A/N: Thanks as always for the feedback! I'm doing double duty with my web series and this story, but having a great time with these action scenes!
I hope you all enjoy
The groaning did not cease, not even as the morning stretched into the afternoon. Michonne attempted to estimate the hour but came up short. It was dark inside the church, humid and dank, the air filled with the smell of sweat inside, and the stench of the dead from outside. Rick had instructed that the windows be covered with linens, an idea that had calmed the dead down considerably. They had stopped throwing themselves against the walls, but now milled about, moaning and aimless, like cattle in a pen.
"We're going to die in here," a young blonde girl sniffled. "Just like mama."
"Beth hush," her older sister, a brunette, chastised her. "What kind of talk is that?"
Michonne glanced at the two sisters. The eldest had just reached adulthood and it showed. She had spent the better part of the day reassuring her sister and their father, the preacher. The old man seemed kind enough, but whatever it was that had compelled Rick to risk his life for him, Michonne couldn't say. Then again, she'd chased Rick straight into this death trap. It seemed that affection did not require reason.
"How are we going to escape?" the blonde, Beth, began to sob. "We're gonna die, Maggie."
"Rick will sort it out," Maggie's voice held the utmost confidence. "He's been in tighter spots than this." She looked up, her green eyes catching Michonne. "Ain't that right, Miss Michonne?" she asked.
Michonne cleared her throat, surprised. She'd been largely ignored since she came in here, speaking only to Sasha, Tyreese, and Rick. "He's a soldier, and he's not the only one in here. No one is going to die." She was sure it was a lie, even as it left her lips, but she was in no hurry to panic this child worse.
Maggie was satisfied by this. "See? They've got it sorted. I'm sure he's working on it with daddy right now."
"Why don't I go check?" Michonne was eager to get out of these pews and away from this crowd. People had been sobbing on and off all day, utterly resigned to their fate. She'd never seen such helplessness, even on the plantation. She felt angry at it, at this group of people who had no qualms watching others suffer but collapsed at the first sign of trouble. She stood up, heading for the rectory, looking for Rick. He'd disappeared a half hour ago.
"Don't leave!" the girl squeaked, terrified. "Daddy said you can kill those things." She gestured to the shadows moving beyond the stained glass church window.
Michonne froze, exasperated. She spotted Daryl a few yards off, looking as out of place as she felt. She called him over.
"Ma'am," Daryl was all nervous energy, unable to meet her eyes.
"Do you mind watching the ladies while I'm gone?" she phrased it as a suggestion, but both she and Daryl knew better.
"You lookin' for your man?" he questioned, already stepping up to take her place. "He's in the back."
Michonne nodded, distracted by his phrasing. Even Maggie and Beth looked up interestedly. Michonne quickly hurried off. She found Rick, as promised, behind the altar, stationed in a small room. He was inspecting a door, his brow furrowed.
"Found something?" she asked quietly, trying not to scare him.
He jumped a bit anyway. "Miss Michonne," he looked relieved, his face relaxing.
"You know," she ventured, taking slow steps toward him. "You don't have to call me 'miss'. My name is just fine."
His lips tilted in the hint of a grin. "Southern manners," he shrugged by way of explanation.
She shook her head, letting out an unladylike snort, "They don't mean much around here."
He digested that, looking distressed once more. "I hope you know that I mean them," he told her. "It ain't just for show."
"I know," she assured him, joining him at the door. He relaxed again, just marginally. "What are you looking at back here?"
"Trying to figure a way out," he sighed. "The dead are everywhere. Even if we could distract them, maybe a handful of us could escape but…" he turned, looking back at the crowd just through the door.
"Might be our only option." Frankly, Michonne was in no hurry to leave with some of these people. She wondered if she could get Sasha, Tyreese, and the Greene family out with she and Rick.
Rick released another sigh, clearly exhausted. "I don't know what we're going to do with them, even if we get them out," he said.
"Why do you have to decide that?" she asked.
He glanced at her. "You've never felt responsible for folks?"
Michonne paused. "Of course I have, but…" she searched for a way to phrase it.
"I know," he told her, his voice gentle. "I know it's different. I know more than half the folks in there don't deserve a lick of sympathy." He turned around, directing her to look out into the church. "But you see her?" he pointed at a mousy young woman. She was clutching her stomach, obviously pregnant. "Her husband is the one I hit earlier. It ain't no secret that he beats on her too." Rick sounded disgusted by the thought. "And that boy, the one you spared? What kind of life do you think he had under Merle's thumb? And Sasha and Tyreese? Their parents got sold down the river when they were just kids." Rick sucked at his teeth.
"We can't save everybody," she reminded him of the harsh reality. It was a hard-learned lesson.
"No," he agreed. "But maybe a few of them. We're going to need people to get through this. Can't no one do this alone."
His words startled her, her mama's voice echoing in them. "You've got me," she told him. "And your children. We need to get back to them." Her mind wandered to those two little ones, not for the first time today. She wondered how they were managing.
