

Four faces lined up in Daryl's mind. "Maggie, Carol, Tara, and Rosita?" he said quietly.

"Yeah." Rick shifted his weight.

A whistle across the camp. Michonne was pointing at the Green Tower. "They're coming back," Michonne said. She blocked the sun out of her eyes. "Wait, no, there's just two. That's just Rosita and Tara."

Rosita and Tara's escorts dropped them off at the bridge, and the guards waved them across. Both girls looked pale – especially Rosita, who was undoubtedly grieving Abraham. They made a beeline for Rick. Carl and Glenn ran over, as did a dozen of the other survivors.

"Where's Maggie?" Glenn asked. "She didn't come back with you?"

"Where's Carol?" Daryl grunted.

The two women exchanged glances. Rosita wiped her nose and nodded at Tara with pleading eyes. Tara rubbed her left arm and then stuffed her fists into her pockets. "Do you, uh, do you guys want the good news first or the bad news?"

"Good," Carl said. The setting sun's rays were in his eyes and he pulled his dad's hat down low.

Tara looked relieved. She stood on her tiptoes so that the entire group could hear her. "We can stay. All of us. They're letting us in!" Sighs of relief around them. A few people hugged and several more clapped. Tara's shoulders visibly relaxed. She gave the crowd a shy wave. "There's more, there's more good news." Her eyes landed on Daryl. "There's a doctor. A surgeon."

Rick clapped his hand against his mouth and closed his eyes. He sat against the bulldozer beside Daryl, who could feel his body trembling with relief. Daryl sensed that the other shoe was about to drop. "What's the catch?" he asked, his strained voice barely audible. "Let me guess: no anesthetic?" Rick silently put his hand on Daryl's shoulder.

Tara's smile deflated. She adopted a child's hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar expression. "These people are, uh... traders. That's T-R-A-D-E-R-S, not T-R-A-I-T—"

"Tara," Michonne urged.

"They trade," Tara said. "That's how they run this place. If you want something you have to trade it for something else."

Rosita spoke up. "We asked them for two things: surgery for Daryl, and to allow us to join their group. We had to trade two things for that."

Daryl considered what little he knew about the hospital where Beth and Carol were held. "So, they let us in and we do chores to pay the rent? Clean their socks and share our squirrels?"

Tara's eyes landed on her shoes and stayed there. "That's – that's what I hoped they meant when they said a trade. But it – it wasn't…"

Glenn turned red. "Tara…"

"Just spit it out," Rosita encouraged with a sniffle.

Tara took a deep breath. "The council here – they have slaves. They use slaves. If you want to join their group, you have to – to give them a slave…"

Daryl was speechless. His head was screaming but no words came out. Glenn looked sick. His hands started to tremble, and he handed Judith off to Carl before he put her in danger. "You mean…"

"They volunteered," Rosita squeaked. "Both of them. The second that The Surgeon hinted about what he wanted in return for helping Daryl, Maggie and Carol raised their hands." Both women looked at Glenn. "I'm so sorry…"

"So, what – what does that mean?" Glenn asked. He wrung his hands together so fiercely that his thumb scraped his palm. "We – we don't get to see them? They have to wash the council's dishes? Babysit? Laundry? What?" Glenn's hands gripped his black hair like vices. "What will they make her do?"

Tara and Rosita both jumped. "We're not sure," Tara whispered. "We're… we're just not sure."

Glenn sounded as out of breath as Daryl did. "Those sick bastards. That's why they only wanted to negotiate with women," he gasped. He didn't notice that Rick got to his feet and snuck up behind him. "We have to get them back – maybe I can trade places with her – maybe she's sneaking out right now – maybe we should go in after her – maybe – maybe they're forcing her right now-!" Glenn took his gun out of his holster and pivoted. Fire was in his eyes as he started to sprint for the bridge.

Rick was ready. He grabbed Glenn around the waist and dug his boots into the dirt. "Michonne!" he grunted when Glenn elbowed him in the jaw. "Glenn, stop – stop! You're going to get yourself killed!"

"Let me go!" Glenn howled. "Maggie – Maggie!"

Michonne joined the scuffle and together she and Rick forced Glenn to the ground and took his weapon. When Michonne pointed out that his actions were likely to get Maggie hurt, he finally started to calm down. A befuddled silence settled on the seventy members of the Grimes group. That's when Daryl spoke.

"Tara, let's say you go back in there and you tell those assholes that they can shove that…" Daryl huffed in frustration. His remaining working lung couldn't handle long sentences. "What happens if… you tell them… no?"

"We asked about that," Rosita said quickly. "They're free to go. We're all free to go. They said it's our choice. No strings attached."

"Yeah, right," Carl muttered.

Daryl nodded. "That's our answer. That's our answer 'cuz… there's no way in hell I'm…. letting Maggie or Carol… take the fall for me." Daryl's trembling fingers clinched the fabric above his chest.

Rick returned to Daryl's side. "A doctor, Daryl. They have a doctor! There's zero guarantee we'll find another one… ever!"

"Don't care," Daryl rasped. A cough started but he shoved it back down his throat.

Tears blurred Rick's eyes. "Daryl, you'll—"

"Don't… care!"

"You'll die!" Rick took Daryl by both shoulders and he was impressed by his friend's strength when Daryl returned the gesture.

"I want to die!" Daryl shouted, doubling the volume of his voice. "If the choice is between me dying and Maggie n' Carol being slaves to five dicks then dammit, Rick, I'd rather die!" Rick's ears experienced whiplash when Daryl's voice descended to a whisper. "Let me go," Daryl begged. "Please, just let me go…"

Before Rick could respond, or even notice that Daryl managed a whole paragraph, a violent shudder scurried through the archer's body. His eyes widened. He coughed once, twice, and then went into a wheezing fit. "No!" Rick wailed when blood splattered across his lap. The coughs sounded like an avalanche and the blood kept coming as Daryl's body jolted and jerked. Daryl slumped against Rick, but his eyes were on Judith dozing in Carl's arms. He couldn't make the words so he mouthed them at Rick: SHAKE ON IT. A dry sob erupted from Rick's nose when Daryl grabbed his hand. He squeezed back, shook it gently, and finally sealed Daryl's status as his daughter's godfather.

And then the coughs stopped as quickly as they started. Either Daryl wasn't trying to inhale anymore, or he couldn't. He was as limp in Rick's arms as Carl had been when he was shot. Limp except for his head, which was cradled against Rick's heart like an infant. Daryl shook his head back and forth, and back and forth again. Rick didn't need to hear the message to receive it. Don't do it, Daryl was saying. Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it…

Rick cupped Daryl's cheek in his blood-soaked palm and focused all his love into Daryl's eyes. When they closed, Rick buried his nose against Daryl's neck.

ONE WEEK LATER

At dawn, Rick Grimes was sitting on the ground with his head in his hands. He was so lost in deep thought that he didn't hear Maggie's approach. She set a bottle of water down in front of him, watched to see if he'd react, then she sat on his right side, looped her arm around his elbow and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. "I miss him, too," she whispered. "But he wouldn't want you to be like this."

She felt rather than heard Rick's deep, craggy inhale. "No, no he wouldn't. He'd call me a dumbass. What I wouldn't give to hear him call me a dumbass…" Rick rubbed his eyes with dirty fingers. "How's Carol?" he asked.

"She's adjusting. Keeping busy with laundry." Rick rubbed his hands down his unshaven face and leaned his head back against the squat brick building behind them. "I woke up this morning," Maggie said, "and realized that I never thanked you."

Rick snorted. "For what?"

"I know that was a hard decision for you, Rick. Most of the group thinks it was the right one. That includes me."

"Glenn won't talk to me. Won't even look at me."

"You let me handle him." Maggie squeezed Rick's elbow. "It's ok, Rick. Everything will work out ok."

Another snort. "He'll be so pissed at me when he wakes up."

"What's important is that he will be waking up."

Snort number three. "If he wakes up…" Maggie lifted her head and met Rick's eyes. "The doc says his blood pressure is back to normal and the incisions are healing well. There's a slight fever but no infection. His lung is better, his rib is healing, and all of the internal bleeding has stopped. It's like… it's like he's comatose just to spite me."

Maggie chuckled at that. "He's punishing you for saving his life?"

"He's punishing me for – for using you and Carol."

"Dammit, Rick, do we have to have this conversation again?" Maggie untangled her arm and pivoted in her seat to face him. "For the last time, it was my choice! Daryl's life is worth it. I'd do it again for any of you."

"You're a slave, Maggie!"

Maggie fumed. It she was a cartoon character, smoke would burst from her ears. "Helper, Rick. Helper. For God's sake, Tara used that word, not me, and now you won't let it go." She held up her wrists and pointed to her ankles. "Do you see any chains? Do you see any bruises? Have you heard me complain even once about the chores I have to do? I'm not a slave, I'm not a servant. I'm just paying off a debt with the only currency this place recognizes." Rick didn't look admonished enough, so she kept going. "I'll tell you the same thing that I tell Glenn every night. I volunteered to be one of the council's helpers. As a helper my duties are to prepare their food, deliver their messages, do their laundry, and anything else they need and – no – Rick, that does not include any – any sexual favors—"

Rick held his palms up in surrender. "Maggie, I hear you. We just assumed the worst when—"

"Well, stop assuming and start listening! We're adult women fully capable of making our own decisions. If Carol and I were being forced to do something we didn't want to, we'd tell you. It's a fair deal, Rick, it really is. Carol and I are happy to feed the pigs and weed the gardens so that all of us can live here safely."

Rick gave her a long, scrutinizing look. He shifted so that he could stare her straight in the eyes. "Swear to me," he whispered. "Swear to me that you and Carol are ok. Swear on something important."

Maggie cocked her chin in the air. "I swear on my father's soul," she declared. Maggie scooted the bottle of water closer to him. "Now take care of yourself so that you can take care of Daryl." Without another word, Maggie sprang to her feet and marched away.

Carol was waiting for her in the rear of the Red Tower. Clotheslines stretched from the first story windows to the trees, and Carol was busy taking down the laundry that dried overnight. When she saw Maggie's approach, Carol set the plastic laundry basket aside and went to meet her. "Any change?" she asked, her voice sounding as pale as her face looked.

