Author's Note: If you've been following this story, you know I had a bit of a meltdown and started changing the title to this randomly and erratically and I apologize for that. I did it for me but there was no fair warning. My OCD doesn't match up very well with writing, but it is a passion of mine to write, so ignore my compulsive changes and corrections and my urge to make everything perfect. The title will be changed in the near future though. It will just be more gradual.

Anyway, I appreciate the feedback and reviews so much, yall have no idea. Every review makes me smile and I always look forward to them.

This chapter has a tiny bit of graphic violence so if you are squeamish, I apologize... but hey, that's the ZA, right?

I made sure this was uploaded today especially for two instagram friends of mine; Happy Birthday, Mary! And you better enjoy this chapter, H!

Four Months Since The Turn

Day 128

South of Woodbury

Barreling down the road in an armored vehicle, destination unknown, Michonne shifted anxiously in the back of the truck, hidden within the many crates of artillery. She was making failed attempts at regaining some sensation in her lower extremities. Her behind was numb and her left foot was asleep, tingling maddeningly. She persisted throughout the long ride and shook it softly, scrunching her toes within her old brown boot.

She was beginning to get nervous. All she could think about was Andre, back in Woodbury with Mike, asking for her every few minutes and worrying his little head off. At least the Governor wasn't in town with her son. He was with Michonne, unbeknownst to him, as they occupied the same ride, Philip the driver of the battered old thing.

Michonne wondered quietly where they might be headed. And she could not hide her unease. Andrea sat beside her, their shoulders bumping repeatedly as the bed of the vehicle rocked. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and looked at Michonne with solemn eyes.

"Sometimes...," she began slowly, "Philip comes back late at night with this far away look in his eyes. And he'll tell me he's found supplies; food and guns and ammunition. Says we're gonna be okay... but he says nothing more than that and I know it's because he's probably killed people for it, but... it has to be in self-defense... right?" Michonne thought for a moment, but she didn't need time to think- she knew her answer. She shook her head, her mind still on her son, but she chose to listen intently, her eyes forward, her arms resting on bent knees.

"No. I don't think so. I think he seeks out other survivors and kills them for their provisions. But we don't know for sure and that's why we're out here now; to figure it all out. To see what he does when he goes out on these little expeditions of his."

"You're right to doubt him," Andrea said, "He's... odd." Michonne smiled and yanked at her fingerless gloves, flexing her fingers.

"I knew that the moment I saw him," she murmured. She looked at Andrea out of the corner of her eye, her head against the truck, her chin raised. "But I guess I understand why you trusted him at first. You were alone. It must have been hard on you." She considered herself under the same circumstances, knowing she would not have entered Woodbury alone. She had only done so for Andre.

She imagined being a solitary survivor as Andrea had couldn't have be very difficult, but, everyone handled loneliness differently. Michonne pursed her lips. "Are you in love with him?" she asked suddenly. She saw Andrea's eyes widen as she looked away, her lips turned down into a little frown. Michonne could see her cheeks flush in the low light of their shelter in the back of the truck.

"Oh, God, I don't know," she said. Michonne smiled a little wider, flashing her teeth, thoroughly amused.

"Well, I hope not...because it'll be a bit more difficult for you to deal with what's going to happen to him in the near future. If he's the kind of man I think he is- and he is- I'm gonna kill him." Andrea's head whirled about to look at Michonne again, her mouth falling open and she was about to speak when the truck screeched to a halt, jolting them forward, then back, their heads slamming against the truck bed. Michonne winced.

She heard the doors of the truck open, and then close with a resounding slam and she sat up, crouching low on her feet, readying herself, a hand on her pistol, the other free in case she needed her sword, listening intently.

"Hi, there!" Michonne heard. The Governors voice, a cordial, innocent greeting. Of course. "...I'm not here to hurt anyone... No, no. Just me and a few of my friends here... Yes! We've got a town less than an hour from here."

Michonne wished she could hear the people he was speaking to but she couldn't. He continued. "I see you have women and children livin' here..." Michonne nearly choked. Would he really kill innocent children and their mothers for a few more meals and whatever artillery they had managed to forage? Her throat tightened with unease as he continued. "We have a place for everyone in our community... That's right. You don't need to live in these trailers anymore!... It's about 40 miles from here... You can bring all of your belongings with you. Just lower your weapons. There's no need for that!"

Silence.

More silence.

All Michonne could hear was her own thoughts. She glanced at Andrea and saw her positioned on her knees, her rifle in her grasp, eyes downcast. Each breath she took, her shoulders rose and fell with labored shudders.

She was afraid too. Michonne swallowed and closed her eyes, wishing she could leap from the truck and save the people that waited outside, as they were no doubt being fooled by Philip's faux civility. But she knew she couldn't try to help them. She would only endanger herself. She had to think smart. She didn't have enough firepower.