"We will," he promised her. "We need your help. You're the expert at getting out of tight spots."
"I need a map," she told him. She'd thought this through since the moment she ran through the church door. "I don't know this town well enough."
"All right," Rick nodded eagerly. "Let's go." He led her back out, past the girls, toward the rectory.
"You can't go in there," Beth called after them, aghast. "Daddy's praying."
"Sure I can," Michonne opened the door, stepping inside to illustrate her point. Rick chuckled lowly behind her, reaching for the door to hold it open. The sounds of sniffling and groaning outside faded to a dull hum as they entered the room.
"Ma'am, you can't be in here," the preacher looked startled by her arrival. He was kneeling towards a crucifix on the wall. He'd clearly been crying.
"Hershel, she's with me," Rick spoke up, offering Michonne a smile. "And we could use her help." He straightened up, shooting his friend a warning look. Hershel silenced, but didn't take his eyes off Michonne or her blood-splattered appearance.
"I'm asking the Lord for help," Hershel turned back to the cross.
"And I'm sure He's listening," Rick said kindly. "He already sent us Michonne."
Both she and Hershel startled at that. Michonne felt herself begin to flush. She offered up a silent thanks to God for her dark skin as Rick looked at her, pride clear in his expression.
"Who is she?" Hershel rose slowly from his knees, confused.
Rick stepped in. "You've heard of her, even if you don't know it, Hershel. This is the woman you discussed with me all those years ago."
Understanding dawned. "You led slaves to their freedom," Hershel said, amazement written clearly all over his face.
"I led people to their freedom," she corrected. This man irritated her, though she doubted she could ever explain to Rick the reason why. There were plenty of Yankees like this, progressive, outspoken, and ultimately silent when it came down to fighting for their principles. It had taken Rick the better part of an hour to get the congregation settled down, assuring that Sasha and Tyreese and herself wouldn't be attacked. The preacher had been scarce through the whole affair.
"Hopefully, you can do it again," Rick sounded confident in her abilities. He offered her a small smile, reaching for her elbow. The touch startled her, but she did not pull away. Hershel's eyes did not miss the gesture.
"We need a map," she directed this at the preacher. "Please," she amended.
Hershel looked at them for a long moment, clearly wrestling with some decision. "All right," he said at length. He went to a desk in the corner, rifling through paperwork. Unceremoniously, he seized a roll of paper, unfurling it across the wooden surface.
"Kings County," Hershel announced. "It's out of date since the war. Can't find a surveyor to come complete it. But it should be the basics."
Rick and Michonne came forward eagerly.
"Church grounds," Rick recounted. He tapped the page with a finger, his nails caked with blood.
Hershel nodded. "There are tunnels down there, but no one has been in them in years. We aren't sure where they lead."
Michonne leaned in, studying the map in front of her. "These were built at the turn of the century," she noted a date on the page. "Why haven't they been used?" she glanced up at Hershel.
"Rot," Hershel cleared his throat, answering nervously. "It was too damp and the smell—"
"Was something like the one right now, I'd reckon," Rick chuckled to himself.
Michonne spun the map, strategizing. Both men watched her. "These were meant to be catacombs," she announced.
"I know," Hershel's brows jumped in surprise. "You read? Who taught you?"
Michonne shot him a look, realizing her faux pas too late.
"Is that important?" It was Rick who brought the subject back around to the matter at hand. Michonne cast him a grateful look.
"Of course not," Hershel stammered. "I was just curious." He seemed ashamed.
Michonne refocused, putting aside her irritation. "The trouble is, we don't know where it spits out," she traced the page with her finger. "We could all get trapped down there."
Rick considered this. "We could go look," he tossed the idea out with the air of someone discussing dinner plans.
"We?" Hershel said in alarm.
"She and I," Rick gestured between himself and Michonne.
"You're going to take a…a woman. It's not proper—" Hershel argued.
"She won't take no for an answer," Rick grinned at Michonne again. She found herself smiling back. "And you need to stay and keep everyone calm."
"How are you going to get past the dead out there to even get to the door?" Hershel asked.
"We're going to need a distraction," Michonne announced. "I have an idea. Can you grab Daryl?"
-l-l-l-l-
"The minute it happens, run," Rick said.
"I know," she looked almost amused by his concern. "Rick, this isn't my first time outrunning danger."
"Fair enough," he conceded. "But humor me."
"I'll be fine. It's you I'm worried about, old man," she teased.
Rick's stomach clenched, not for the first time today. Perhaps it was all that time at war that had destroyed his sensibilities, but he was almost enjoying himself. His children were miles away, his friends injured, he was surrounded by the dead and racists alike. There was something about being in her presence though, something about having her smile at him and trust him that transcended even the circumstances of the day.
"We do this quickly," he told her. They were running out of sunlight. The shadow of the church grew long in the late afternoon. Hershel had assured them that he would keep Tyreese and Sasha safe, but Rick much preferred to keep his thumb on men like Ed Peletier.