Maggie shook her head. "Daryl's still unconscious. Rick's still suspicious. Carol, I…" The younger woman ran her fingers through her hair. She kept a tight grip on the ends like they were the last straws on the camel's back. "I can keep a straight face around Rick and the others but Glenn… He sees right through me. Carol, I think he knows I'm lying."

Carol stepped forward and gripped Maggie's wrists. "Then you must tell better lies," she ordered with a soft ferocity. "If he knew – Maggie, he'd go crazy, you know that, and he'd get himself killed. And if this goes to hell, they'll kill Daryl." Maggie nodded. She bit her lower lip and her eyes flickered between the ground and the sky, avoiding Carol's. Gently, with a mother's touch, Carol cupped Maggie's chin in her hand and forced their eyes to meet. "You and I have to be strong," she said. "Maybe after Daryl's all better and we've figured out how many weapons there are around here we can reconsider our options but until then… Maggie, we have to be strong for the people we love."

Maggie nodded. She wiped her tears away, drew a steadying breath, and took a pair of jeans off the clothesline.

Instinct tickled Michonne's nose. She unsheathed her katana and took a fighting stance in front of the metal door. The pump house for the Eden swimming pool was as young as the rest of the complex, but the hinges had rusted from a lack of maintenance. They squirmed and squeaked as they opened. Michonne sighed with relief when Rick entered the small room. "I thought you were going to get some sleep."

Rick shrugged with his lips and eyebrows, but not his shoulders. "I just spoke to Maggie."

Michonne put her sword away. She sat down on a yellow milk crate and folded her hands in her lap. "How is she?"

Rick scratched the back of his head and pulled up a crate across from her. "She's hiding something. I know she is."

Michonne tilted her head to the left. "Sure you're not just being paranoid?" She held up her hands in surrender at the look on Rick's face. "I'm just wondering."

Rick rubbed his thumb across a grass stain on his gray t-shirt. "Did you add another five milligrams to his drip?"

"Ten minutes ago. I'll let you handle the catheter." Michonne reached across the mattress between them and tucked the white bed sheet tighter under Daryl's right arm. "I think he started dreaming while you were gone. He said Beth's name."

Rick's frown lessened slightly. He pressed the back of his hand against Daryl's pale cheek. "He smells funny."

"He smells clean." Michonne snorted. "We should burn his clothes. Burn them then bury them then fill the hole with cement."

Rick chuckled deep in his gut, mute. "We definitely gotta find him some new socks. They fell apart when I took them off him."

"Anyone who helped bathe him should probably be quarantined!" Rick laughed out loud at that. "And I've been thinking… While he's asleep, let's cut his hair." Michonne patted her sword and grinned.

Rick shook his head but kept his smile. "Oh, no. If I was in his shoes, I'd want him to guard my beard."

"Shoes. We need to burn his shoes, too. Or throw them at Walkers. Might be lethal even for them."

Rick's smile brightened some more at the thought. "Did I ever tell you about the first time I met Daryl?"

Michonne busied herself with retying a blue bandanna around her dreadlocks. It was new, a gift from one of the original Edenites who didn't need it anymore when she transferred from the Blue Tower to the Red Tower. "Carl told me about the quarry and Andrea told me about the farm. Not a lot of details, though."

Rick leaned forward and braced his elbows against his knees. "Me and him didn't exactly get off on the right foot. He came back from hunting and there I was telling him I left his brother to die in Atlanta."

Michonne's nimble fingers froze in mid-knot. "You handcuffed Merle? I thought that was, uh… T-Dog?" Rick shook his head. "So, the first thing you said to Daryl when you met was that you pretty much killed his brother… He didn't try to kill you?"

One corner of Rick's mouth twitched. "Sort of. He, uh… He threw squirrels at me."

Two sharp cackles burst from Michonne's throat. "He attacked you with squirrels?" She slapped her knee. "Daryl Dixon, Walker-slayer, always armed with a crossbow, a gun, and a knife and he—" Michonne shook her head as her eyes watered from suppressed laughter.

Laughter felt foreign to Rick. It felt sore in his body, like a muscle he hadn't used in years. A good kind of sore – the type that reminds you that you worked hard. Rick and Michonne passed giggles between them like cigarettes for a full five minutes before they settled into a comfortable silence. After another five minutes, Rick scooted his milk crate aside and sat, Indian-style, at Daryl's right elbow. He gently peeled back the bed sheet to reveal his friend's bare chest. "He was a different man back then," Rick said quietly as he peeked under the bandages to check for infection. "Impatient, angry, short-tempered, unpredictable – a walking firecracker." Rick sighed. "I've changed, too. Daryl's become a better man but I've…" Rick shook his head and completed his thought at a whisper. "I'm not sure what kind of man I am anymore."

Michonne watched him carefully. The few rays of sunshine that snuck in through a pair of rectangular windows near the ceiling hit Rick's cheekbones at an angle that made him appear twice his age. He touched Daryl with the same gentle fingers he used with Judith – probing fresh skin that used to be black and blue, swiping a miniscule ball of lint aside with a pinky, folding the tail of a suture away from the needle on the inside of Daryl's elbow.

"Rick?"

"Yeah?" The officer put the bandages back in place. Gently he wiped his palm across Daryl's sweaty forehead and skimmed the top of his hair.

"I don't know what kind of man you are. I just know that you're a man I trust. That's all that matters to me. When you tell me something, I believe it."

Rick gave her a long look. Eventually his eyes focused on a pair of empty nets hanging on the wall behind her shoulder. "Do you believe Maggie and Carol?" he whispered.

Michonne's nostrils flared. "I want to," she said.

Rick nodded. "So do I," he whispered.

Then – right then – a dry, gruff voice mumbled, "Rick, am I naked?"

Maggie Greene took the stairs three at a time as she sprinted 30 stories up to the Red Tower penthouse. She was out of breath, and therefore thankful when the people inside took their time coming to the door. When it finally peeked open, a dozen series of knocks later, Maggie immediately shouted, "Daryl's awake!"

The petite Asian woman at the door clutched the fabric above her heart in surprise. "Maggie, keep it down! You know it's too early to disturb them!"

"I'm sorry, Penelope," Maggie gasped. She swallowed, trying to contain both her excitement and the sharp breaths in her chest. "Please, I need to speak to The Surgeon. It's urgent. My friend woke up and we need to know what to do."

Penelope's eyes went wide. She shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm not waking any of them up unless there's a whole pack of Chompers—"

"Who's there?" a deep voice asked. Penelope squeaked and retreated from the door. Maggie took a step backwards and wrapped her arms tight around her stomach. She had only been a helper at the Towers of Eden for a week, but she was already too familiar with The Surgeon's mood. Mood – not moods, plural. The man had one mood. One mood only and few degrees of it. The closet description that Maggie had for it was cantankerous. The door imploded open. Maggie held her ground as The Surgeon marched into the hallway wearing only a stained bathrobe. He was a white, heavyset man – far fatter than anyone had a right to be with so little food to go around. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and his face was hot-pepper-red, worse than its usual beet-red color. Although he had the look of a man who only communicated with sharp shouts and thunderous bellows, The Surgeon was actually quite soft-spoken.

Astonishingly soft spoken for such a violent man.

"Maggie," he said quietly, as if talking to a drowsy infant, "I am a civilized man, so I will let you choose your punishment. Unless you have my breakfast, you will either donate that lovely hair of yours to stuff my pillows, or you'll guard the Kennels all day – alone."

Maggie chose her words carefully. "I'm following your instructions. You asked me to tell you when Daryl Dixon woke up."

"I also told you never to disturb me this early—"

"He's awake for the first time since the surgery. He seems all right but he's running a temperature. You need to go see him."

"Do I?" Maggie struggled to hold her composure when he stormed right up to her face. His bloated jowls quivered with rage. Maggie looked down and saw both of his hands flexing into fists. She doubted that she could explain away a bruise to Glenn this time…

A second man appeared in the doorway. Maggie recognized him from the council, a man she only knew as The Sheriff. All five council members shared the five-bedroom apartment. The penthouse was the safest, cleanest, most well-stocked apartment. Only the council members, their wives, and their helpers were ever allowed on the 30th floor of the Red Tower. That was the third rule that Maggie memorized when she and Carol volunteered.

"Pardon me," The Sheriff said, politely. The most courteous and least demanding of the bunch, The Sheriff was a middle-aged African American with deep wrinkles and kind, tired eyes. He sidestepped The Surgeon and held open a black bag between them. "I know he needs pain relievers and that his bandages will need redressed, but does he need any additional medications right now?"

The Surgeon didn't take his eyes off Maggie. "No," he said, his nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge. "I'll visit him when his stitches are ready to be removed." The Surgeon turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him, but not before hissing, "If I'm in the mood."

The Sheriff offered Maggie an apologetic smile. "The end of the world brings out the best in some people and the worst in others," he said. Maggie nodded and reached for the medicine bag. "I'll carry it," he said, tossing it over one shoulder. "I'm in the mood for an early morning walk anyway."

Tears dropped onto Maggie's cheeks before she even noticed that they were in her eyes. "Thank you."

Carol, Rosita, Tara, Glenn, Carl, Michonne, and Rick were all crowded into the pump house when Maggie and The Sheriff arrived. Daryl was awake and propped up against a milk crate covered by Rick's jacket. He took brief, shallow sips of water from a bottle in Rick's hand, pausing to take deep breaths between each drink. Maggie was taken aback when The Sheriff suddenly let go of the medicine bag. At the same time, Rick nearly dropped the water bottle, splashing the liquid across Daryl's chin before he caught it.

The Sheriff's jaw hung open. "Rick Grimes," he said slowly, enunciating each syllable.

Rick's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Morgan?"

Rick and Morgan talked for three laps around the Towers of Eden. After deciding on a time to meet later, they shook hands and parted ways back at the pump house. Rick found Carol leaning against the outside wall with her arms crossed against her chest. "He's in a bad mood," she announced. "It's kinda my fault. I tried to feed him oatmeal by pretending the spoon was an airplane. Sophia was a picky eater," she explained. "He wasn't amused. Then he started asking questions. When I told him where we are he became… agitated."

