A/N: This is the new Walking Dead fanfiction that I'm working on with wandertogondor on this site (her name is Stephanie and her profile is linked in my profile). We will be cowriting this and it will all be on my account, but everyone should definitely read her other work; she's an amazing writer! The songs used in this chapter are Ramblin' Man by the Allman Brothers and Knockin' on Heaven's Door by Bob Dylan. Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated if you have something to suggest. Hope you guys like it!
Lord, I was born a ramblin' man. Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can, and when it's time for leavin' I hope you'll understand that I was born a ramblin' man...
Micah Basset looked up from the hazy sight of carrick bends which she had been knotting together since the morning; a portable radio played the Allman Brothers in the pilot house. Her hair was matted down with sweat on the sides of her face and against her neck. She squinted her swollen forest green eyes, looking up at the blanket of white clouds that settled on the blue skies. Her sharp ears caught the small waves lapping onto the grassy shore below her boat, bringing the corpses of men, women, and children alike to bloat on the surface.
It wasn't the limp bodies that bothered her; the military had beaten that weakness out of her years of ago. What really sent a sharp coil of concern down to the pit of her gut was the snarling, rabid Rotters that would occasionally pepper the riverbank and fall into the water.
Micah secured a hangman's knot around the neck of a Rotter that she had spent hours fishing out from water. Her joints cracked as she stood and wiped her hands on her pants. Almost from habit, her eyes scanned the shore before leaning down to take the corpse by its shoulders to throw it overboard so it dangled along the side of the boat. She let out a tired groan when she looked down to see that her hands were soiled and sticky with decomposing flesh.
A branch snapped in the distance and she didn't miss a beat to kick the radio off and position herself against the hull. In her hands, she held a recurve bow at ready, arrow poised on the string. The tips of her thumb brushed against her chin as her chest rose and fell according to her controlled breathing, her shoulder and back muscles spontaneously taking most of the pressure to keep the nock of the arrow between her middle and index finger.
"Anyone out there?" It wasn't until the words came out when she noticed how parched and dry her mouth was. A shadow ducked behind a tree near a hedgerow and sat still under the brush. "If you need help or - or shelter..."
Micah caught herself. She had been isolated from living human beings for so long that she almost forgot that they were as dangerous and unpredictable as the Rotters when put in desperate circumstances.
"You've been crashing out there like a bunch of hippos for the past ten minutes." She continued, blowing off the bead of sweat which threatening to slowly roll to her upper lip. "I think I'm the last person you have to be afraid of. You be nice to me and I'll be nice to you."
"We - have a baby," A woman's voice croaked out from the bushes, one arm coming up through the leaves.
"Jesus Christ!" Micah threw down her bow and quickly ran to the pilot house in order to somehow maneuver the boat as close to shore as she could manage without running aground. It never occurred to her in those few seconds whether the woman was lying or not but Micah didn't want the guilt of a child's life on her conscious. She threw a rope ladder over the portside between the corpses which were hung all around the sides of the boat.
One woman holding a baby swathed in a pink blanket and a young boy followed closely behind two men - a third man bringing up the rear with a crossbow. They all scrambled up the ladder with their gear and guns before huddling on the deck, cautiously eyeballing her then the strung up bodies. Micah pulled the ladder up just as a hoard of Rotters reached the portside and grabbed at the metal which was slicked over with flammable oil.
"You should take the baby down to the cabin," She motioned toward the stairs that led to the cabin with an absent wave of her hand. "The pantry's well stocked for now so go at it. I think I may have grabbed a cannister of baby formula by accident on my last supply run. Make yourselves at home. It's fairly safe here if not comfortable."
"What's your name?" The head of the group, a dark haired man in his mid to late thirties, asked, catching his breath and wiping his mud caked fingers on his equally dirty shirt.
"What's in a name?" Micah replied hoarsely. "You folks are tired. Get some rest. You look as bad as those ugly-ass Rotter's down there...no offense."
The head of the group and the man with the crossbow stayed on the deck while the rest of the group went down to explore the boat.
"How old's the baby?" She asked, placing her hands firmly on her waist.
The dark haired man let out a sharp breath, sauntering over to the bulwark and ran his fingers on the oily metal and brought his fingers to his nose. "Why is it covered in gasoline?"