Instead she waited for their impending doom, helpless to stop it, knowing the governor had left Woodbury with at least ten men and she, nor whoever these people were would be no match against them all; an easy defeat. She'd die in the struggle and never see her son again.

"Kill them all."

Michonne let out a breath and the first gunshot sounded. More bullets were fired, and then more, in rapid succession; so many she lost count. Her mind's eye painted a horrid picture of carnage and the severity of it all made her want to vomit.

Her hatred for the Governor was intensified, a hundred fold, a thousand fold. It enraged her and she told herself to remain calm, knowing anger caused foolish decisions to be made.

But she knew with zealous certainty, saw their futures tangled together before her. She saw his fate clearly.

She was going to kill him.

She had a sneaking suspicions that the task would not be easy, for him or for her. But she was going to kill that bastard.

A gruesome choir of screams pierced the air like daggers, and a twinge of pain stabbed Michonne's heart when she heard a child's cry followed by another gunshot, its echo sounding across the empty air and then...

Silence came once again.

Heavier than before and poisoned with sorrow. Michonne fell back onto her bottom, unable to hold herself up any longer, her eyes filling with tears, her scowl deepening, causing her face to hurt. Andrea was shaking, her grip so tight on her rifle that her knuckles were white, blood drained from her quivering hands.

The pair sat in reticence, unable or unwilling to speak. Andrea scooted back and sat beside Michonne again, pressing her arm against hers, perhaps seeking comfort. Their shoulders sagged in unison at the contact and quiet tears came to them, their heads bowed, their thoughts on the people, the children who had just lost their lives to the cold-blooded murderer they shared inhabitancy with, knowing that when they returned to Woodbury, they would pack their things and leave in the dead of night.

•••••••

"I'm sorry I doubted you. You were right."

The words whispered in her ear startled Michonne as she listened the hum of the engine and the road passing beneath her, eyes closed, lashes sticky with recent tears. She met Andrea's glistening gaze and leaned over to whisper back.

"It's alright. It doesn't matter now. We'll get out of this together." Their eyes met again and they offered weak smiles, their hearts burdened. Andrea laid her head on Michonne's shoulder, and they remained silent for the rest of their trip.

Awhile later, the truck slowed, and Michonne heard the sound of the gates to Woodbury opening. She nudged Andrea, realizing her friend had fallen asleep. She awoke with a little gasp, jolted from her nap and still on edge after what they'd witnessed. They waiting for the truck to stop and for its sinister passengers to leave.

"Almost can't believe we did that shit," a man said.

"You feelin' remorseful?" The Governor.

"Naw." The reply.

"Good." Michonne stiffened at the sound of his voice. Just his voice set a maddening fire of detestation in her heart, the flames boiling her blood. She calmed herself, steadying her breathing and thinking of her son, of her favorite pastimes; her happy places. She and Andrea waited for some time to pass, when they no longer heard shuffling footsteps or hushed conversation. Michonne crept quietly from the truck and Andrea followed, jumping down from the truckbed and dashing for cover. They made their way to Michonne's apartment.

She was relieved to discover Mike holding Andre on their bed, reading to him as he sat snuggled against his father's chest. Michonne's heavy heart felt a little lighter as her son looked over, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. He scrambled across the bed and into her arms and she kissed him relentlessly, tears forming anew as she inhaled the scent of his hair and felt his little heart drum against her.

"Mommy!" he exclaimed. "Where did you go?" Curious as ever. She smiled.

"I had to take care of some things, Peanut. But I'm back now."

"Yay!" he squealed, kissing her face. He squirmed from her arms and she let go of him. He ran off to play with his toys and Michonne turned to Mike, sensing something was off.

"He was here," Mike blurted. Michonne sat down on their bed. Andrea looked like she wanted to sit and rest but she changed her mind, resting her back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What? Who?" Michonne asked.

"The Governor," he muttered, his voice low as if Philip were still there. Michonne stiffened at the sound of his name, clenching her teeth.

"Why did you let him in? What did he want?"

"He was looking for Andrea... and for you. Asking about you," he replied. "He said you had a problem earlier and he wanted to speak to you. I told him I didn't know where you were."

"Some nerve," Michonne scoffed. She hadn't told either of them all the details of her encounter with the Governor earlier. She didn't care to talk about it.

"What happened out there?" he asked, looking from Michonne to Andrea, sensing the subject needed to be changed.

"He killed them all," Andrea said. Michonne nodded, the previous events flashing through her mind again.

"There were women and children there," Michonne told him. "They murdered all of those people like it was nothing to them. As if they meant nothing. He just drove in, introduced himself civilly and then opened fire on them all and took everything they had, which was barely anything to begin with."

"So this is what he does to keep this place afloat?" Mike asked furiously. "What kind of man is he?"