Rick sighed. "I'll talk to him."

"Yes, you will," Carol said sternly. "I'll be back after I make The Judge his lunch." She walked off.

Rick had to duck when he opened the door and a bottle of water flew over his head. "Son of a bitch!" Daryl snarled. Rick wasn't sure if the archer was insulting him or just reacting to the pain in his chest undoubtedly doubled by the throw. Rick hurried to the mattress to help, but Daryl swatted his hand away like he was a Walker. "Dammit, Rick Grimes, if you were any other man I'd deck you!"

Rick held his palms up in surrender. "Let me explain."

"Let me explain!" Daryl bellowed. He propped himself up on one elbow and then paused to catch his breath. "Here's my theory: right after I passed out, Tara said she and Rosita were just joking. Carol and Maggie came back – sound and safe or safe and sound or whatever – and then the only thing you had to give them for getting me surgery was a 'thank you.' You best hear me, Rick. If that ain't how it happened, then you and me got a problem."

Rick spoke extra slow, and extra soft. "You just saw Carol, right? She's fine. Maggie is, too. They just have to do a few more chores than the rest of us – that's all."

Daryl didn't take Rick's bait. His tone and volume stayed the same. "That ain't the point!" Daryl braced his other elbow beneath him and muscled his way up into a sitting position. The bed sheet covering his body slid down to his waist, but he didn't bother adjusting it. "I told ya – I begged ya, Rick! I said I'd rather die, and I meant it!"

"I should've let you die so that Carol doesn't have to do extra laundry?"

"That ain't the point!" Daryl braced his hands against the mattress like he was about to try standing up. "Did you find out – for sure – that Maggie and Carol would be all right before you took me to that surgeon?"

"Of course not. I didn't see Carol and Maggie again until after you—" Rick realized that he had backed himself into a wall. A metaphorical wall so hard he could almost feel it against his spine. "I… I took a risk."

"You gambled with their lives!"

"I didn't have a choice!"

"I used what I thought were my last breaths to make the choice so you wouldn't have to!" Daryl yelled. He tried to stand but didn't get more than three inches off the mattress before he collapsed. Color flooded his face. He wrapped his arms around his torso as if he could protect it. "What if—" he sputtered, "what if those pricks wanted Carl instead, huh?" Rick appeared to turn into a statue, so Daryl kept going. "Maybe you're right. Maybe everything's fine. Or maybe they're being threatened? What if they're telling Carol that she has to do whatever they say, or they'll take away my antibiotics? What if they're telling Maggie that if she blabs about what's really going on, they'll shoot Glenn in the head?"

Rick chewed on his bottom lip as he gathered his thoughts. "I ain't saying those aren't good questions," he said slowly, "but let me ask you some." Rick knelt in front of Daryl. When the other man started to squirm, he pinned his wrists against his knees. "Put yourself in my shoes, Daryl. What would you do if it was Merle, huh? What would you do if the person lying in your arms, dying, was Beth?" Rick took a deep breath, stared at the cement floor beneath them, and then made eye contact again. "You weren't dying," he whispered. "You were dead." His voice cracked. He didn't even try to glue it back together. "I held you in my arms and I felt your heart stop." Daryl tried to look away and Rick cupped his cheek with a trembling hand. "I couldn't save Beth or Herschel or… or Lori… but I could save you – and I did – and I don't regret it."

Daryl went owl-eyed. Rick gave his wrists a last squeeze, and then he shuffled over and sat on the mattress on Daryl's right. Suddenly, Daryl whispered, "We burned a house down. Beth and me. It lit up fast. Like my mom's."

Rick cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Don't remember," Daryl said. "Those first few days after the prison – when I thought ya'll were dead – I was just, done, you know? I mean I was still running and fighting and all, but I wasn't living. I was just trying not to die."

Rick smiled at that. "I know what you mean."

"Beth got on my nerves. Annoyed the crap outta me. Asked me a bunch of dumbass questions. Got me thinking. Got me pissed. Got me… Got me right here" Daryl pointed at his heart. "When we burned that house I kept thinking it looked like a big ass candle on a birthday cake. I ain't ever had a birthday cake, but you're supposed to make a wish, right?"

Rick grimaced. Memories of his own childhood birthday parties flashed through his head. "Right."

"I don't believe in wishes. How could anybody these days? But I wished on that candle. I wished she'd be all right." Daryl shook his head sadly. "Guess what I'm trying to say is I might've made the same call you did if it was Beth."

Rick expected that admission to make him feel better. When it didn't, he just felt depressed.

Neither man heard the approaching footsteps, so both jumped when Carl barged in. "Dad!" Carl put his hands on his knees and tried to slow his breathing. "Outside – the guards…"

Rick got to his feet. "Walkers?"

"Remember that sign I left outside the tunnel? The Underground Railroad tunnel? We didn't take it down – we should've taken it down— it led them right to us."

"Carl?"

"The guards just found it nailed to the bridge. Must've been left there overnight. Tyreese's necklace is with it. It's covered in blood."

THREE DAYS LATER

The last thing Daryl remembered was falling asleep after supper, alone in Rick's empty bed. He was dreaming. Something about being stuck at the bottom of a well while Beth's blood filled it until he could float safely to the top. When he opened his eyes, Carol was standing over the bed with a flashlight, wiping a cool cloth across his face and neck. She smiled at him. "You're all right. Carl got me when your fever spiked. We got it back down again."

"Are they home yet?" Daryl rasped.

"No," said a meek voice on his right. Daryl turned to see Maggie beside him. He stretched his neck and spotted Carl curled up at their feet like a dog.

"Get some rest," Carol said. "I have to get back to The Judge."

"Wait," Daryl whispered. He fought his way up into a sitting position. "Carol!" In the living room, clearly visible through the open bedroom door, Judith dozed peacefully in her crib and Antonio snored on the couch with his Atlanta Braves hat covering his face. Carol closed the front door gently behind her and was gone.

"I'll leave you alone, too," Maggie said, though she didn't move.

Daryl rubbed his eyes. Filling his lungs with deep breaths woke him up completely. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Maggie said too quickly. "It's just so quiet without Glenn. I couldn't sleep alone in that big empty apartment." She swung her legs off the side of the bed. "I'm just being stupid..."

Daryl plucked the pillow out from under his head and tossed it to Maggie. He tried to give her his blanket, but she wouldn't accept it. "Daryl, I really shouldn't be bothering you. I'm three feet away from you and I can feel your fever."

Daryl ran his hand across the sweat on his upper lip. "It'll be gone by morning. You awake, too, kid?" Daryl grunted.

"Carl is sleeping," Carl mumbled. Daryl gently kicked him between the shoulder blades. Carl sighed, sat up, and wrapped his arms around his knees. "They should've been back by now."

Daryl yawned. "It's twelve miles to the plantation."

"And twelve miles back," Maggie said. Moonlight streaming through the window behind her gave her skin a ghostly tint. "Tyreese and Sasha might be hurt. That'll slow them down."

"They probably spent half a day watching the house."

"And another half day planning the rescue mission."

"I know, I know." Carl rested his chin on his knees and chewed on his lower lip. "But if I hadn't left that stupid note—"

"They still would've gone after Tyreese and Sasha," Maggie said. "Your dad wouldn't leave anybody behind."

"I led the Dead Herders here. I put everybody else in danger. What if they attack while my dad's gone? There are kids here!"

"Morgan says there's plenty of guns," Daryl reminded him. "These people can defend themselves."

"They shouldn't have to!" Carl glanced at Judith to make sure he hadn't disturbed her, then continued speaking at a lower volume. "Maybe we should just leave."

"The Pierce's would still come through this place looking for us," Maggie concluded. "We're safer here. All of us."

Carl sighed and repeated, "They should've been back by now…"

Daryl studied the boy. He shared a knowing look with Maggie, who nodded. Daryl patted the bed and said, "Come 'ere, kid."

Carl scowled, but he only hesitated a moment more before he crawled up the bed and lay on his back between Daryl and Maggie with his fingers laced behind his head. All three just lay there in a comfortable silence, staring at the light gracing the beige ceiling. All of a sudden, Carl rolled onto his stomach and buried his nose against Daryl's shoulder. He made no sound as a few tears pattered down. Not knowing what else to do, Daryl just held still and let Carl use him as a Kleenex. Maggie scooted closer and rubbed small circles against Carl's spine. His breathing evened out almost instantly. He was asleep before his tears dried. Maybe it was the human contact, the sense of security, or just the white noise of sleeping breaths, but Maggie passed out not long after. Daryl reached under the bed and wrapped his hand around his crossbow. He'd just fallen asleep when he heard footsteps in the hall.

Daryl listened as one pair of footsteps approaching the apartment turned into three. He pinched Carl's arm and swatted Maggie's shoulder. "What is it?" Maggie asked groggily.

"Is it my dad?" Carl muttered, also half-asleep.

"Something's up," Daryl whispered. "Stay here." Moving by moonlight, Daryl tiptoed across the living room and peeked through the peephole. He watched as two strange men joined a third, who was loading fat rounds into a shotgun.

"The Maggie chick ain't in her apartment," a tall, pale redhead with tattoo sleeves reported.

Stranger number two was clean-shaven and wore a suit jacket. "Merle's brother ain't in his." The man gestured at the Grimes' door with his gun. "They all must be holed up together in there."

"Good." Number three cocked his weapon. "Fish in a barrel, boys."

Quickly and quietly, Daryl scooped Judith out of her crib. He put his hand across Antonio's mouth to both wake him up and keep him quiet. "In the bedroom. Go." Daryl shoved Antonio inside and handed the baby to Maggie. Carl gave him his crossbow. Daryl broke into a sweat when he shouldered it. The pressure of his blue jeans against his stomach and the tightness of his black t-shirt caused his healing rib to feel tender, but lifting the weapon was excruciating. He just barely got it loaded when the men kicked in the front door. In a single fluid movement, Daryl shouldered the bedroom door shut and fired a bolt. It flew wide past the men's heads and into the black hallway. Instantly three shotguns were leveled at his face.

"That's him!" the redhead bellowed. "That's Merle's brother. I helped Martinez catch 'em when he was trying to escape."

