A/N: Thank you for the feedback! I'm excited for this story; it should be a good challenge for me. Here's chapter 2. Enjoy!


"Who is that?"

Carl's question was frantic, echoing the panicked rattling of Rick's pulse.

"A woman," he answered, securing her in his arms. She was covered in blood and muck, but that much was clear. Rick lifted her experimentally. She was lighter than she seemed, wrapped in layers of men's clothing.

"She's... a negro?" Carl ventured, pausing to look at her face. He raised the lantern as high as he could.

Rick steadied her on his shoulder chancing a look at a patch of skin exposed around her midriff. Her dark complexion was ashen beneath the filth, even in the lamplight. "Looks like it," a familiar pang of guilt nearly caused him to lose his footing. He steadied himself, determined to get out of the rain and out of sight.

"Is she a runaway?" Carl continued his questions, holding up the lantern for his father as they staggered up the front steps. They paused on the porch. Rick lowered her gently to the ground.

"There are no runaways," Rick said firmly. "She's a person." He fixed his eyes on the horizon. The storm showed no signs of slowing down, the rain pouring in bucket loads. The strange woman began to tremble, her body rocking with shock. She needed to be warm and dry.

Carl nodded, bending down to gaze into her face. "She needs help," he said.

Rick was already fussing with her, gingerly lifting the stiff leather of her jacket. He pulled the layer off as best he could, tensing when she let out a plaintive cry.

"Is that her blood?" Concern colored Carl's voice. He dropped to his knees beside his father.

Rick didn't answer, but busied himself with inspecting the woman beneath him. He hadn't seen anything like this in years, not since the war. He'd once thought that women were somehow immune to the horrors of this world, that atrocities passed them by. He knew better now. The fairer sex suffered just the same of the rest of them, considerably more so when their complexion was dark.

He used the fabric of his shirt sleeve to wipe the mud from her face, pausing for a moment to look at her. She was breathing, uttering exhausted little sounds from between a round, full mouth. Her features betrayed her heritage, from her nose to her large eyes and long eyelashes. Her hair was twisted tightly into a style he'd never seen before, long and thick and coarse.

"She's pretty," Carl whispered this in half-awe. Rick had the startling realization that his son had never before seen a negro woman.

"I don't think she's hurt," Rick finished his assessment of her. "She's not bleeding anyway." He poked and prodded, searching for a wound. Lightening flashed, illuminating the world around them. A sense of urgency overtook him. "We're bringing her inside," he made a decision at once.

Carl was up and had the door open before Rick even managed to lift her up. He slid into the house, instructing his son to bolt the door behind them.

"Get towels," the instructions were coming fast and thick as he maneuvered inside, heading for the bathroom. "And a bucket of water."

"Should I warm it on the fire?" Carl asked, hopping around his father, full of nervous energy.

"Bring me one for now, then go heat another one," Rick laid the woman in the bathtub, listening to his son beat a path back into the kitchen. He set about stripping her soiled clothing, tossing it in an undignified pile beside the cast-iron tub. He paused when he grasped a metal case beneath her coat. Carefully, he lifted the shoulder strap over her head, depositing it near his feet. It was heavy, resembling a scabbard. Some of the generals had carried them during the war, more for pomp than for anything else. Rick vowed to inspect it more closely later before returning to his task.

She was burning up, her skin feverish as he worked to free her. Her underclothing resembled that of men. Rick paused, gingerly lifting the fabric. Her skin beneath was smooth and dark, unmarked by any wounds that might account for the blood on her clothing. Rick chanced a closer look, his eyes roving over her legs. She moaned softly, clearly in pain, shivering.

"Is she ok?" Carl's voice startled him.

"She's feverish," Rick reached for the bucket. "I'm going to clean her up and get her in bed."

"What do you need me to do?" Carl asked eagerly.

Rick dipped a rag in the water, sponging at her forehead. "I need you to keep Judith safe."

Carl paused, "Do you think she'll live?" he glanced curiously into the tub, his face contorted with worry.

"That's up to God, son," Rick sought a way to comfort him. "But I'm going to do my best."

"You'll wake me up if she…" Carl took a deep breath, swallowing thickly.

"I will," Rick nodded solemnly. "But I need to focus now son."

Carl took a step backwards, then rushed forward, hugging Rick tightly around the waist. Rick stumbled a bit, caught of guard by the sudden display of affection. At once, Carl let go, hurrying from the room. As Carl retreated, Rick took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. He left the bathroom door open a crack, listening as always for his children.

