A/N: I'm back and with something a little different than my usual fare. Thanks to msdoomandgloom on Tumblr, I'm playing with a new AU starring our favorite couple.
This is set shortly after the Civil War and a re-imagining of TWD in a different time. I have some plans for this story, so please let me know if you're interested in me continuing. I hope you enjoy!
It was difficult to hear the groans of the dead with the storm raging outside.
The Grimes family was stationed at the kitchen table in the big house, listening to the elements rage. Water sloshed against the wooden frame of the building, shaking the glass inside the window panes. Storms weren't all that uncommon in Georgia, but there was something unusual about this one. It'd been carrying on for upwards of three days now, with no end in sight. The ground outside was soaked, sucking at the heels of whoever dared brave the elements. The evidence of it sat out in the foyer, the boots caked to nearly the top in grime.
Rick stood at the small rectangular window that looked out at the farm, his brow furrowed.
"Everything ok, dad?" Carl asked from his place at the table. Rick turned to look at him. His son's voice was dropping already, the little boy he'd known receding into some semblance of a man. Rick recognized the grim expression on his young face well; he often caught glimpses of it in the mirror.
"Just a thunderstorm," Rick smiled, more for the benefit of his daughter than anything else. Judith was sitting in her brother's lap, her blonde head buried in his chest, his long brown hair clutched between her little fingers. Rick had been meaning to trim his son's chestnut mane, but Carl staunchly avoided it. He hadn't cut his hair since his mother died. The neighbors whispered, but Rick didn't pay them much mind. They were always whispering about him anyway.
"It'll be all right, Judy," Carl soothed, his voice soft, gentle, the tone he reserved only for his sister.
"I don't like it," Judith sniffled into Carl's leather vest. "It's too loud."
Rick was inclined to agree. He hadn't heard thunder like this in years.
"It's just God showing off," Rick stepped away from the window, drawing the lace curtains to shut the world out. Lori, his late wife, had made them. It took her the better part of three months to figure it out, copying a pattern he'd brought home with him from town. They were lopsided maybe, but Rick couldn't bring himself to fix them.
"If we're going to have another girl in the house, we need something pretty," Lori had declared with a flourish, hanging them up.
"Better get someone else to make 'em then," Rick had teased, even as he helped her put the pins in place. Lori had never much taken to needlepoint, to the female neighbors' great chagrin.
She'd hit him then, lightly in the arm, her hands resting on her swollen belly. "They look fine," she'd insisted.
Rick wisely kept his mouth shut. "How do you know it's a girl?" he'd asked.
Lori had just smiled.
"Dad," Carl startled him from his reverie. Rick stepped away from the window, crossing over to his children. "Are the horses ok?"
"Got 'em locked up as tight as I can," Rick took the vacant seat beside his son. "Got plenty of water and dry hay. Should be fine for a few days, if this weather don't let up."
Carl nodded, his eyes trained on the closed window on the far wall. "And Mom?" he asked quietly, shooting Judith a worried look.
Rick swallowed. "She's uphill son. She should be fine."
"Daddy?" Judith turned to look at him, reaching out for him. Rick gladly took her, settling her in his lap. She reached up, tugging at the hair on his beard. It was beginning to go gray, something Carl never failed to tease him for. Same with the hair along his temples; his dark tresses were dusted in silver, despite his age. The last few years had been taxing and it was beginning to show.
"Yes baby?" Rick busied himself with his daughter's hair. It favored his, curly, but it was the color of wheat when the sun was setting.
"Can you read me a story?" she asked him.
It was early yet for stories. If the weather had been suitable, Rick would still be checking the perimeter of their modest plantation, settling the horses, maybe cleaning his rifle. He slept better at night when he exhausted himself.
"Sure sweetie," he dropped a kiss on her head, then secured her with one arm. With the other, he grasped the gas lamp sitting on the table. "C'mon son," he turned his attention to Carl. "There's nothing much we can do but wait it out."
Together, they exited, leaving the kitchen in darkness. Outside, the storm continued to rage.
-l-l-l-l-
The lightening was a lifesaver.
The moon was hidden tonight, shrouded behind dark clouds. It was the kind of night her mother had always been fond of, the kind she'd tell her stories about.
"Nothin' better than a dark night, Michonne," her mother would whisper. "You can do a lot with darkness, if you know what you're doin'."
Her mama had definitely known what she was doing. Under the cover of night, she'd led entire plantations to safety, past enemy lines and Confederate soldiers, right on up to Canada. Kept right on doing it, even when the dogs had chased her, and the men with their horses and pitchforks. It was one of the reasons her mama taught her to ride. Whoever sat on top of the horse was in charge.
In the end, it had been the horse that killed her. The beast, though loyal, was fallen by a Confederate bullet. Mama broke its fall. The war was over and so was her mother.
It didn't make life any easier though.
So Michonne moved in the shadows, going from town to town, freeing people when the law failed them. She'd had some close calls, but she always got away. She wasn't sure she could get away this time.
She could hear them, even through the weather, her ears tuned to the sounds of human voices. They normally shouted at her, shot at her even. The sound they were making now chilled her to the bone.