"We all saw him in the arena, dumbass!" The third man was missing his two front teeth. The way his tongue flicked out through the gap made him look slightly psychotic as he grinned at Daryl.

The archer loaded another arrow and politely asked, "Can I help you fellas?"

Number Two smirked. "Heard you weren't on your feet yet, son."

"You heard wrong, son," Daryl spat back. "If you're from Woodbury I bet you've heard a lot of things wrong about us."

"Woodbury." The redhead took a step forward. "The good old days with The Governor. Checkers and picnics and as much water as we wanted. Fine women who loved any man who kept 'em safe. Utopia… 'til you assholes from that prison ruined it."

Sweat running down Daryl's face barely missed his eyes. "You been following us?"

"We were here first!" Number two growled. "Then we see you all moving into the Green Tower, haunting us like ghosts, come to ruin us again."

"We're just looking for a safe home like everybody else," Daryl said. "Ain't got nothing against you personally. You put Woodbury behind you, we'll put this little incident behind us and we can all live happily ever after as neighbors."

"Bullshit!" A bullet hit the hardwood floor between Daryl's feet. He didn't even flinch. "Here's what's gonna happen. We're gonna kill you and the woman – take care of you nice and quick while the mommies and daddies are out of the house. If the rest of your kin don't get the message and move along, they're next!"

"You best leave now, boys," Daryl said soft but strong. "The Sheriff here's a friend of ours. When he and his men come looking for whoever fired that shot, you'll be the ones being asked to move along."

The toothless man cackled. "We been here longer. We're upstanding citizens at Eden Towers. They're bound to believe us when we tell them some redneck piece of shit attacked—"

Daryl didn't wait any longer. "Maggie go out the window!" he yelled as he fired a bolt into the toothless man's jugular. He rolled under a gunshot and swung his crossbow against the redhead's knees like a baseball bat while grabbing the third man's shotgun at the same time. He had the upper hand – for less than a second. The two Woodburians tackled him, flung him against the wall, kicked him and started smashing him with the butts of their shotguns.

A boot slammed into Daryl's rib and he screamed.

It was Tara's idea to ride the Eden River back to the Towers. Half a mile east of the Pierce Plantation stood a small boathouse with three dusty, moldy canoes with plastic paddles sitting inside them. Two more slots for two more canoes were empty and dozens of fresh footprints were scattered in the mud surrounding the boathouse. If the Dead Herders traveled via the river after they abandoned the plantation to the Walkers, that explained why nobody found any footprints leading to the river where someone nailed Carl's sign to the bridge. That answer came with more questions, though. If the Dead Herders kept going south past the Towers of Eden, where were they now?

Rick found Tyreese and Sasha's bodies in the plantation house basement. He vomited when he discovered that the two African Americans had perished at the hands of the Pierce Family the same way some of their ancestors did. Rick couldn't count how many times their backs were whipped because they'd endured so many lashes that the skin was one big bloody gash. Rick hated himself for having to leave his friends' bodies behind. There were just too many Walkers.

It was almost dawn when the canoes floated into the moat that encircled the Towers of Eden. Rick, Michonne, and Tara were in one boat and Glenn and Rosita were in the other. The trip wasn't a total bust. Rosita managed to snatch a bag of potatoes and Glenn found some more weapons. Guards intercepted the group at the bridge and let them on the grounds once they showed off their Green Tower patches. Half of what they salvaged was turned over to the guards to deliver to the council of Eden. That was the price for letting Rick and the others leave. Considering what they asked for last time Rick needed a favor, a few potatoes was hardly a sacrifice. The group marched from the bridge to the Green Tower in silence. None of them were looking forward to telling Carol, Carl, Maggie, and Daryl that more of their friends were dead. The Death Herders killed Abraham, Eugene, Gabriel, and then Sasha and Tyreese. But that – all of that – was put on the proverbial back burner when they entered the Green Tower.

The first-floor hallway was a circus. Familiar faces of their fellow Death Herders survivors crowded around the Grimes apartment. Guards that worked for the council tried to shepherd them aside. Hasty conversations in whispering voices stopped in mid-sentence when Rick walked through the door. A whole crowd of wide eyes parting to let him pass made the hairs on the back of Rick's neck stand on end. He ran. He ran down the hall and burst through the apartment door. He expected the worst, though what "the worst" was, he couldn't name.

The living room walls were Swiss cheese from so many bullet holes. Half a dozen council guards were mopping up blood and examining weapons. Rick counted three bodies on the floor, all covered from head to toe in white bed sheets. It was a crime scene. His new apartment was a crime scene. And his son and daughter were nowhere to be found…

Glenn jogged in. "Maggie isn't in our place – is she here?"

"She… I…" Rick stammered. He looked to the guards for explanation and got blank faces.

"Mr. Grimes?" a meek voice called. Rick pivoted and saw Antonio peeking through the master bedroom door. Nose running, body trembling, Antonio wiped salty tears against his sleeve and stepped into the room.

Judy was in his arms. Rick could smell her dirty diaper and tell by her grunts and sobs that she was hungry, but she was ok. He wrapped his arms around them both and demanded, "What happened? Where's Carl?"

"Rick!" a familiar voice called. Morgan came out of the kitchen. He looked the part of a town sheriff, not in the way he dressed but by his posture and presence. The guards moved aside respectfully as the councilmember walked over to Rick, stepping over the bodies like they were nothing but rogue shoes. "You're back. Good. We need to talk."

"What happened?" Rick repeated. "Where are Carl and Daryl?"

Morgan looked sadly at the nearest dead body and dread hit Rick so hard that he felt dizzy. "I'm afraid…" Morgan cleared his voice and put a hand on Rick's shoulder. "It's not clear exactly what happened, but Carl and your friend murdered three men. I'm afraid I was forced to arrest them both."

Rick felt like the ceiling was leaking ice water. The sensation of cold started at the crown of his head and trickled down his cheekbones, across his collarbone, to the tips of his fingers, his knees, and his toes. "You…" he seethed, "you can't do that. If Carl and Daryl killed, then it was in self-defense."

"Rick, I have no way of knowing—"

"My son is just a kid!"

"Yes, he is," said a deep but crisp voice. Rick turned to the door to see a slim, balding man in a tailored three-piece suit. He was pale and short – the same height as the boy beside him.

"Dad!" Carl cried. He sprinted into Rick's arms. Maggie appeared behind the short man. She yelled her husband's name and ran to Glenn. "Dad, I had to," Carl hiccupped. "They were beating Daryl to death. I did what you would do – what you did back by the tracks!"

Maggie pointed at the dead bodies. "They're from Woodbury. They were going to kill us all!"

Morgan approached the short man. "Sir?"

"I'm letting the boy go, Sheriff." The short man adjusted his black bowtie and raised his chin. "The other man – Dixon – he volunteered to endure both his punishment and the boy's."

"What are you going to do to him?" Rick asked.

"I haven't decided yet. Rick Grimes, I presume, yes?" The short man held out a small, clean hand. "I'm The Judge." Rick didn't shake his hand. "I'm the one who enforces the rules around Eden. I'm an eye-for-an-eye kind of man. If you take someone's wife, he gets yours. If you steal a man's food, he gets your portion. And if you kill someone, well…"

Rick's fingers ached from being clenched into fists for so long. "You kill Daryl," he whispered, "over my dead body!"

"Sir, if it truly was self-defense," Morgan began.

"What if we leave?" Glenn asked. "Daryl, all of us. We'll just leave. You won't have to punish anybody."

The Judge held up his palm at the onslaught of shouts. "I am willing to hear all sides of this story in due time. There will be no execution today. Meanwhile, Mr. Grimes, I thought you might want to see to Mr. Dixon's injuries. It would be a shame if he bled to death in his cell before his trial."

The guard unlocked the closet door and slammed it shut on Rick's heels. Rick took a small gas lantern out of his bag and switched it on. The makeshift jail in the Blue Tower basement was, ironically, the same size as the real cells back at the prison. The same size, but far less accommodating. Morgan's goons hung Daryl by his wrists from ropes tied to the ceiling. Ropes long enough that his bare feet touched the floor, but too short for him to lie down or sit. His black t-shirt and dark blue jeans were ripped. Every square inch of visible skin had turned some shade of black, blue, purple, green or mustard yellow. Rick doubted that Daryl could stand up for long if he wanted.

"Shit," Rick spat. He unsheathed his knife, stood up on his tiptoes and started sawing through the rope. When it was nearly severed he wrapped his arms around Daryl's torso and shouldered his weight. Daryl's arms fell to his sides like clipped wings. His limp body landed against Rick's, chin hooked over his shoulder, and Rick slowly slid down the wall to land on the floor with the upper half of Daryl's body cradled in his arms. The lantern light landed on Daryl's pale face. Daryl was awake – white lips parted slightly, eyelids only halfway open, eyes blinking infrequently, and slow. Eyes usually full of spark, full of fight, now looked lifeless.

"Sasha?" Daryl whispered between swollen lips. "Ty?"

Rick wanted to lie. Wanted it more than anything at that moment. Instead, because he couldn't trust his voice, he shook his head "no."

Daryl licked his lips and swallowed audibly. "Carl…"

"He's ok. He's with Michonne."

"Judy… Maggie…"

"Everyone's all right, Daryl."

"Are you?" Daryl frowned, confused. "Am I?"

Rick took a bandage out of the bag – one of Tara's shirtsleeves – and held it in midair. He looked up and down his friend's broken body but didn't know where to begin to help him. A violent sob crept up on Rick like a hiccup. "Daryl—"

"Rick," Daryl croaked, "just hold me, will ya?" Muscles flexed, and tendons twitched in Daryl's neck as he tried to restrain his emotions. "Just hold me." Daryl's face slumped against the inside of Rick's elbow and his eyes drifted shut. Rick wrapped him snug in his arms, pressed his nose against Daryl's trembling shoulder and stopped fighting the tears.

Carol was asleep for barely two hours when Penelope shook her shoulder. "I'm sorry," the younger woman whispered. "I'm sorry, but I can't pick him up by myself."