Micah stammered for a moment, tongue-twisted to find the right words to explain her far-off logic. "If this boat gets overrun somehow, alls I got to do is light a match and," she made an exploding sound and wrung her hands in the air. "I'll be sleeping with the fishes."
"That's pretty smart," He admitted, wiping his hand on his clothes again. "I'm Rick and this is Daryl. Thanks for letting us on board."
"How long've you been holed down here for?" Daryl asked, lowering his crossbow so it pointed at the deck.
"Couple of months," She replied evenly, chewing at her bottom lip. "My plane went down offshore near Parris Island - that was before the military disarmed. My copilot died on impact and I was lucky enough to get picked up by a patrol boat that hadn't been infected yet."
"You ex-military?" Rick tucked his pistol at the small of his back, pulling the hem of his soiled shirt over it.
"Yeah," Her eyes pulled into a squint against the beating sun. "I was in the Navy for a couple of years."
Daryl rolled his eyes and spit out a gob of saliva over the side so it landed on the busted in heads of a walker. Micah's head snapped to his general area, her fierce gaze met by his casually indifferent one.
"Got a problem, doll-face?" He snorted, releasing one hand from the bow to stand with his shoulders squared in the denim jacket he wore.
"My boat, my rules. Unless you want to take your chances with the Rotters down there," she indicated down to the growling creatures at the shore, "then you better abide by my rules in my jurisdiction."
Rick placed a hand on Daryl's shoulder. "It's not worth a fight." Then he turned to Micah. "Have you heard of a little town called Woodbury? It'd be in Georgia?"
Micah twisted her mouth to the side, scrolling through her memory since the infection started. "Is that where you folks are trying to get to? It's not far downstream from here. I could get you there in half an hour."
"Woodbury's the last place we want to go." Rick quickly put in.
"If you heard of Woodbury," she put one arm around her waist and tucked the fingers on her dainty hand under her chin, "then you must of heard of Philip Blake. Right? They call him The Governor."
Their faces spontaneously coiled into a mask of anger.
Micah parted a small smile. Philip did that to people.
"You know that bastard?" Daryl fumed, turning his face so she wouldn't see his eyes turning red.
She noticed.
"Heard of him. Never met him." She lied, pulling out a knife from the belt loop on her jeans and starting to scrape off the dried guts that had accumulated on the railings with the broad end of the blade.
"What's with the baby?" Micah asked suddenly, turning back to Rick when she had finished with the knife.
"She's my daughter. My wife... She died having Judith," Rick murmured, lowering his eyes. "My son, Carl, and the others, Glenn and Maggie, are with us." He cleared his throat and looked back up. "If you don't mind, I'd like to check on them."
"Of course," Micah nodded.
She watched Rick walk towards the ship's sleeping quarters before shifting her eyes back at Daryl.
Noticing her gaze, Daryl muttered, "What?"
"I saw your reaction when I mentioned Philip," Micah tested. "What's that all about?"
"That's none of your damn business," Daryl shot her down. "I don't even know your name, so why are you interrogating me?"
"Ooh, 'interrogating'. That's a big word for someone like you."
Micah saw that she had finally gotten something out of Daryl. His face went a little red as he tried to decide on what to say.
Eventually, he spat, "You think you're some big-shot, huh? Only a coward would cover their boat in gas in case of a walker attack. You wouldn't be man enough to off yourself."
Micah shrugged dismissively, brushing his comment off. "I don't know why Rick keeps you around, but if you give me trouble, you're off this ship," she stated firmly. "So find yourself a bunk and stay out of my way."
Daryl shook his head and rolled his eyes. He looked like he was about to spit again, but caught Micah's look and stopped himself. He continued on his way down the same stairs his friends had gone down with his crossbow propped over his shoulder.
As she watched the strange man get farther away, Micah couldn't help but notice the twinge of annoyance she felt. But she didn't know if she was more annoyed at Daryl or at herself.
Micah sighed and slumped down in the corner. She was too tired to get to her own bunk, and even though a part of her said not to let these people catch her off guard, another part told her that she needed sleep. Though the gently lapping water would have been an ideal place to fall asleep, with the wind whispering against her sun-kissed skin, the bone-chilling sound of the Walkers growling cast an uneasy out into the pleasant fall day.
Micah kicked out one leg and carefully used her toe to turn the radio back on.
Mama, put my guns in the ground, I can't shoot them anymore. That long black cloud is comin' down. I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door.