"An awful one," Andrea said. "I was so blind."

"You were right, Michonne... you're always right," Mike murmured.

"We have to leave this place," Michonne said, glancing down at Andre as he rolled his black teddy bear around in a big yellow toy truck. She turned back to Mike. He was not making eye contact any longer, peering down at his lap. She knew he didn't want to be outside of Woodbury again, as they had been before. Wandering aimlessly, barely making it day by day.

It made it all the more difficult that their son was so happy in Woodbury. But Michonne would not share company with a cold-blooded murderer. She wanted to be around people she could trust, wondering briefly if that was even a realistic notion; if she would ever be blessed with such a luxury.

"Agreed," Andrea said, unfolding her arms. "But where do we go?" They were silent for a transient moment.

"There's an island Michonne used to love to go to before we had Andre. We camped out on the beach there. I wonder what it's like now," Mike said, meeting his lovers eyes. Michonne smiled warmly at him. He remembered. How she loved it there. She wanted to kiss him, memories of their first anniversary coming to mind. Passionate nights in a tent and campfires by the ocean. She was positive Andre was conceived there.

"Cumberland," she whispered, reminiscing. She had been dreaming of Cumberland Island since before the Turn. The wild horses on the beach. The historic mansions. The beautiful, natural land. "Why didn't we go there to begin with? I wonder how secure we could make it."

"An island can be fortified against walkers, just like this place, only better. Perhaps we could meet some more survivors; create a safe haven for ourselves," Andrea said, sounding hopeful. She and Michonne nodded in unison.

"Do you want to leave tonight? I don't- we talked about this, Michonne. I don't want to be out there anymore." Mike said. His attitude had suddenly shifted, his eyes downcast. He had seemed confident and optimistic early on in their discussion but he now looked his normal self again; hopeless and forlorn.

"I'm not sure," Michonne replied, looking down at Andre again. "But I know I need to do something before we go."

She wasn't leaving this place until she was hovering over the Governor's dead, bloodied body.

"I need to go back to my apartment," Andrea said. "But... Philip is going to ask me where I've been and... I'm not sure I ever want to be alone with him again." She swallowed hard and stared down at her feet, a tear falling and landing on her shoe. Michonne stood and approached her.

"I'll come with you, okay?" Andrea met her gaze and nodded. "I'll wait outside your door. If I hear any commotion, I'm coming in." She paused. "But I need you to stay with him tonight." Andrea pursed her lips and shook her head. "Yes. I don't want him becoming suspicious about our desire to leave." Andrea sighed and prepared to leave, silently agreeing.

Michonne checked on Andre, running her hand over his curls and kissing his forehead before turning to Mike again, finding him still in his hunched over position, staring blankly, in a state of oblivion.

"Mike," she said, rousing him, "I'll be back soon. Please watch Andre." Mike's cloudy eyes met hers, looking through her and Michonne felt an unfamiliar chill pass over her.

"Alright," he muttered. She stared at him for a moment before leaving with Andrea, desperately missing the man he used to be.

•••••••

Muffled voices drifted through the walls of Andrea and Philip's apartment. Michonne waited outside, her sword on her back and her body pressed against the barrier between herself and the two unusual lovers in the midst of a heated debate. It had escalated rapidly when they had first arrived but Michonne had not interfered yet, wondering if it was perhaps only a lover's quarrel brought on by Andrea's absense.

Her mind wandered to Mike and Andre and, in her perturbation, she closed her eyes and sighed, clenching her fists as her mind raced. She wanted to leave this place, to take Andre away and never look back. She no longer had faith in Mike and she accepted the fact that he wasn't made for the new world. The realization left her melancholy and she swallowed the lump that quickly formed in her throat.

A loud thud stirred her from her musings and she jumped. Andrea shouted from within the apartment and Michonne rushed inside, finding her new friend pressed against the wall, the Governor's hand wrapped around her throat, the other down her unbuttoned pants, pawing at her with his disgusting fingers. Her face was red with vexation, her mouth agape and her blue eyes wide. Michonne ran towards them and, wanting to keep her attack quiet so that others in the building could not hear, she kicked him between the legs from behind with all her strength.

He doubled over with a cry, letting go of Andrea, his frame hunched over as he fell to his knees, clutching himself and vomiting on the floor. Michonne stood over him with fiery eyes, silently daring him to touch her friend again. Andrea fell, her back against the wall, clutching her throat and gasping, wide eyes full of tears.

"Leave!" Michonne shouted at Andrea as the Governor stood and punched Michonne in the face, causing her to stumble back from the blow. She recovered, bringing her fingers to her mouth, seeing sparkling crimson on her digits when she peered down at them, spitting blood on his fancy carpet.

Not only was he a murderer; he was a rapist as well. She wasn't even surprised.