"It's ok," Carol said out of habit more than geniality. She scooped up the dishtowels she was using for a pillow and set them back on the penthouse kitchen counter. "Maggie isn't back yet?"

"No. And there was some sort of problem in the Green Tower. Three people are dead." Penelope's long, dark hair whipped over her shoulder as she darted between the suddenly white-faced Carol and the door. "It wasn't any of your friends. I asked around. I checked for you."

Carol sighed with relief and smiled into the woman's dark eyes. "Thank you. Really."

Penelope nodded. "Us helpers have to stick together," she said. "That's what you told me the first day I met you." Penelope led the way across the vast penthouse living room towards one of the five enormous bedrooms. Three doors – The Serpent's, The Sheriff's, and The Judge's – were already open and the rooms were empty. The Surgeon's bear-like snores echoed from his bedroom next to Morgan's.

"Penelope!" a voice bellowed. "Get in here, bitch, I'm hungry!"

Carol rolled her eyes at her friend. "If he was my son I'd slap him!" she whispered. Penelope cupped her lips to cover a giggle. She opened the door and the two women entered the room. The young man in the bed, The Serpent's son and fellow councilmember, was no older than eighteen or nineteen. Blond hair, striking blue irises, freckles under his eyes like star constellations, he was probably very attractive in the old days. Not the "before the end of the world" old days, the days before the teen was confined to a wheelchair after his broken legs failed to heal properly. Carol didn't know the details of his accident. They didn't matter. He was such an epic asshole that she'd never feel sorry for him.

"Good morning, Eric," Penelope said brightly. She pulled back the floor-to-ceiling drapes covering the windows and the new day's sunlight burst into the room.

"Ugh, warn me before you do that, skank!" Eric covered his face like Penelope had just tried to stab his eyes. He picked up a pile of papers from his bedside table and Frisbee-ed them at her face. Carol clamped her teeth together. She distracted herself by retrieving the rusty green wheelchair out of the closet. Eric wheezed and whined as he peeled back his six blankets and scooted to the side of the bed. "Pick those up!" he shouted at Carol, pointing at the paper littering the floor.

"Yes, sir," Carol growled. She and Penelope both selected one of Eric's arms and legs and put him in the wheelchair. He was still whining about how rough they handled him when Penelope rolled him into the dining room.

Carol sighed and started to gather the papers up. The name caught her eye because it was so rare. Merle Dixon was the only Merle she'd ever had the displeasure to meet. Because the world was too small now to contain coincidences, Carol knew that the "Merle D." scribbled in crayon on a yellowed piece of notebook paper was the man she knew, and so was the name beside it: "Daryl D." Carol flipped the paper over and saw some of the notes Eric took as the council's unofficial secretary. Flipping it again, she examined the other names, numbers and words. It was a betting sheet. Someone named Lucas wagered six bullets that Merle would beat Daryl. Another named Martinez bet seven that Daryl would win. Only one more person bet on Daryl – the rest put all their "money" on Merle. That one person was John Cain who – Carol knew – was Eric's father. The female helpers called him The Serpent for several reasons, but initially because he liked giving fresh apples to "his" women.

Pieces of information fell together in Carol's mind like a puzzle. The only logical reason why Eric would have a betting sheet from a fight between Merle and Daryl Dixon was because he and his father were from…

"Woodbury," Carol whispered in horror.

"Woodbury was a utopia," said a silk-smooth voice from the door. Carol stood and slowly turned around. The Serpent, a tall, graying man with a greasy mustache, plaid shirt and red cowboy boots, was leaning against the doorframe with his hairy arms crossed against his chest. "Utopia until that night you assholes attacked us." A tobacco-stained finger pointed at Carol. "You shot our friends and tossed a smoke grenade into the arena. We couldn't see. Everybody was scared and just… just started to run. I grabbed my wife and daughter but my son, well, Eric got lost in the crowd. When the smoke cleared I found him with both legs broken in several places."

The Serpent approached Carol. She took one shaky step backwards and then planted her feet and stood her ground. The betting sheet fell from her fingers and landed as soft as a feather on the bed.

"We left that night. Me, Eric, my wife and daughter, and three buddies of mine. We were forced back into the woods. Molly, and our little girl, Samantha, they were both killed by Biters. They were killed because we had to leave our home. Because you and your friends destroyed it!" The Serpent grabbed Carol's shoulders and slammed her onto the bed. "I was in The Governor's inner circle. I knew Merle. I was there when he brought in those two from your group – Maggie and… Glenn, is it?" Carol didn't move. "Imagine it. Imagine my shock when Maggie showed up here. Shows up asking for sanctuary, for a home. Asking for my help!" The Serpent rammed his fists into the pillows.

Carol scrambled off the bed. There was nowhere to go but against the window. She was trapped.

"I was biding my time," The Serpent hissed. "Let you all get settled. Let you think you were safe here. A dish best served cold, right? When Rick took the others on his wild goose chase I knew it was time. You were never supposed to know about me, Carol, at least not until all your friends were gone and my hands were around your neck." The Serpent raised those hands. Carol willed herself to disappear into the glass.

"Last night, Daryl Dixon murdered my three best friends. When his execution is scheduled, I'll behead him myself!"

Rick and Morgan climbed the Red Tower stairs side-by-side. "I'm sorry," Morgan said for the eighth time. "You gotta understand, Rick. When the council appointed me sheriff of this place, I promised to be fair. That means not playing favorites. When I got to the scene, Carl's gun was still warm from firing those bullets. If I just let him go, what kind of message would that send to the rest of the community?"

Rick chewed on his bottom lip. It was an anxious habit, he realized, that he'd acquired from Daryl. "So, if The Judge hadn't intervened, you would've strung up my son by his wrists just like your goons did to Daryl?"

Morgan stopped on the twelfth story landing and grabbed Rick's elbow. "They did that? Jesus, Rick, I had no idea. I didn't tell them to."

Rick shook his hand aside. "A sheriff is supposed to know what his deputies do," he spat. "Their actions are your responsibility, Morgan."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about that, too."

Rick whirled on him. "Didn't I once hear you tell my son to never say sorry?"

Morgan's mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. "Rick, I – I barely remember that day. I wasn't thinking straight. After I lost Duane I went crazy for a while – I know I did. When I came out of it, it was like waking up from a long nightmare."

"Do you remember stabbing me in that nightmare?" Rick demanded. "Do you remember that I had the chance and the right to kill you, and I didn't?"

"I…" Morgan stuttered.

"Remember this," Rick fumed. "You're the one who owes me now, and this is how you're going to return the favor: help me save Daryl. Please." Morgan followed Rick the rest of the way with his head bowed like a chastised dog.

The Red Tower penthouse was the most luxurious thing Rick had seen since the end of the world. Not only was it the highest ground and therefore the safest location from the Walkers, but there were more pillows than people, bowls of hard candy, salted almonds, and dried peaches, jugs of clear water, and music playing! Solar panels on the roof sent electricity straight into the penthouse. There was enough to power a small CD player, a coffeemaker, and the microwave was purring. Four helpers, none of whom were Maggie or Carol, rushed around the kitchen making five plates of food. Potatoes boiled on the stovetop. Chicken feathers littered the floor. One woman, who had to be Penelope based on Maggie's description, was cleaning pecans and fresh tomatoes.

The four other council members were on a couch in front of a bay window. Morgan sat on the far end next to the man Rick recognized as The Surgeon. The Judge was there as well, still wearing his three-piece suit. He was seeing the other two for the first time – a mustached man in red cowboy boots and a teenage boy in a wheelchair. The Serpent and his son, Eric. Rick shriveled a bit inside when The Serpent glared daggers, arrows, and lightning right at his heart. They had never met, as far as Rick knew, but the man clearly despised him.

Rick cleared his throat and silently chastised himself for not spending the thirty-story climb planning exactly what he was going to say. He had to be at the top of his game. His best friend's life depended on it. "Gentlemen," he said, "thank you for seeing me. It's important that I speak to you before Daryl Dixon's trial tomorrow."

Eric snorted. "Trial? I think you mean sentencing."

Rick licked his lips and chewed briefly on the bottom one. "One of the hallmarks of a civilized society is a justice system. Before all this I was a sheriff's deputy. I know how important justice is."

"There's only topic on the table, officer," The Serpent said with a sarcastic tongue. "Did Dixon kill those men?"

"Yes, but—"

"And you're well aware that the law around here is an eye for an eye?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then tomorrow's 'trial' is just a formality." The Serpent put air quotes around the word "trial." "Your friend's gonna hang, officer. There ain't nothing you can do about it."

Rick felt his face turn red. He turned to his right, putting his back to John and Eric. "He's not wrong," The Judge said before Rick could speak. "Mr. Dixon is guilty."

"He saved my kids' lives," Rick said. He couldn't hide the desperation in his pleading voice. "Who knows what those men were capable of? He could've done this whole camp a favor when he shot them! They were monsters!"

"They weren't!" Eric cried. "I mean – I mean, we don't know anything about them. It ain't fair to assume they were bad men."

"They nearly beat Daryl to death!" Rick roared. "If that ain't bad, what is?"

"Murder is," said The Surgeon. The plump, sour-faced man looked bored with the proceedings. "As much as it pains me to see my recent surgical skills go to waste, I'm going to vote for his execution. Even if these two vote in his favor," the doctor said, pointing his thumb at Morgan and The Judge, "that's still three-to-two that your friend dies." He patted his overgrown stomach. "You're excused, Mr. Grimes. It's time for our dinner."

Rick's fingers twitched. Suddenly he took his pistol out of its sheath. He didn't raise it, didn't point it. He turned it over and handed it, handle first, to The Judge. "You're about trading, right? And it's an eye for an eye, right?" he asked. "Fine. Then I trade myself for Daryl. Execute me instead."

Daryl woke up to find a slim figure stood silhouetted in the closet doorway. A halo of light surrounded the face, disguising it, but Daryl recognized the outline. "You hear to bust me out?" Daryl asked. He pushed himself up, and then immediately collapsed back against the cement wall. "Rick?" Rick entered the closet slowly, like they were back at the plantation tiptoeing around landmines. A shock of blood stunned Daryl. The back of Rick's head was soaked. "Hey, man, you hurt?" Rick still didn't speak. He knelt as close to Daryl as he could without touching him. His eyes were vacant and distant. Lifeless. Fear trickled down Daryl's skin and goose bumps bloomed in its wake.