"The sooner we get this done, the sooner we get home," she agreed. "Your home," she amended, her cheeks darkening.
Rick nodded at her, giving her arm a squeeze. "Our home," he confirmed.
She smiled at him. Rick found himself grinning back.
"So, what is it I'm 'spossed to do?" Daryl interrupted. The teenager squinted outside, looking confused.
"How good of a shot are you?" Michonne asked him, gesturing to his crossbow.
"I'm great," he sounded confident for the first time that day.
"Perfect," Michonne pointed, bringing both men's attention to an outcropping of trees a few meters off. "See those birds? Those squirrels?"
Daryl nodded.
"Shoot them," Michonne instructed. "Injure, not kill."
Daryl looked at her in shock. "Ain't that kinda cruel?"
Both she and Rick shot him a disbelieving look. "Less so than lynching folks," Rick said, his anger thinly veiled.
"All right," Daryl moved quickly into place, suddenly eager to comply.
"Just try it out," Michonne refocused. "See what happens."
A low thrum accompanied by a whistle signaled Daryl's first shot. A bird fell from the tree with a squawk. The dead all turned toward it at once, hastening to the sounds of the animal.
"Another," Michonne instructed.
There as another whistle and a thump. The dead were moving in full force now, driven by hunger.
"Let's go," Michonne tugged at Rick's arm. He seized his hatchet.
"Keep 'em distracted," he told Daryl.
The teenager nodded. "Be quick," he cautioned.
Together, Rick and Michonne slunk out the back door. She moved lightly, a trait that never ceased to amaze him, as though she were dancing instead of walking. He did his best to keep up, rushing behind her, heading for the tombs, the heavy key ring in his hand. Michonne reached the door first, sword out, flattening herself against the wall. Quickly, Rick thrust the key in, turning it. The rusted lock let out a loud screech, echoing across the field.
They both froze, eyes wide. "Go!" Michonne hissed.
He pulled on the door, straining to yank the metal hinges back into motion. He got it open about a foot and Michonne dove inside, tugging him after her.
"Don't close it," she warned. "The sound might bring them."
"Can you see?" he asked her. It was pitch black in here, the humidity sweltering. Hershel was right about the smell. Everything was sharper in here, as though he could taste it.
"Just go slow," she instructed quietly. "Stay close to me."
Rick reached out, his fingertips just grazing the fabric of her dress. "Do you think they can smell? The dead?" he asked.
"Maybe," she moved them forward slowly, into the darkness. He could hear her breathing, steady and rhythmic. He wondered how many journeys she'd taken like this, shrouded in darkness, death lingering over her like a guillotine.
"The blood on your dress," he started. "Will it draw them?"
There was a short pause. "I hope not," she answered. "I think it's mostly their blood anyway."
They moved forward, step by step for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a faint light began to grow from far off. Michonne sped them up. Cautiously, they approached the exit.
"Let me," Rick shifted, putting Michonne behind him. He thought she'd protest, but she moved back instead, letting him pass.
"Careful," she cautioned.
Rick eased out, into the sun. About 400 meters off, the church was visible, the dead off in the distance.
"We can make it, he declared, moving so Michonne could see. "If we're quick."
Michonne nodded, a smile on her face. "Let's go," she said. "We will have to take them in groups."
Rick followed her, hurrying back down the tunnel, eager to return home. He was desperate to see his children, even as he worried about where to lead these people once they had freed them. He wondered if he could leave a few, if he could sleep at night knowing that he had.
"We'll figure something out, Rick," Michonne seemed to read his thoughts. She looked back at him, her dark eyes almost glowing in the low light.
"I know," he hazarded a smile at her.
They neared the end of the tunnel, coming back towards the metal doors. Michonne slipped out first, sword in front of her.
"C'mon," she called to him, already ready to run.
They set off at a jog. Rick's heart hammered. The dead were much closer than they had been before, obviously bored with the dead pigeons that Daryl had provided. The back door to the church wasn't far off. He could hear noises coming from it, raised voices, as though there was an argument. Panic seized him.
"Go!" he shouted at Michonne, his worst fears coming true. They both ran as fast as they could.
From the doorway, the face of Ed Peletier appeared, bruising already from Rick's fist. With a cold grin, he slammed the door shut. Michonne hit it, yanking at the handle. It wouldn't budge. The dead moved toward them, drawn by the sound, flocking by the dozen.
Rick kicked at the door, feeling the wood bend beneath his foot, his ankle screaming in protest. Ignoring it, he kicked again. Behind him, Michonne spun, sword out. He could hear the first arrivals dropping to the ground as she swung. Their moans were loud in his ears, but less so than the sounds going up behind the door. People were shouting, fighting. Rick reached for his hatchet, ready to cut the lock right out of the heavy oak door.
"Rick!" Michonne's panicked yell brought him spinning around. One of the dead was on him, his mouth agape, the stench threatening to level him.
He tried to lift his arm, but it was too late. He went down hard, the body on top of him, thoughts of his children entering his mind, Michonne's screams ringing in his ears.