"Always butting into everyone's business, aren't ya, Michonne," he said, appearing amused, smiling. Always smiling. She'd wipe that smirk from his face once and for all. Michonne ignored his remark, licking the sweet, metallic drops of blood from her lips with a darting tongue.

"Go back to my apartment, Andrea," she instructed coolly. "Take your things with you. Tell Mike and my son I will join you all in a moment. Wait by the gates." She was not afraid to divulge their plans to leave in his presence, feeling cocky, unthreatened by him.

"She's not goin' anywhere. Neither are you. I'll kill ya both," Philip said, confident in his own words, his breathing heavy, his chin jutted out with haughtiness as he looked from Andrea to Michonne.

"Fuck you," Andrea spat, shaking her head. "I've had it. I'm done, Philip." She turned away to leave and he started towards her, his hands reaching for her throat again and Michonne followed him, jumping on his back before he could touch Andrea, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck in a chokehold.

She bit down on his ear so forcefully that she heard the cartilage pop and she clamped down harder until he screamed, ripping half of his ear from him and spitting it out on to the floor. Andrea stared, stunned, and she lingered, no doubt waiting for her chance to exact her revenge against him as well.

He stumbled back, Michonne still on his back, and he slammed her against the wall, trying to rid himself of her but she clung to him like a leech, still pleasantly occupied by the portion of his ear lying on the floor. The Governor reached behind him to claw at her, gasping for air, his nails scratching her face, blindly finding her dreads and pulling at them, crashing against the wall again as Michonne hit her head and cried out in pain.

"I'll kill you, you nosy little bitch," the Governor declared. Michonne almost smirked.

She doubted that immensely.

"Andrea, go. Find Mike and Andre," Michonne said. She wanted to do this alone; for all the people he'd killed, that day and all the days before, for the people in Woodbury before they fell at the hands of this bloodthirsty brute. Andrea turned to flee, regarding Michonne with a desperate look of apprehension before she disappeared.

The Governor stumbled back again, throwing Michonne against his gun cabinet, glass breaking and cutting her skin as she fell backwards into it, still clinging to him, refusing to let go. She gasped, trying to recover from the stings covering her flesh.

They ping-ponged about the apartment, Michonne's chokehold causing him to behave erratically as he lost his breath. She tightened her grip further, taking blow after blow in the stomach from his swinging elbow.

Michonne groaned in pain, her face against his bisected ear, his blood smearing across her cheeks, her own blood warming her back as it soaked through her shirt. She was irked by the fact that this was taking far so long. She wanted to have full control, to acquire the upper hand. She eased her hand down her leg, her fingers finding the knife she had tucked away that morning in her boot. She slid the blade from her footwear and grasped it firmly, positioning it in front of his face, her other arm still around his neck to keep herself from falling, her legs tight around his torso.

The Governor's hands clenched hers and they struggled for control over the knife as he slammed her against another wall. Michonne used all her strength, her arm and hand shaking, but the knife eased towards him, sinking into his eye slowly. Michonne felt the quiver of his materializing wound in her firm grasp as she inched the knife deeper. He screamed, a chilling sound and she covered his mouth with her hand, planting herself firmly on her feet as he fell to his knees, clutching his face with shaking hands, thrashing, screaming still, the knife jutting from his face.

She stepped around him, looming over him before she yanked the knife away, pulling his eye from its socket and flinging it, discarding it like trash along with his ear, stepping on it and listening to it burst beneath her boot. She couldn't listen to him scream any longer; not a second more. It annoyed her like nothing else. She kicked him over, causing him to fall onto his back and she placed her boot on his chest, pressing her weight onto his sternum.

"Shut up," she said, tired of his whimpering. "You think if you cry I'll show you any sympathy?" He continued to snivel, his frame trembling, and she added more pressure on his chest until he was gasping, staring at the bleeding cavity in his face she'd left in the wake of her appetite for vengeance. She feared the other apartment residents would hear him if she didn't quiet him.

"I said shut up." She moved her foot, sticking the toe of her boot into his mouth, waiting for the quiet of his surrender. For him to accept his defeat.

Once he did, she walked to his apartment door and locked it, turning back to regard him with disdain. She unsheathed her sword slowly, marveling all over again at the song it sang as she freed the blade from its resting place. "I told you you'd be sorry if you ever touched me again. And I now know what kind of man you are... so I'm gonna make you suffer."

Present Day

Seven Months Since The Turn

Day 216

Small House Outside Jesup, Georgia

Closing his eyes and regulating his breathing, Rick listened to his heart pound in his chest and throbbed in his ears. He felt incredibly nauseous. He wanted to press his body against the wall of the closet and rest, find some semblance of relaxation, but he decided against it, fearing any movement would alert the intruders of his whereabouts.

