"The Road to Hell"
Michonne listened to the thrumming of the rain against the window, that rain becoming steadily heavier as time wore on. Rick had kissed her tenderly before he'd dressed and left to meet Daryl, leaving ahead of the storm by mere minutes. She'd not been able to get back to sleep since he'd departed.
She smiled in spite of herself. She simply couldn't sleep peacefully anymore without Rick beside her, much as she couldn't sleep deeply unless she'd recently felt him within her. The warmth of him, the hardness of him, the scent and sound of him as he moved in her…these were her lullabies now, the act of being loved like the steady, swampy rhythm of a metronome. This Michonne, this new person, was not one she'd ever anticipated becoming, but she wasn't unwelcome or unwanted. She loved loving him, she loved being loved.
It occurred to her that one day she and Rick might, as her long-dead friend Andrea put it, "catch pregnant". The thought of Andrea's bright, green eyes and warm smile suffused Michonne with a wave of deep, fetid regret. She forced it aside, however, as there was a very large, very living concept before her. Leave the mourning of the lost for later. Mental pragmatism.
Not hours before, she'd been looking up at Rick, into his eyes, when she felt his seed enter her. She'd felt it many times before but, in that moment, what it could signify never seemed more real to her. He didn't close his eyes, he didn't moan, he simply stared into her eyes as his face flushed, his breath hitched, and his eyes shined. She'd stared back, hungry for that moment, wanting him to give her what was hers. He was there with her in the truest sense of it, surrendering wholly to that moment, and once again Michonne found herself discovering something new, something that she'd never had or even known she wanted.
It had gone beyond want, now; it had become need. She needed the warmth and intimacy of him, the solace he provided. She needed his blue eyes to find hers, his strong hands on her body, a body that ached for him. She was momentarily ashamed to admit it, but she needed Rick Grimes and every aspect of the man he was.
"Damn romance novel," she softly chuckled to herself, "Thus spake Daryl Dixon."
But a child..? A child that she and Rick might have? One day, there'd be no more of those pills to be found, no more convenient little compacts in which they were contained. Nobody was left to slap together the proper chemical compounds needed to prevent her belly from growing, pressing against her bladder, waking her up at all hours of the night to pee, and making her hungry for everything in sight. But that was just an excuse, wasn't it? Could she have another baby? Was she willing to risk that? Hell, her adopted son and daughter, Carl and Judith, seemed to be thriving. Why not? If and when Rick was ready for another child, why couldn't she be ready?
Michonne remembered the smile of the lost little boy, the small, dead hand that had released so much pain and guilt and regret. It had broken her and at once, healed her, transformed her.
Andre.
Perhaps that grief was still too raw, too near yet. Oh, hell. Making excuses and hiding again? No, this was genuine. She sometimes had to second-guess herself, given that the old Michonne would sometimes echo in her. Gone but not forgotten. No, not at all.
She could, she resolved, have another child and perhaps one day, when the timing was right, that is precisely what she'd want with Rick. There'd already been the obligatory conversations among the women of Alexandria about how adorable a baby Michonne and Rick would produce and jokes about how mixed-race children invariably seemed to win out in the looks department. Michonne had laughed and made the appropriate social gestures, of course, but the idea was one she undertook with grave sincerity.
"Maybe," she whispered to the ceiling, "Maybe one day, maybe not, but I've got to stop manufacturing reasons to overanalyze. But, hey, the road to hell and all that…"
The ceiling had never been a terribly good conversationalist. Only-children often talk to themselves, someone had once told her, as a method of keeping themselves company, given that they were both prone to loneliness and, inexplicably, occasionally comforted by it.
Her mouth somewhat dry from those passionate kisses that still lingered like ghosts on her lips, Michonne wrapped herself in one of Rick's shirts and made her way to the bathroom. The scent of Rick emanated from the shirt and she found herself sighing, wishing he didn't have to leave. She just wanted him home so she could go back to sleep.
"Girl, when did you get so fucking corny?" She laughed softly, turning on the tap and reaching for her glass.
Something isn't right.
The primal instinct came forth, roaring, from the darkness at the back of her mind. It came forward, gnashing its teeth, slavering, snarling with bestial territoriality. Her eyes narrowed and her hearing sharpened.
Someone is in the house.
Naked from the waist down, she felt even more so when her right hand instinctively shot to up to her shoulder, seeking the comfort of the katana's hilt.
In the bedroom. Against the nightstand. Shit, shit, shit. The primal voice growled low, forebodingly.
Judith. The baby. Carl.
Michonne sped through the hallway, soundlessly, at the thought of her children. The moments were fragmented between the bathroom and bedroom, like film cut into multiple shots and flung into the air, the world returning to solidarity when the familiar sound of unsheathed steel rang hungrily in the stillness.
Yesssssss… The primal voice hissed. We are better now. Whole now.
"Yes," she whispered, "we are."
She crept out of the bedroom, her stance narrow, the katana tight against her body. God damn this fucking house and these tight corridors! Striking in a narrow space with a long sword was tricky and there were too many surfaces in which to wedge the blade if you miscalculated. Tight, upward strokes, stabs only. Too many damn variables… Claustrophobia loomed.