She'd lost her horse in the mad dash from that ranch. He'd fallen under their bare hands. The war made her no stranger to savagery, but this…this was something different.
This wasn't human.
She ran, her feet pounding away as the mud sucked at her boots, her lungs burning, water running into her eyes in rivulets. She'd long since lost track of where she was. It didn't matter. She just needed to get away.
Another bolt of lightening struck, illuminating a fence in the distance. Michonne pushed herself, her muscles screaming in protest as she sought to escape. She could still hear them, though faint. She chanced a glance over her shoulder and nearly came undone.
Dead faces. She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen it. It was like something out of Revelations.
She reached the fence at last and hauled herself over, landing hard in the muck. Her pack bounced hard against her back, falling free. She paused for just a moment, frantic, groping for it. She shuddered in relief when her hand closed in on the familiar weight. She was up on her feet in seconds, her weapon out, ready to face the foes who had chased her so far.
They gathered at the fence, pressing in, the five of them gaping at her with wide, bloody mouths, their eyes vacant, their arms reaching for her. Michonne steeled her nerve. She swung once, twice, jabbing and thrusting blindly in the dark, listening to the dull thuds as their bodies hit the ground. The groaning grew quiet, muted by the rain.
She chanced a glance at the leader, slumped over the fence, bleeding from the hole she'd put in him. He'd lost an arm in the conflict, and half of the back of his head. She took a step towards him. When those cold dead eyes turned up to look at her, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Fear paralyzed her for a moment before she was able to finish it, driving the blade through what was left of his skull. Michonne stood shaking, wet, terrified, and alone, unsure what to do.
Someone upstairs had to have been in her corner though. The lightening rent the sky again and she saw it, a house far off. In the distance, a light flickered, maybe three hundred or so meters off.
On shaky legs, she ran for it, hoping against hope that the owners of this one would be friendly.
-l-l-l-l-
"Shh," Rick cautioned. Carl always walked like he was trying to put holes in the floor.
"Sorry," his son smiled sheepishly. "I'm just glad she finally went down."
"Your mama was afraid of storms too," Rick wasn't sure what compelled him to say it, but he found his lips moving.
"Really?" Carl stopped full in his tracks.
"Really," Rick smiled a bit at the memory. "Even when we were kids."
Carl seemed to process this. "What calmed her down?"
Rick reached for him, clasping him around the arm. "First, she used to hang onto me. Then when you came, she'd hold on to you."
Carl smiled outright. He reached back, squeezing his father's arm. "I miss her," he said quietly.
"I do too, son," Rick admitted, guilt punching him like a fist to the stomach. He swallowed, shaking his head, forcing the moment to pass. "We should check the doors one more time. Make sure the water isn't coming up over the porch."
A flicker of disappointment passed over Carl's face for just a moment before he nodded solemnly. "Good idea." He dogged his father's footsteps, the silence settling between them.
It took some work to get the front door open against the wind. Rick squeezed out, squinting as the rain whipped like a cold knife into his face.
"Some storm," Carl sounded almost afraid.
"We'll weather it," Rick assured his son. He strained his ear for the horses, hoping they weren't spooked.
"What's that?" Carl suddenly pointed out into the darkness, his voice jumping. Rick followed his finger.
For a beat, he thought it was some kind of animal, a coyote maybe, limping towards them in the storm.
"Go get the lamp," Rick instructed. "And the rifle."
Carl paused, fear clear on his face. "Dad…" he began, his voice tense.
"Now," Rick's tone left no room for argument. Carl scampered off, his feet sliding as he made it into the house. Rick squinted off into the distance, wondering whether he should head it off before it reached the house.
"Dad," Carl was back, breathless and clutching the gun. He extended it to him.
"Keep it," Rick pushed it back at him, seizing the lamp instead. "You remember how to shoot?"
Carl gulped, nodding slowly.
"Don't shoot unless I give you the signal," Rick looked hard at him. "I'll shout if I need it."
"What do you think it is?" Carl's eyes flickered to the dark shadow still moving towards them.
"I'm going to find out," Rick promised, moving into the rain.
-l-l-l-l-
Michonne could see them, dark silhouettes against the wood of the house. One of them had a gun. She braced herself, offering up a silent prayer. They didn't fire. Instead, the taller of the two seized the lantern, moving towards her.
She didn't have the strength to fight him, even if he didn't use the gun. She had no strength to get away, and was in no hurry to rush back into the world outside the fence. He was gaining now, crossing to her on long strides.
"Who are you?" his voice was colored with the accent of the area, a sound that normally ran her blood cold. Instead she reached out for him.
"Help," she managed, staggering toward him. "Please."
He froze, lifting the lamp. Michonne could make out his face. His skin was tanned, streaked with rain, his dark hair soaked. His eyes, blue as a river in springtime, reflected shock.
"Please," she croaked out again, collapsing in exhaustion.
"Who is it?" a small voice called out towards her. A child. Michonne attempted to turn her head toward the sound. She ended up falling forward into the mud.
"Carl!" the man yelled out, speeding up his steps. The light got deposited somewhere nearby.
"Please," Michonne repeated, even as her body gave out on her.
The lightening flashed just as he reached her, his calloused hands extending outward.