Please, he thought, pleading with no one in particular, for he knew no one was there but he was feeling desperate, please help me get the fuck outta this situation unscathed. Please let Michonne and Daryl find those antibiotics. I need to see Carl again. I have to get better...And I wanna...

He had faith in his new companions. It confused him that Michonne had shown genuine concern for his well-being, but she had, and Rick found fugacious comfort in the fact, hoping for the chance to rest again as he had the previous night- in her nearness.

"The fuck is this?" one of the men inside the house said, interrupting Rick's thoughts. Footsteps. Shuffling. "Hey, look at this watch! It's fuckin' nice!" Rick was instantly more alert.

His watch. The watch his father had given him when he turned sixteen. The last remaining heirloom from the man that taught him everything he knew. He owed his life to him, for he had been endowed with the skills necessary for survival by the wise man. Rick hoped to give Carl the watch one day.

"Hey, lemme see that!"

"It's mine! Claimed!"

No. No, no, no.

He gritted his teeth so forcefully it hurt, bursting from the closet with a swing of the door and raising his revolver. He squeezed the heavy trigger before the man turned completely around to face him, the recoil sending the barrel heavenward, a jacketed hollow point round penetrating the man's skull, just above his ear, at one thousand three hundred and seventy three feet per second, sending his head jolting to the side violently from the force.

Blood spatter painted the previously umembellished wall next to him. He fell to the floor like a brick and Rick's watch fell with him, slipping from the man's grip, bouncing lightly as it hit the carpet. Rick turned his attention and his gun to the other man, inhaling the gunpowder scent that now lay thick in the room. His rival charged at him from the hallway, his body low like a defensive linebacker.

He'd left his rifle on the bed where Rick had slept and was unarmed. Rick squeezed the trigger again, and he missed as the man ducked low, the bullet shattering the doorframe, bits and hunks of wood flying. He tackled Rick, the man's head butting his stomach and Rick fell, landing on his back as the man wrapped his hands around his throat.

A foolish offensive move.

"You little fucker!," the man shouted, his foul breath washing over Rick's face as he hovered over him, only inches away, his grip tightening further with each passing second. Rick was already feeble enough, weak from his injuries, infection and fever, the man's grip snatching away all his breath. Rick's hands were free, his revolver still in his grip and he raised it, gritting his teeth in anger and frustration. He pressed the barrel to the mans skull and saw his eyes widen when he heard the sound of the hammer cocking near his ear.

Rick pulled the trigger.

His ears rang, tinnitus a shrill and monotonous song. The muzzle flash heated his skin, blood and brains flying, scattering, leaving a puddle of warm innards on the carpet and a new decorative pattern on the chair where Michonne had slept soundly only a little while ago. Where his eyes wandered in the early morning hours to see her sleeping form laying comfortably there, a scowl on her beautiful face even in slumber.

The man's head fell onto Rick, some of his blood raining in heavy trickles on Rick's face. He grunted and used his fleeting strength to push the man's body off of him, standing and staring down at the bodies he'd left behind, wiping the remnants of his opponents defeat from his face with the back of his hand, their dribbling blood and his own heaving breaths the only sounds heard.

Always had to be the man that came out on top.

Rick walked over to the place where the son-of-a-bitch had dropped his watch, retrieving it and brushing his thumb across the face with care before adorning his left wrist with it. Rick packed his belongings briskly, recalling his favorite denim shirt was caked with blood, too stiff with perspiration and uncomfortable to wear.

Rick stuffed it into his backpack, pulling on his cowboy boots and snatching a heavy brown coat from one of the men he had just killed, along with their rifles and a bit of ammo. He threw on his gunbelt, securing it around his waist, reloading his revolver and slipping it into the holster. He rushed to the front of the house.

He had to leave. Those men most likely had companions; partners in crime, and their absense would not go unnoticed for long. Rick peeked through the tattered blinds, peering outside in all directions, as far as he could see.

Nothing. No one.

Not within his view. He didn't really want to leave, for Michonne and Daryl would return to this very place to seek him out and give him the medicine he desperately needed, but he didn't want them coming back to this place. He'd have to go to them. He spotted Michonne's horse, still saddled, in the field across the street.

Rick pulled his new jacket over his shoulders, the fluffy collar warming his neck, and checked the house once more for anything left behind before leaving swiftly. He closed the door quietly behind him, zipping his jacket over his bare chest. He ran across the street to the appaloosa, slowing his pace as he approached the gentle creature.

"Hey there, fella," he cooed. "Now, I'm not Michonne, I bet you were expecting her. I ain't as pretty but you're stuck with me for now." The horse huffed a breath at Rick, and leaned down to nibble on some grass as Rick slipped his foot into the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, settling in and digging his heels into the horses flanks. He took off, anxious to begin their journey, feeling weary, his bones aching.