"Rick?"

TWENTY MINUTES AGO

The Serpent was on the verge of springing out of his seat. "Let me do it," he begged The Judge. "Let me shoot him!"

"You get Daryl, but I called dibs on Rick!" Eric whined. "Michonne, too – and that white bitch she was with, what's her name – Andrea!"

Rick's mouth went dry, and for a moment he didn't know why. "There's no Andrea with us," he said. "How – how do you even know that name?"

Another glare between The Serpent and Eric. "Morgan told me about everyone in your group," Eric explained, nearly tripping over his words he said them so fast.

Rick wracked his brain. He'd told Morgan a lot between their walks around the Towers, their conversations in his home town, and the one-sided reports over the radio that were apparently never intercepted. But when did he mention Andrea? Rick's train of thought was derailed when The Judge spoke up. "Gentlemen," he said softly, "it disturbs me how eager you are to kill a man. Besides, it's The Sheriff's job to perform executions, not yours." The man leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "You do know what you're doing, right, Mr. Grimes? I want everybody in this room to hear it loudly and clearly. You, Rick, are volunteering to die in Daryl's place?"

In response, Rick got down on his knees and folded his hands in his lap. "I, Richard Andrew Grimes, am willingly surrendering my life on the condition that Daryl Dixon is pardoned." Rick spread his hands out. "I'm ready if you are."

The Judge settled back into the couch cushion and placed a thumbnail between his teeth. "If you think this noble act of self-sacrifice will somehow change our minds, you're mistaken." Rick merely blinked. "You have a son. A daughter, too, if I remember correctly."

"Yes," said Rick. "They're my family. I'd die for them. Daryl is my family, too. Not just my best friend, not just my brother, but both and beyond. I'll gladly die so that he can live."

"You're not joking?"

"Why would I joke about this?" Rick whispered. Water hovered in his eyes. "I have nothing to gain, you have nothing to lose. Do it."

Emotion flickered behind The Judge's stoic expression. "I admire you, Mr. Grimes. Officer Grimes," he said respectfully. "A man such as yourself should be on this council, governing the people instead of dying for them. Too many good people have died already…" Without looking, The Judge handed Rick's gun to Morgan and said, "Get on with it then. It is, after all, the man's dying wish."

Morgan was sweating through his button-down shirt. Rick expected him to argue. The man couldn't put down his wife after she was dead, so how could he shoot a friend who was still alive? But Morgan got up. He avoided eye contact as he walked around Rick and stuck the barrel of the gun against the back of his skull. "Rick?" he whispered tentatively.

"It's ok," Rick assured him. He took one last look at the stars in the night sky outside the window, and then closed his eyes. "Do it." I'm coming, Lori, he thought.

"Guess I do owe you a favor," Morgan whispered. He cocked the gun. "I'm sorry."

The gunshot was deafening. Rick was confused – why was he deaf, not dead? He opened his eyes and saw The Judge, The Surgeon and The Serpent all leap to their feet in shock. Something splashed down on Rick's hair. He pawed at it, found it wet and warm and, to his horror, red. Although he didn't want to turn around – his brain screamed at his body to stop moving – he couldn't help but look. Transparent smoke exhaled from his gun which lay still and lifeless like the hand that held it.

Something metallic clattered against the floor in front of him. Keys. The Judge had tossed them to him. "You wanted justice," the old man said with a thick voice. "We got our blood, and Daryl is free to go. You go. Go, now. Out of my sight." The Judge rubbed his eyes and retreated to his bedroom.

Dazed, Rick pocketed the keys, sheathed his weapon and stood up on buckling knees. Before he got to the door, The Judge peeked back into the living room. "Officer Grimes?" Rick didn't turn around – couldn't – because that would force him to look at the body again. "A seat has recently become available on our council. I'm appointing you the new sheriff."

Rick didn't say yes, and didn't say no. He opened the penthouse door when The Judge's door shut, and stumbled his way down the stairs. At the halfway point he sat and wept for half a minute. When he was empty and numb, he picked up his pace, sprinting to the Blue Tower.

PRESENT

"Rick?" Daryl took his friend by the shoulders and shook him. "You're creeping me out, man, say something!"

Rick exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "It – it's ok," he whispered. He wanted to say more, to explain, but he knew that once he let those words out he wouldn't be able to herd them back again. Rick contained the words, but not the emotions trailing them. Silently, he wrapped his arms tight around his stomach and slumped forward. His forehead landed on Daryl's thigh and stayed there. Trembling, reluctant fingers patted his back, his head, and then rested firmly on the back of his neck. Rick watched, for minutes on end, as his tears gradually turned Daryl's blue jeans black.

"It's ok," came Rick's voice, drifting through a vent leading into the living room. "Do it."

Carol squirmed against the thick ropes latching her wrists to her ankles. She'd been fighting all day against her bonds and screaming into the ball of yarn stuffed inside her mouth. Her friend's name just came out as a "RRR" that echoed in the dark space of The Serpent's bedroom closet. The Serpent knew a whole hell of a lot about tying people up. He'd bent her legs and angled her arms back in a way that any movement she made was excruciating. She couldn't even kick the walls or slam her head against the door. What a nightmare it was being so close to Rick – within earshot – and still not being able to reach him. When she first recognized his tenor voice she prayed that he'd find her. Now her one and only prayer was that she wasn't about to hear him die.

The gunshot sounded like a giant snapping his fingers. It was crisp and quick, and the dull sound of flesh flopping against the floor followed it immediately.

Carol roared. Ignoring the strained tendons and dislocated joints, she rolled herself head over heels and slammed her body against the closet door. Swears, curses, and more swears churned up thick saliva in her mouth that soaked right through the yarn. Footsteps. Hope flickered in Carol's heart. Rick was alive. He heard her. He was coming for her!

Someone kicked open the bedroom door and kicked it shut again. The lantern light was dim but still blinding to Carol's eyes. A calloused hand dragged her out of the closet by her extra short gray hair and slammed her against an oak dresser. Dazed, it took Carol a couple minutes to get her bearings, and another sixty seconds to recognize The Serpent hovering over her. "Rick Grimes," he seethed at her, his cheeks as red as his boots, "is – is - is…" Spittle rained down on Carol's bruised nose. "My nemesis!" the man finally bellowed. "And Dixon! That son of a bitch, why won't he die?"

A boot collided with Carol's exposed stomach. Suddenly, she was back in the bedroom she once shared with Ed. He always went for her stomach, too.

The Serpent picked up a half-used roll of duct tape off his bed and threw it through a full-length mirror. Glass shattered, nicking Carol's ears. "Should've shot him in Woodbury. Should've gone with The Governor to attack the prison. Should've shot Grimes myself when he walked through the penthouse door!"

Carol got her breath back and watched the deranged man. She thought that people only pulled out their own hair in angry fits on television shows and cartoons, but The Serpent was yanking by the fistful. "My wife, my daughter, I see them every night. Every night they're in my dreams asking why Grimes and Dixon get to live instead of them. They talk to me!" he told Carol. His body softened, and he knelt beside her, caressed her white cheek with a hairy knuckle, and whispered, "They tell me that they can't sleep in peace until your friends are dead."

Carol reared back away from The Serpent's touch. Somehow the shift from rage to peacefulness was the most disturbing thing he'd done. "I can't wait," he whispered. "I was a fool to let my friends go after them, a fool to think they wouldn't find some loophole in The Judge's punishment…"

Carol's heart skipped not one beat, but several. They. He said they. Was Rick still alive?

"What would you do?" The Serpent whispered. His eyes were too wide, his words pronounced too cleanly. "If those men were responsible for hurting someone you love – even if they weren't directly involved - you'd kill them, right?"

Carol thought of her sweet, dead Sophia, and shook her head fiercely.

He punched her so hard between the eyes that she blacked out. When she came to, she saw that The Serpent had overturned a cedar chest onto his rumpled bed sheets. It was dark outside – still night, then, but there was no way to tell how late or how early. The Serpent muttered indistinguishable words to himself as he loaded rounds into a shotgun. His son, the wheelchair-bound Eric, must have come in at some point because he sat on the edge of the bed cracking his knuckles anxiously. "Pa, I want 'em dead, too," he said. "But where are we gonna live after this? They deserve it, yes sir they do, but we'll have to run or get executed ourselves!"

The Serpent seemed not to hear him. "Soon, Molly baby," he said. "Soon, soon, soon."

"Pa!"

The Serpent jumped, whirled around and pointed his weapon at his son. "Oh, Eric," he gasped when he saw who was there. "Oh good, my boy. You and me. You and me, son, we're going to finish this. We're going to help Mom and Molly rest. This morning the Judge'll have a funeral for Morgan in place of Dixon's trial. Everyone will be there." He cocked his shotgun with one hand by hefting it quickly up and down.

"You sons of bitches!" Carol tried to yell around her gag.

"No more hesitating," The Serpent whispered. "We'll gun them all down today."

Carl hissed as Michonne dragged a brush through his hair. "Is this a mom thing?"

"Is what a mom thing?" she asked with a smile perched on her lips. She was on the Grimes' apartment couch and he sat Indian-style on the floor, leaning back against her knees.

Small nests of dead hair floated down into Carl's lap. "Torturing kids like this?"

Michonne snorted. "Toughest kid in the world and you whine about getting your hair brushed?" She fought her way through a tight knot. "Think I found something nesting in it. Little critters that have never seen the light of day. Might be easier just to cut it."

Carl scratched the back of his neck. "I wanna grow it long. Like Daryl's."

"You should try dreads. Less maintenance."

"Shaving it all off would be even less."

"Your little head would get cold. You'd look like Lex Luther."

"We gotta go looking for more comics soon. I've read the ones we have, like, five times."

"Talk to the other kids. I bet they have some to trade."

Carl put his dad's hat back on and climbed up onto the couch. "Have you met the kids around here? Bunch of babies. Probably just have 'Calvin and Hobbes' or something."