"Ok," he breathed, more for his benefit than for the stranger in his house.

He knelt beside the tub and bent to his task.

-l-l-l-l-

When Michonne opened her eyes, two pairs stared back at her.

She shot backwards at once, her back slamming against the headboard, the blankets tangling around her legs. She reached instinctively for her sword, her panic only increasing when she groped at empty air.

"Daddy!" the little girl at the foot of the bed bellowed, her blonde curls bouncing as her head turned towards the closed door in the corner.

"Judy," the older of the two, a dark-haired boy, sighed in exasperation.

"What?" the little girl whipped back around. "Daddy said to get him when she woke up."

"You scared her," the boy insisted. He turned to Michonne, his blue eyes gleaming. Michonne recognized those eyes from another face.

"Sorry," the blonde girl was repentant at once. Crawling forward, she patted Michonne on a sheet-covered knee.

Michonne tightened up, moving further backwards. The young boy's eyes did not miss the gesture.

"Go get daddy," he instructed the little girl, standing up.

With an all important nod, the girl called Judy scampered from the room, slamming the door behind her. The boy came to his feet, facing Michonne importantly, his hands behind his back like he was about to recite in Sunday school.

"I'm Carl Grimes," he told her. "That was my sister Judith." He paused, fixing her with his gaze. "My dad and I saved you."

Michonne drew her knees up, loosening the sheets around her. She stared back at the boy. He couldn't have been much older than 12, but he carried himself like a man grown.

"Do you have a name?" he prompted her, tilting his head curiously at her.

"Carl," the door opened again, admitting Judith, hand-in-hand with a man. "We talked about this." He directed his comments at his son.

"I wasn't bothering her," Carl protested. "Judith is the one who scared her."

"I was trying to get Daddy," Judith countered, stomping her foot.

The man sighed, clearly exhausted. "Why don't you two go down to the kitchen. See what we've got to eat." It was a dismissal, though polite. Michonne watched as the two children left reluctantly, each looking at her over their shoulder. The door shut snugly behind them.

"I see you met my children," the man stood stiffly near the foot of the bed. Michonne took in his appearance. He couldn't have been much older than her, maybe midway through his 30s. Still, his face was creased with worry, his eyes rimmed by dark circles. She'd seen men like this before, both before and during the war.

Michonne nodded, cautious, her eyes flicking to the door. Rick turned around to glance at it. Without a word, he reached behind him, opening it a crack.

"I'm Rick Grimes," he turned back to her. "This is my house. That was my fence out there you went over."

Michonne tensed, inhaling, her muscles tight. "I didn't mean to," she ventured, dropping her eyes.

Rick did not look overly concerned. "I've got some questions for you." He took a seat in a wooden chair beside her bed, leaning forward. Michonne scooted further away. "Do you have a name, miss?" he asked her.

Michonne gave a start. "Michonne," she whispered.

"It's a pretty name," he leaned backwards, still staring at her. "Where'd you come from, Michonne?"

"I'm not a runaway," she answered, raising her eyes just the slightest.

"I know you ain't," he licked his lips. "But this ain't exactly a great area to be a negro woman all alone."

"Is there anyplace where it's good to be me?" she asked the question before really considering it. She was surprised by his reaction.

Rick let out a puff of breath. "I guess not," he sounded regretful. A beat passed, the silence thick and sweltering. Rick spoke again. "Miss Michonne, you're safe here, but I got to know what had you running. I'd go outside and check myself but…" he gestured to a small window. Outside, the storm raged on.

Memory came rushing back, the nightmares filling her mind. She drew her knees up. "Where's my clothes?" she asked suddenly. She was dressed in a nightgown. It was too small for her, tight across the chest and thighs.

"Hanging out to dry as best they can," Rick answered. "Same with that sword of yours. You took that off a soldier?"

"It's mine," Michonne insisted.

Rick looked at her hard, finally nodding. "I got it safe for you. But you can understand why I'm hesitant to arm a stranger in my house, 'specially when I don't know what brought you here in the first place."

"The dead," Michonne whispered, her eyes drawn back to the window.

"The dead?" Rick blinked in confusion. "Like the soldiers from the war?"

Michonne shook her head. "No," she felt pressure behind her eyes, swallowing it down. She didn't know this man, didn't know his family. For all she knew, he was just as bad.