Rick hadn't been on a horse for a several years now but he never forgot how to ride, another skill bestowed upon him as a child by his father. Living in the moment, he retrieved his sheriff hat from his bag and placed it atop his head then began his journey in the direction he'd heard the pickup truck rumbled off, hoping he could find his new companions soon, unsure of what the next few hours held in store for him.

•••••

Highway 341

Approaching Jesup, Georgia

Michonne could feel a heated gaze boring into her as she focused on the road, steering with one gloved hand on the wheel, relaxed against the bench of the pickup, her other hand on her thigh, tapping her fingers absent-mindedly. Daryl was watching her. She rolled her eyes.

"What?" she asked, exasperated, searching for a clear exit to leave the highway and enter the small town of Jesup, not glancing at him. Daryl grunted and she saw him look away.

"I don't know," he grumbled. "You're acting weird." She knitted her brow, her glabella stitched together in tight furrows.

"What do you mean by that?," she asked. He turned his head to look at her again.

"You nearly freaked out earlier when ya woke up. Like you were panickin'," he said.

"And?"

"Yesterday you up and left to go to Cumberland alone. Outta nowhere. Now you're sticking around to help some sheriff you don't even know. Ain't never seen you like this." Michonne slowed down and turned onto another road into Jesup, eyes peeled for a local clinic or veterinarians office in the main area of the town. She had avoided this region on horseback the previous day.

"Like what?" she replied, growing frustrated by his unusual prodding. It was unlike him. "Rick saved my life the other day. He could die. He needs medicine, Daryl, damn. What's wrong with me trying to find him some medicine? Why do you even care?" What was so odd about wanting to keep a man from dying; helping him return to full health so that he could see his son? She rolled her eyes again.

"I'm just sayin'. Maybe you should get your own shit together before you start worrying about other people." Michonne bristled at the remark.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"My shit never stopped being together."

"Really?" he muttered sarcastically, and she knew he was referring to her nightmares. Her hallucinations. Her walker companions. It irritated her that he was hinting she didn't have a hold on her own life just because she was enduring the inner struggle of facing her demons.

"Yeah, really," she said. "When life dealt me a bad hand at least I didn't put a pistol in my mouth and contemplate pulling the trigger." The words flew from Michonne's lips so rapidly that she could not control them and she regretted saying them immediately, seeing Daryl visibly stiffen.

It was something she would not soon forget, but had tried to put out of her mind often whenever she looked at him, often mistakenly visualizing the memory of his lowest point.

When she'd entered that home in Sandersville nearly a month ago now, when she'd found Daryl moribund and feverish, his lips had been wrapped around the barrel of the very same glock 9mm she had holstered on her hip, his finger itching to pull the trigger. She had talked him out of it, comforting him and he found solace in her words, surrendering the gun to her and slumping over to sob.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, slowing down between an abandoned veterinarians hospital and a gas station, shifting into park when she stopped completely. "I shouldn't have said that." Daryl flung the door open immediately, his body language flippant, throwing his crossbow over his shoulder.

"Whatever," he grunted, climbing down and slamming the door. Michonne sighed, securing her sword over her back and exiting the pickup, following him towards the building. She'd discuss things further with him later, apologize more appropriately for her words when the task at hand was complete.

A few walkers approached and she quickly took care of them, decapitating them with ease as Daryl knocked on the glass doors at the entrance. Nothing stirred but the doors were bound shut with numerous chains and padlocks. "Shit," he grumbled. "I think there might be a window 'round back. Let's see if we can get in that way." Michonne nodded, leading the way.

"I don't know if this is going to work," she said.

"Because we're at a damn veterinarian hospital?" Daryl snarked, catching sight of the sign.

"The medicine for animals can be used for humans as well. And no, I meant I'm pretty sure intravenous antibiotics have a short shelf life if they aren't refrigerated."

"So, why are we even here?" Daryl asked. Michonne sighed, rounding the corner of the building.

"I don't know... but we'll find something," she replied.

When they approached the window, they peered inside, waiting for a short moment before breaking the glass and climbing in. Michonne and Daryl stayed low to the ground, crouching behind counters and creeping quietly, through the dim lit room, the natural light accentuating the dust they left in their wake. A cocking of a shotgun fore end broke the silence and Michonne's eyes widened as she ducked lower, her hand reaching for her sword.

"Who's there?!" a man shouted.

"Just two people looking for some medicine!" Michonne called out to the man. "Sorry we broke your window!"

"Come out from where you are and drop your weapons! We'll negotiate a trade!" Daryl met Michonne's eyes and she nodded at him as she stood slowly, her hands raised, her back to the man as she removed the strap of her sword from around her shoulders and turned to face him, knowing she had her gun in case she needed it. Daryl did the same, turning and leaving his crossbow on the counter before him. Michonne joined her weapon with his.