Daryl emerged from the master bedroom. He wore his leather vest for the first time since they got to Eden. The black tee he had on under it was loose and his jeans were barely held up by his belt. He'd lost a lot of weight in two weeks. "You should write your own comics," he said. Daryl stretched his arms above his head, yawned, and collapsed onto the couch between Michonne and Carl with his long arms around both of their shoulders. "Super Carl."

Carl scowled. "That isn't a superhero name."

Daryl fondly patted the top of the teen's head. "Yeah it is."

Across from the couch the bathroom door opened and Rick emerged buttoning up a clean collared shirt. "You don't gotta come if you don't feel up to it," he said to Daryl without looking at him.

"I had a nap." Daryl cocked an eyebrow. "And I want to. Wanna pay my respects. I owe that dude a lot."

"So do I," Rick sighed. "I owe lots of people."

"So do I."

The Grimes' door, still Swiss cheese from when the men from Woodbury attacked, swung open slowly. Tara walked in with Judith in her arms. She took a blue keychain out of her jeans pocket and held it out to the group. "Look what I found." The keychain was from some local car dealership – navy blue rubber with one word on it in white: FORD. "Thought Rosita might like it."

Carl nodded his approval. "What did you have to trade for it?"

"Just a yo-yo," Tara said with a shrug.

"You loved that yo-yo!"

Two more people at the door: Glenn and Maggie. "They're ready," Glenn reported. He shared a look with Maggie. "We asked around about Carol. Nobody's seen her."

Rick and Daryl shared the same look that they did. "Who saw her last?" Rick asked. "When was the last time any of us saw her? Maggie?"

Maggie shook her head. "Day and a half, I guess."

Daryl stood up. "We should go look for her."

"We will," Rick agreed. "After the funeral."

Antonio suddenly crawled into the room from between Glenn and Maggie's legs. "Ricky? The man wants to talk to you, Ricky. The Judge man." He scampered over to the couch and sat on the armrest behind Carl, as far away from the door as possible. He took his sweat-stained Braves cap off, folded the brim, and stuffed it in his back pocket.

Maggie, Glenn, and Tara stepped aside as the short, bald Judge entered the apartment. His tailored three-piece suit was wrinkled as if it had been slept in. "Hello again Carl, Mr. Dixon, Mister – I mean – Sheriff Grimes," he greeted. "All of you. Officer, I wanted to chat with you before – before we get started. I wanted to see if you wouldn't mind saying a few words about Morgan since he… since he did that for you."

Rick nodded. "I was planning to."

"I had another thought. I thought that since the whole community will be there that it might be an appropriate time to announce your appointment to Sheriff. After the funeral, of course."

Rick licked his lips. He stared down at his boots, took a deep breath, and then looked up again. "I haven't decided to accept that position yet. In fact, I have a couple people in mind to recommend to you." He looked sidelong at Glenn and Daryl.

The Judge's face hardened but he didn't push the matter. "We'll speak of it after, then. I'll inform the rest of the council." He left without closing the door.

Rosita peeked in a second later. "It's starting," she said.

While the others filed out, Tara lagged with Judith and the keychain. "Got you something," she said to Rosita. "I know – after Abraham – I know he's been on your mind a lot and I saw this, and it had his last name and – oof!"

Rosita lunged forward and wrapped her arms tight around Tara's neck. "Oh," she breathed, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate…" She gave Tara a quick peck on the cheek and shut the door behind them as they left the apartment. "I know we've all been worried about Daryl and then there was Tyreese and Sasha but… but it's been two weeks and we haven't had a memorial service for Abraham and Eugene and Gabriel and I just…" Rosita took a deep, staggering breath between her teeth. "Thank you," she said again.

"Zero point zero zero sweat," Tara assured her. "Least I could do. These people we ended up with, the way they sacrifice themselves for each other… Daryl for Carl, Rick for Daryl, Morgan for Rick… Just got me thinking about Abraham, you know? How he died for Glenn."

"Me, too," said Rosita. She held the hallway door open and stepped aside as Tara carried Judith through. "Me, too…" After a minute of thought, Rosita grasped the keychain in her left hand and slid the silver key ring around her ring finger.

TWO WEEKS AGO

Carol sat in the penthouse living room with nothing but the moon to keep her company. The silver light seemed to give the wings on Daryl's vest an angelic glow. Carol scratched away scabs of dry blood and scraped remnants of Walker juices with her fingernails. Taking care of Daryl's vest was the next best thing to taking care of him. He was in surgery. His wellbeing was out of her hands at that moment. So, she waited, and she cleaned, and she thought about all the scars on Daryl's naked body when she helped strip him down for the operation. The marks on his back made her a little queasy. The scars on his legs made her downright nauseated. All she could imagine that could make lines like that was barbed wire. Someone, somewhere, sometime, wrapped razor wire around his legs and pulled. Carol couldn't help but imagine Daryl's father, who in her head looked like Merle, mercilessly torturing her precious friend for years… He didn't deserve that. He'd suffered so much and right now he was suffering again…

The men she'd only met a few hours before, and only knew as The Surgeon and The Serpent, barged in just as she was drifting off to sleep with her arms hugging the vest to her heart. She sprang to her feet. "Is he ok?"

The Surgeon grabbed a roll of paper towels off the kitchen counter and wiped his bloody hands. He shrugged, in an infuriatingly casual manner, and said, "He'll live."

The Serpent opened one of the bedroom doors, disappeared for a moment, and then reemerged. "That new helper who signed on with you – Maggie – where is she?"

"She – she's with her husband, Glenn," Carol said. "Can I see Daryl? Is he awake? Does he need—"

"Have one of the helpers wake up Penelope for me," The Serpent spat. He rubbed his forehead like a hurricane of a headache just hit. "I'll take her."

"I'm supposed to have Penelope tonight," The Surgeon said to The Serpent. His chubby red face turned to Carol. "Guess you'll do. Get in there." He gestured to another bedroom.

"Excuse me?" Carol squared her shoulders and lifted her chin high. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"What the hell do you think I mean?" The Surgeon asked in a soft but stern voice. He scratched his chin through his salt and pepper beard and gestured again at the bedroom. "You volunteered to be a helper, so you belong to me. You'll do what I tell you to. Now get in there."

Carol lunged for the exit, but The Serpent caught her around the midsection. "Maybe I will have you tonight," he hissed in her ear. "You've got some spunk!"

"Let go of me," Carol ordered. "Get off me now – right now!"

The Serpent held her arms behind her back while The Surgeon took her chin in one hand. "Your friend Daniel, do you want him to die?" the doctor whispered.

"Daryl."

"Daryl. Do you want him to die? Because if you don't do what we want, exactly what we want, he will."

"You won't get near him," Carol said. "Rick, our other friends, they'll protect him."

The Surgeon caressed her face and smiled when Carol tried to bite his finger. "Maybe I'll 'accidentally' drop all of our antibiotics in the river. Maybe instead of putting saline in his IV I'll put in lighter fluid!" His hand suddenly wrapped around her neck. "I saw the way you looked at him. You love him. You haven't decided yet if you love him like a friend or a brother, or if you want him as a lover, but you love that man. And I'll kill him. I'll kill him tonight – right now if you don't shut your face and go into the bedroom. Do you understand? Do you understand me, woman?"

Carol deflated. Parts of her flickered out, and others glowed brighter than ever before. Parts that nothing and nobody could harm. Not the Walkers. Not Ed. Not this pair of pricks. Whatever happened, whatever she had to do to protect Daryl, she would do it holding her head high.

PRESENT

Eric rolled his wheelchair onto the balcony and set the sniper rifle against the iron railing. The Towers of Eden were emptying. Everyone was walking to the graveyard behind the Red Tower for Morgan's funeral. He saw his father follow Rick to the graveside and stand behind him. It could happen at any second. Any time now The Serpent could take his gun out of his pocket and shoot Rick in the back of the head. And if he failed – if by some miracle he was stopped – Eric was his backup. If The Serpent didn't shoot Rick with his handgun, Eric would take his head off with his rifle.

Scuffling behind him. Eric looked over his shoulder and chuckled at the sight of Carol trying to make her way to him across the bedroom floor. With her wrists tied behind her and attached to her ankles, she could barely shift her weight let alone get to the balcony in time to stop him. "You're the best entertainment I've had in a year," Eric sneered at her. "That's right. Cry all you want. Only shot you have at getting loose is if you dislocate both of your shoulders!"

He turned back to the scene below. The Judge was making the gestures he usually made when making some grand bullshit speech. The Serpent still stood behind Rick. His hand was in his pocket – no doubt clutching his weapon. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Eric saw the body language cue. He lifted his rifle, set it on the railing in front of him, and found Rick through the scope.

Daryl reckoned that half the population of Eden congregated for Morgan's funeral. They sat on old buckets, warped milk crates, rusty lawn chairs, and picnic blankets. When the yard filled up, kids climbed up onto the pump house roof and men and women sat on the Red Tower balconies with their feet dangling. The Judge stood on a pile of wooden pallets and addressed the crowd through a battery-powered megaphone. It was a hot-as-hell kind of morning. The old man was sweating through his three-piece suit. He wrote his eulogy for Morgan on a yellow napkin, then used that napkin to mop up the sweat on his bald head. Daryl couldn't hold in a snort when The Judge's forehead turned black from smeared ink. Carl caught his eye and the pair shared a brief grin.

Daryl barely listened to the eulogy. His tracker's eyes were busy scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Twice he thought he spotted Carol's short gray hair but after a solid eight minutes of looking, she was nowhere to be found. The saltine crackers and peaches he had for breakfast squirmed in his stomach. Something was wrong with Carol. He just knew it. Daryl was musing on this and chewing on his bottom lip when the quiet ceremony suddenly morphed into a chaotic circus.

Daryl saw Michonne unsheathe her sword and slam it downwards with the force of a guillotine. The gun that The Serpent was pointing was sliced in two, but not before it spat a bullet. It should've pierced the back of Rick's skull but Michonne nudged it just in time to change the angle. She changed the angle, but not far enough. "No!" Daryl shouted when the bullet barreled into Rick's back. He saw, as if in slow motion and from a greater distance, as Rick toppled forward like a tree trunk, bumped his head against the pallets and smashed, face-first, into the grass. Michonne tackled The Serpent and they rolled.