Somewhere in the house, Judith began to laugh, her giggles echoing up the walls. Rick turned his head toward the door, a smile tugging at his lips. Carl's voice joined the fray. Michonne followed the sound, her eyes on Rick.

"Miss Michonne," Rick turned to her. "I've got children. If there's a threat, you need to tell me."

A silence stretched between them. Michonne wondered if she could get to the door and to her sword before Rick could catch her. As if reading her thoughts, he stood up and stepped forward, leaning down right into her face.

"I know you don't know me. And I know a negro woman has no reason to trust a white man in this world, but I can promise you, I mean you no harm."

Michonne watched him, searching his face for a twitch, a tick, any sign he was lying. He held her gaze, unflinching.

"Please," he entreated. "We saved your life."

Michonne released the breath she was holding, her eyes turning back to the window. If they were still out there, she needed help. She had no weapon, no clothing, no horse, no food.

"I have to show you," she looked back at Rick.

Rick leaned back, nodding solemnly. "I'll get you some clothes."

-l-l-l-l-

The bodies didn't bother him, not at first.

Michonne had led him back out into the wet world, the sun struggling to permeate the cloud cover around them. She refused his help, even as she limped beside him. Rick suppressed the urge to reach for her, instead watching her carefully as she picked her way to his borders.

She was unlike anyone he had ever known. His whole life, he'd been in contact with negro faces, especially during the war. There were certain things you got used to without really meaning to, the harsh realities of a life that was cruel and bitterly unfair. He'd seen sadness in dark eyes like hers, hate, determination.

In Michonne's eyes, he saw a warrior. He'd almost forgotten what that looked like.

She must have questions for him, dozens. If he had woken up in a strange bed, in clothing that wasn't his own, he'd be full of them. Rick had cleaned her up last night, even going so far as to rinse her hair. He wasn't in the habit of bathing naked women, especially when they were feverish and barely conscious. Still, there was something about seeing her like that, trembling and bloody and so vulnerable. He wanted to treat her with some gentleness, even if she never remembered it.

If he had to guess, life hadn't treated her with a gentle hand in the past.

"It was up there," she gestured, pointing to some place a few meters off. Rick squinted into the rain. As they came closer, his eyes widened.

"Hell," he sighed. Looked like dynamite had gone off over here. "You did all this?"

She remained silent, her eyes firmly fixed ahead. Rick resisted the urge to swear again in a women's presence. It was clear now that that sword of hers was for more than just decoration. He wondered where'd she'd learned that. He felt the press of the hilt from beneath his jacket, the scabbard hidden just out of sight. He wasn't going to leave a thing like that lying around the house, not with Carl around.

"How many were there?" he asked, determined to remain calm.

"Five," she replied. She stopped a few yards off, unwilling to get closer.

"Lord," he stared at the bodies, their limbs strewn about, their blood washing away in puddles. The wounds were clean, almost surgical, not the hacked off mess that fights normally ended in. Fear began to rise in his throat, not of this woman, but for her. They would be coming for her, and soon. He wasn't sure he could hide her. "Why were they after you?" he asked, turning to her.

She shrugged slightly. Rick realized what a foolish query it was. It didn't take much to get a mob going out here.

"You should get closer," she suggested again. "Take a look." She took a step backwards, looking shaky on her feet.

Wearily, Rick advanced, keeping his back turned away from her. He passed a hand missing two fingers, half an arm, and a bloody mass he couldn't identify. When he got to the head, he experienced a terror like he'd never felt before.

Eyes open, mouth agape, a severed head was snapping at him from the mud.

"Jesus," he wasn't sure if he meant to swear or if he was calling out for the Lord. Might have been both.

The teeth clashed, eyes rolling. Rick poked at it with his rifle, needing to see despite the urge to run. He recognized this man from town. He'd been an overseer on a plantation not far from here. When the war came, he couldn't wait to sign up.

"You killed him?" his head snapped back, his eyes wide as he observed the woman a few feet off.

She shook her head. "He was dead when he started chasing me," she said. For the first time, Rick saw the real fear in her eyes.

"I gotta clean this up, before the children see," his mind began to race, listing plans of action, trying to make sense of this new information. The ground was too wet still for digging, but perhaps he could burn them in the barn…

"Rick," her voice drew him out of his panicked reverie. He focused on her once again. She was shaking, something he was sure had nothing to do with the weather. "There were more of them," she informed him, her voice warbling.

"Where?' he asked, clutching his gun.

She raised one finger, pointing.

Rick turned, heart pounding, praying he had enough bullets.