Michonne examined her newest acquaintance. He was an older man, perhaps in his early seventies, white haired with a bushy beard, wearing a button down shirt with suspenders attached to khaki dress pants. She smiled at him. He reminded her of Santa Claus, his eyes kind and wise and Michonne felt at ease in his presence.

"What do you need?" he asked, lowering his shotgun, looking over his intrusive guests.

"Daddy? Is everything alright?" Michonne turned her head, lowering her hands as a very pregnant young woman with short brown hair entered the room, carrying a sleek black revolver in her hand as she waddled. "Who are these people?" She raised her weapon and Michonne stiffened, her fingers twitching but the white haired man placed his hand on the woman's arm, instructing her to lower her gun.

"I'm Michonne. This is Daryl. Our friend has a gunshot wound and an infection. We're looking for antibiotics," Michonne explained. The pregnant woman looked beyond agitated.

"So you break our window?" she asked loudly.

"We ain't worried about your damn window. Our friend's dyin'!" Daryl huffed. "Just give us some fuckin' antibiotics and we'll leave. You can board up the window when we're gone!" Michonne met his eyes, silently pleading with him to calm down before he immensely angered the obviously hormonal pregnant woman.

"You have no right! You coulda waited at the front door. We've helped people before. You don't need to be rude!" she shouted. A girl suddenly appeared, blonde hair messy with flyaways and pulled into a ponytail, her jeans stained with old blood.

"Maggie, calm down, Glenn's sleepin'," she said, regarding her guests quietly before turning to leave.

How many people are in here?, Michonne mused. "Let's all calm down," she said aloud. "You're right; we should have politely waited out front but as Daryl said, we're in a rush because our friends infection is worsening and we need antibiotics. We weren't aware of anyone living here." The man stepped forward, his kind eyes squinted and focused.

"You said your friend has an infection from a gunshot wound?" he asked.

"Just a graze, but he's not doing well," Michonne replied. He beckoned her with his hand.

"Come with me," he said, turning and leaving the room and Michonne followed, eyeing the pregnant young woman as she passed. "Please excuse my oldest daughter's behavior. As you can see, she's with child... and her husband is sick so she's not feelin' very friendly nowadays."

"I should be excusing my behavior" Michonne said, eyeing her surroundings. "I'm the one that broke the window." The veterinarians office looked surprisingly cozy. The family had salvaged food and cots, making their living space as homely as they could.

"We'll board it up later; it's fine," he told her. He entered an large room full of glass cabinets and surgical tables and turned to face her, his mustache twitching as his lips turned up into a smile He extended his hand. Michonne firmly shook it. "Michonne, right? I'm Hershel," he said. She returned the smile.

Being around other survivors that she did not know felt strange to her, especially knowing that they were affable and meant her no harm. Even in the prescense of friendliness she was on edge, waiting for something to happen. She didn't favor the sensations but her skepticism had kept her alive this long and she would always trust it... but her heart told her, as she stared into the old man's benevolent, grey-blue eyes, that her doubt wasn't necessary at the moment.

"Nice to meet you, Hershel," Michonne said warmly. He sat down in a rolling stool and laid his shotgun across his lap. "How did you and your family end up here in a veterinarians hospital?" she asked, curiosity swamping her mind with questions.

"I had a farm up in Northwest Georgia. It was in my family for over a century. I lived there with my two daughters, who you met, Maggie and Beth, and Maggie's husband Glenn. We kept it running for a while after the Turn, didn't wanna let it go, but... we lost it. It was overrun and we fled. We'd been on the road for months but with the baby coming soon, Glenn started to get worried and went off looking for supplies alone. Ended up getting stabbed by some thug." Hershel looked upset at the recollection and bowed his head. "We found this place and I know the medicine well- I'm a retired veterinarian- so we stopped here to fix him up and made a home out of this place. He's not doing well."

He sighed, looking up at Michonne from his seated position. She admired him immediately following the recounting of his journey and struggle since the world turned to shambles. A father and his children making their way. They seemed strong and tight-knit. It was enviable. She hoped his son-in-law would regain his health, that his daughter could have a healthy baby. A newborn living after the Turn. She marveled at the notion.

"I hope everything works out," she said, her expression softened, making her genuine concern known. He smiled, his eyes thanking her.

"So this friend of yours..." he started again. Her mind drifted to Rick and those intense, sapphire eyes, his sweaty, dark curls and thick beard. His bare chest and veiny arms. She blinked, her face warming, angered by her distracting thoughts.

"We came across some thugs and he got a graze. I believe it was from a rifle round. Immediately afterwards, we took a swim in a river that was pretty much the nastiest body of water I've ever come across. He didn't treat it immediately and it's infected now," she rambled, the image of wounded Rick in her mind. She felt awful for him. He had saved her life, endangering his own in the process, and she was going to return the favor. Hershel nodded, taking in all the information.