"Dad!" Carl cried. He ran two steps when Glenn's iron arms wrapped around him.

"Everybody look out!" Glenn screamed as he pinned Carl to the ground. A second bullet, this one from the opposite direction, barely missed Rick and instead hit The Surgeon in the forehead when he hurried over to help. The momentum knocked the body backwards into the river. It was swallowed up instantly.

Daryl knew that his feet were moving but it felt like he was in quicksand. It took forever and a half to get to Rick's side. More bullets rained down on the crowd. People screamed, scattered, stampeded in every direction. Daryl threw himself flat on top of Rick and shielded him with his body. Tara and Rosita ran past with Antonio and a screaming, squirming Judith. Maggie was crawling on her knees to a woman twenty yards away who took a bullet to her hip. The Judge, who'd stood frozen, dumbfounded, on his little pallet stage, almost got shot in the foot. He squealed and dove behind Glenn and Carl.

The gunshots stopped as abruptly as they'd started. Like a quick burst of spring rain. "Up there!" a voice shouted that Daryl didn't recognize. "Top of the tower!" Daryl raised his head. He spotted two figures wrestling over a sniper rifle on one of the penthouse balconies. He didn't recognize the man in the wheelchair but the other one, he knew.

"Carol!" Daryl yelled. She didn't hear him. Couldn't, probably. The gunman had a good fifty pounds of weight on her and was trying to shove her right over the wrought iron balcony railing. Daryl looked down at Rick's still body, and then over at Glenn. "Get to Carol!" he ordered. Glenn rolled off Carl and got to his feet. He froze, then. Everybody did. A massive gasp of horror rose up from the entire audience. Carol got her shoulder under the man's chest and used his own momentum to knock him against the railing. He balanced on it for a second, wild fingers waving like a cartoon character, and then Carol flipped the rifle under his knees and pushed.

Daryl buried his face between Rick's shoulder blades. Before he shut his eyes, he saw Glenn force Carl to look away. Strangled, blubbering shrieks filled the whole forest and then Daryl heard the thud-crack of a human body hitting the ground at speeds it couldn't endure. The scene reverted to a funeral silence, and Daryl lifted his head. Glenn was sprinting towards the Red Tower to get Carol. Michonne and The Judge had The Serpent subdued on the ground. Carl stood above Daryl – face white, lips parted, eyes red.

Daryl expected to find his whole front side covered in the blood undoubtedly gushing out of Rick Grimes' back. When he did a push up and discovered that not only were his clothes clean but so were Rick's, that didn't make him feel better at first. He knew that the bullet could act like a cork holding in massive blood loss. He knew that if the heart stopped pumping then the blood would seep instead of spurt. Daryl's arms trembled so hard that they made Rick's entire body vibrate when he lifted his friend up and cradled him against his chest. He pressed his palm against the bullet hole and then examined it, expecting to see red.

"The hell…?" Daryl gulped. There was no blood. He unbuttoned Rick's shirt and pulled his arms out of the sleeves as fast as he could. The bulletproof vest Rick wore covered his entire torso. Daryl undid the Velcro straps and yanked the back of the vest towards them. Carl picked at the flattened bullet with dirty fingernails. It flopped out of the vest and rolled to the ground. "Holy shit, he's alive." Daryl confirmed it by checking for Rick's pulse, and then his breathing.

"That vest it – it was Morgan's," Carl stuttered, shocked. "He was wearing it when I shot him." Rick stirred slightly. His eyes fluttered but didn't stay open. Tears and snot poured down Carl's face. He fell halfway on top of his dad and hugged him tight.

Daryl put a stern hand on Carl's shoulder. "Careful," he said, his voice lower and huskier than normal. "Your old man's probably got one hell of a bruise."

The boy wiped his nose on his bare arm. "He's ok?"

"Just knocked out, I think," Daryl said. "He's got a bump on his head swelling fast. I'll get him home. Listen to me, Carl." Daryl tightened his grip on the kid and forced their eyes to meet. "I need you to take Antonio and Lil' Asskicker to Michonne's apartment. You stay there, you hear? One of us will come get you when we're sure it's safe."

"You'll take care of my dad?"

"Won't let him out of my sight." Daryl was surprised when Carl didn't put up a fight. Instead of arguing, he kissed his father on the cheek and then sprinted over to the rest of the group. Most of the population was back in their towers, peering through windows at Eric's flat body on the ground. Daryl lifted Rick into his arms and carried him to the Green Tower.

Rick's sternum ached. Lying on his back had to be more comfortable, so he did a pushup and rolled. His stomach tried to stay put, and his head tried to keep going, so the resulting whiplash in his torso made him nauseated. He opened his eyes. Light pierced them, pierced his skull. Briefly he spotted and recognized the bedside table in his room. He landed on his back, yelped, and arched up off the bed. Hands grabbed his arm and pulled until he was back on his stomach.

"Turn that damn flashlight off!" a gruff voice boomed. "He's probably got a migraine."

"If he does then the sound of you yelling will hurt him, too!" said a female voice.

The male retreated to a whisper. "Just leave the water and get out of here, will ya? Don't need a babysitter."

Silence, then, "You're angry with me."

"No, it's Rick I'm pissed at but there's no sense in yelling at him right now."

"Daryl, it's not his fault." Rick finally placed the voice to Carol's face.

"You shoulda told us."

Rick stiffened. He recognized Daryl's tone of voice. Braver men than him had cowered from it.

"That would've gotten you killed." Carol raised her voice. "Dammit, when are you going to get it through your head that we love you?"

"Ain't nobody worth you having to go through that!" Daryl bellowed. "Nobody!"

The noise made Rick's molars vibrate. He groaned and put his right hand over his ear and pawed blindly towards Daryl's voice with his left. The mattress sunk a few inches when Daryl sat on it and took Rick's hand in both of his. "Sorry," he whispered, and Rick wasn't sure if the apology was for him or for Carol. Footsteps, a door opening and shutting, and then a deep sigh. The room felt empty without Carol. Half a minute passed and then Daryl whispered, "You with me?"

Rick gargled wordless sounds. Opening his eyes was a risk but he did it anyway, and found Daryl leaning back against the headboard with his boots on the bed. Heat radiated from the archer's sweaty palms. The man still had a fever. Throbbing pain radiated from a spot two inches above Rick's right eye. "Head…" he said.

"Yeah," Daryl said. Rick tried to retrieve his hand so that he could poke at the wound, but Daryl snatched his fingers back. "You've got a good-sized bump. And you were shot in the back."

Rick immediately wiggled his toes, twitched his kneecaps, and bent his elbows. He could still feel and move everything. "Still alive, though."

"I thought you were dead."

Rick looked at his friend through half-lidded eyes. Muscles in his neck twitched with emotion. "Payback," Rick said.

Daryl cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"I saw you get shot in the head back at the farm, remember? I thought you were dead. Now you know how that feels." Rick tried to smile but saw no spark in Daryl's eyes at his teasing. "What happened?"

Daryl sighed. The bags under his eyes looked bigger and darker than usual. As he told the story he slouched to the side. When he finished he just collapsed onto his left side, face to face with Rick. Rick had one question for him: "How did Carol get free?"

Daryl smiled proudly. "Dislocated her shoulders. Both of 'em. Loosened the ropes around her arms enough for her to wiggle them off."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, that's Michonne-level badass-ery right there," Daryl said. A yawn bloomed from his throat. He sighed and let his eyes fall shut.

Rick watched his friend for several minutes. He didn't realize that he was tearing up until he heard the emotion in his voice. "Carol and Maggie…" Daryl's eyes flashed open. "They lied… they really are slaves?"

"Were," Daryl corrected. "Glenn and I took care of a lot of shit while you were napping today. Cain – The Serpent – he's locked up tight in that closet they had me in. His boy Eric and the doc are dead, so it'd be kinda hard to punish them, though."

"The Judge? Morgan? Did they make the women do – do stuff, too?"

Daryl said "no" but his jaw turned to stone. "Judge claims he didn't even know it was going on but he knew. He must have. It was happening right under his nose. He saw the other council members take the girls into their rooms." Daryl shivered, disgusted. "If you ask me, he should be punished the same as Cain. Claiming ignorance… what bullshit!"

Rick swallowed. "You know I didn't know, right? I didn't. I swear I didn't."

"You suspected," Daryl whispered harshly. "Just like you suspected someone would shoot you. You didn't tell me about that, either. How am I supposed to watch your ass if you don't tell me when there's a threat?"

Rick frowned. "Daryl, you aren't my body guard." When Daryl didn't respond to that, Rick said, "If I really expected The Serpent to kill me, I wouldn't have stood in front of him. The vest was an afterthought. Eric mentioned Andrea in passing. Made me a little suspicious. I was going to confront him about it after Morgan's service. Or have the new sheriff do it."

"You should do it," Daryl said. "You should be sheriff. There ain't a council no more. Somebody's gotta lead these people. There's five hundred folks looking for a new leader, and it should be you."

Rick smiled with only half of his mouth. "Says the man who disagrees with every decision I've made in the past two weeks."

"I'd rather have you making dumbass decisions than somebody else making the right ones."

Rick winced as his headache increased. "That makes no sense."

"Says the man with a head wound." A small smile slipped out for a second before Daryl contained it again. "People here… They want to see The Serpent and The Judge go through a formal trial."

"What do you think?"

"I say lynch 'em both," Daryl spat. "But… you're the boss."

Rick sighed. "There's been enough death. I say we exile Cain. Not The Judge – not unless we have concrete proof – but he shouldn't have a leadership position anymore, that's for sure. Executions don't solve anything. That's what The Governor would do. I don't want to be him."

Daryl frowned. "You ain't. You're nothing like him."

"I'm gonna need your help," Rick whispered. "You, Glenn, everybody. Make sure I don't become that."

Daryl pursed his lips. "Let's make a deal. I'll help you keep your ego in check if you swear that you'll wear that bulletproof vest all the time." He settled deeper into his pillow until Rick could only see half of his face. "What I felt when I saw you get shot… Yeah, payback's a bitch."

To Be Continued