Downstairs. It's downstairs. He is downstairs. Hunt.
She obeyed, creeping slowly down the stairs. She could smell it, now. This person, this interloper, was unambiguously male and smelled horrible, a sickly scent of moldering vegetables. No, not just that. It was the scent of a Walker, something rotten.
Camouflage.
Our son. The boy. He has a gun. Let him hunt with us.
"There's no time," she mentally hissed at the voice, "Now shut up!"
Stepping onto the landing, she scanned the parlor, her vision sharpening in the gloom, listening to the drumming rain against the windows. She cursed the rain, knowing that machine gun rhythm could easily muffle any sound both within and without. She pricked her ears, listening for anything signifying…anything. Her pulse was steady in her ears, her heart dropping into what she thought of as a 'Killer's Rhythm'.
Thump, thump… Thump, thump…
She felt a gust of cool air between her legs, smelled the heavy air, and realized the front door was open. She slithered to the foot of the steps, her eyes falling on the door. It was left slightly ajar and sitting directly in front of the door was an amorphous lump she surmised was a shirt. She prodded it with the blade. It was sticking to the floor and came up with a slight tearing sound. It was sodden with the coagulating blood of a Walker, streaked with gore, and spattered with bits of something she immediately recognized as intestine. The horror crept up the base of her spine like a serpent made of ice. The placement of the shirt, the wind…
Bait, the primal voice chided, you've been baited.
That was when the hand shot around her and clamped over her mouth.
The scent flooded her senses now, cloying, sticky-sweet, seemingly submerging her thoughts in the fog of a fever. His scent. The scent of the other.
She felt the needle break the skin at the base of her neck and before the pain could fully be processed, the rush of something into her, through her.
Her limbs instantly became lead and she dropped the sword. This man, the other, deftly caught it before it hit the floor. So fast…so strong…but she could feel him behind her…how could so small a man…
"Hush, now, Pretty Woman," the small, soft voice said, soothingly, "Hush now. Jacob will take care of you."
Fading quickly, fighting the inevitable undertow threatening to sweep her away, perhaps forever, away from Judith, from Carl, from Rick, this man, Jacob, swiftly, silent as the grave, moved her and laid her on the couch. Her vision blurring, darkening, Michonne saw his face through his mop of greasy, sun-lightened, dark-blonde hair. His bright, jade-green eyes were sunken into their sockets, reddened, much like his sunburned face. His thin lips were a rictus of determination and veins stood out prominently from the dried, flaky skin of his scalp. Thousands of years ago, she thought deliriously, he may have been handsome. Now, he looked like a revenant, starving, his belly distended far from his sunken, hairless chest. His grimace disappeared and his face changed, shifted, and became a smile that again reminded her, thousands upon thousands of years ago, he had been his mother's angel.
"Our God is an awesome God," he cooed softly, "He reigns from heaven above…"
She thought of her childhood, of the songs her grandmother would sing, that song, back when Michonne herself believed, and she whimpered. Help me, please, Nana, it can't be now…
"No, no," Jacob whispered consolingly, "None of that, now. Rest, Pretty Woman, for we have promises to keep and miles to go before we sleep." He smiled at her again, flashing his impossibly perfect teeth, the smile of a mauled cherub.
"Robert..," she droned seemingly from the bottom of the sea, "Frost…"
Darkness fell over Michonne.
Jacob stood from the couch, looking down at the Pretty Woman. The shirt she had worn rode up her long, muscular legs, those legs that seemed to be carved from glimmering onyx, and, bemused, Jacob was offered a view of her sex. He looked for a moment, thinking that even this on her was pretty. He idly reached forward and tugged her shirt down, preserving her dignity, and quickly withdrew his hand as though she'd burn him. He couldn't help but chuckle at that. She could burn him.
He understood how the Tall Man could stare, how he could worship her, how he could be so easily given to the temptations of the flesh. Oh, but she was so lovely… He touched her hair gently, considering the texture so alien to him, and smiled.
The note. Of course! How could he be so absent-minded? He glanced at the Pretty Woman again. Of course he knew.
He'd taken great care in writing the note, in utilizing proper grammar, spelling, and making the lettering presentable. The Speaker always complimented him on his beautiful handwriting. Each word had been the word of the Speaker as Jacob took dictation and, when he'd finished, the Speaker looked it over approvingly.
He took the note from his pocket, the pristine paper of the envelope appearing as if by magic from black jeans which had worn in every conceivable area. He placed it purposefully on the center of the table at the feet of the couch. Adjacent the note, he placed the Pretty Woman's sword. The Tall Man would have no choice but to see it and it was vital that he did so. Pleased with himself thus far, Jacob smiled, glancing to the staircase. From his pocket, he produced a small, silver case and opened it, eyeing the second syringe.
"And now, the One-Eyed Boy."
He moved up the stairs slowly, like a living liquid, readying the syringe, taking care to eject any excess oxygen from the chamber containing the amber liquid.
"Jesus loves me, this I know..," he sang softly, atonally, as he crept towards Carl's bedroom, "For the bible tells me so… Little ones to Him belong; they are weak but he is strong…"