"Sounds like cellulitis. It's a common bacterial skin infection. But you're right- if you don't treat it, it can be life-threatening. Have you given him anything?"

"I gave him tylenol for his fever and what I thought was penicillin, but I don't think it worked. I feel as though I made things worse," she muttered. Hershel gave her a small smile.

"That's not your fault. It might not have been strong enough. Here." He stood and walked over to one of the cabinets searching inside for a bottle of pills. Michonne watched.

"I thought I needed to give him intravenous antibiotics but..."

"That's a luxury we probably won't enjoy again any time soon," Hershel said. "Those requires refrigeration." Michonne nodded. She'd thought so. And now she was feeling discouraged. Hershel approached her and handed her a bottle. "This is ciprofloxacin. It's quite strong so maybe you should warn him that there could be some side effects." Michonne stared at the bottle, the pills rattling within as she examined it.

"Will it work?" she murmured. She could tell he sensed her doubt and discouraged feelings as his eyes regarded her with sympathy. Her dubiousness seemed to bother him a bit.

"Do you have faith it will?" The question bemused her.

"Faith?" she queried, blinking. "I don't know."

"What brought you here today?" he asked. Michonne frowned, her brows furrowing, her lips pouting.

"Concern for someone, I suppose," she admitted, knowing she would never wish the pain of the loss of a child on anyone, that she was concerned for Carl, concerned for Rick's health because she wanted him to see his son again.

"I say faith brought you here. You believed you'd find something here for your friend, didn't you? You believed everything would turn out alright, didn't you?" Michonne nodded softly, taking in his inquiries. She hadn't thought of it that way. "So you have faith then."

"I guess," she muttered.

"And something else brought you here too," he said. Michonne waited for him to continue. She appreciated his wisdom. His words were comforting, and though comfort in the new world was always fleeting and temporarily enjoyed, she was going to absorb every word he spoke, think of it later when she was feeling down.

"What's that?" she asked when he didn't go on.

"Fate."

Fate?

"It brought you to this veterinarian hospital, brought you to me, and now you have the medicine to save your friend's life."

Fate?

She kept repeating the word, doubting its actuality.

"I barely know him. I met him three days ago," she said brusquely. Hershel chuckled.

"But fate brought you two together. It doesn't matter how long you've known him. And he needed help. He'd be in trouble without you but now you're here. It's fate. And you went out to find him medicine, didn't you? You knew you would and you did. You risk your life every time you leave shelter but you did it anyway. That's faith." He smiled and Michonne was suddenly flustered. His utterance was true, she couldn't deny it. But her own actions continued to startle her.

She thought in the months after Woodbury that she was hardened by the harsh new world, and unperturbed by others, but it simply wasn't the case. Not with Daryl and definitely not now with Rick. And the realization nearly unhinged her. The inner scuffle of her contrasting feelings both confused and angered her. Hershel stood, sensing her dejectedness, placing a hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch away from him. She let his words sink in.

"Keep havin' faith. Don't be so discouraged. Your friend is lucky to have you. You're a good woman, I can tell."

"How?" she asked. "How can you tell?" After the things she'd seen. The things she'd done.

I'm a monster, she thought to herself for the hundredth time in the past few months.

"Like I said, you risked your life to come out here. To save a man you hardly know. That's not something a bad person does. Your friend's gonna be alright." He gestured to the bottle. "Give him one of those once a day, until the whole bottle is gone to ensure the infection doesn't return. Even if he begins to feel better, don't let him forget to take the pills. Same time everyday, alright?" Michonne nodded.

"Thank you," she murmured. Had she ever met a man so kind-hearted?

A sweet stranger. What a rarity in the apocalypse.

She and Daryl were on the road again soon after. Michonne had expressed her gratitude and apologies, wishing them well and hoping again for good health for Glenn and their new addition. She'd left them with her newly acquired 1911, a small box of ammo and some cans of food as all the thanks she could muster. She wondered if she'd ever see them again.

"Nice family," Daryl grumbled as he drove speedily down the road, Jesup now a few miles behind them. She sensed it was another sarcastic remark.

"You have no idea," she muttered, Hershel's kind, insightful words replaying in her mind.

But especially one in particular...

Fate.

She glanced up, peering out of the window, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. A familiar horse came into view, traipsing across a vast field, its rider laying unconscious against its mane as the creature wandered aimlessly with no direction, the star on the riders brown hat catching the sunlight and winking at her.

Fate.

A/N: I had to stop at 8k words or I would honestly just keep going. As always, reviews are welcome and appreciated. Please tell me what you thought of this chapter and what parts/lines you loved the most! xoxo