Okay, first and foremost, I want to apologize to those of you enjoying this story. I've been taking a shit kicking in real life lately, but that's neither here nor there. For this week, at least, I'll be uploading as much as I can. And don't worry, I'll never abandon this story, it's my pride and joy in a shitstorm of life right now, so it will be updated and finished.
Thanks to all of you who expressed concern for me, it was very kind of you and I actually feel better just from your support.
Sorry it's a Rick chapter, but the show must go on. ^_^
Chapter Twenty: Dumballah II
**Rick**
Standing on the front steps of the church, he could see most of the convent grounds, eyeing those moving on the wall, counting heads over and over just to be sure all who should be accounted for were present.
Carl sat on the wall, just to the east of him, glaring holes into anyone who dared get near him and as much as Rick bartered, commanded, pleaded and downright asked him to come down to talk, the boy just sat there, pissed off at the world.
Under the watchful eye of Sister Mary Agnes, who had been put in charge of protecting the peace from him, Rick moved about the grounds idly.
He had been running, fighting, struggling for survival for so long that he forgot how to take it easy. His limbs twitched for some kind of action, the back of his neck itched with the sense of constant danger. Danger for those at the convent with that scruffy man and his shifty eyes sleeping peacefully in his cot in the infirmary, danger for those heading out to meet up with this new group, but mostly general danger. He knew Murphy's Law was a bitch, especially when it didn't take much for a place to get overrun.
Drumming his fingers against his thigh, just beside his .357, Rick sighed heavily and worked a kink from his neck. There had to be something he could do, this standing around, milling about waiting for trouble to happen was going to drive him insane.
He took one last, good look at the convent, the windows that had been boarded up from the last walker outbreak, the ramshackle way the lawn had fallen into disarray, overgrown and browning in patches. The flower beds that heralded only weeds and wild yarrow.
Running a hand through his hair, he paused to force down the urge to head out loaded for bear, instead choosing to simply head out with his python, hopping the eastern wall, heading towards a farmhouse he knew wasn't far off through the woods.
Sister Mary Agnes called after him in mild panic, but he ignored her, marching through the trees and out of sight.
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It took him about five good trips, loaded down with a toolbox and such, before he gently dropped an old storm window down onto the grass on the outside of the convent wall.
If he had the time tomorrow he'd head into the nearby town, back to the home and garden store to see if they had any bundles of shingles he could salvage to fix the roofs before the autumn rains set in. If Georgia caught the tail end of a hurricane (which became only heavy thunderstorms by the time it reached them) as it had only a couple of years ago, shingles would keep a lot of the cold, damp out. He supposed if they planned on stubbornly staying at the convent, he couldn't let it fall in disrepair. They'd have to start taking very careful care of the buildings, rot and mold could easily set in and undermine any of the walls.
Of course, he recalled with a wry tilt of his head, Shane was the one who taught him this. In all honesty Rick was worse than useless when it came to DIY. He could hammer nails, but that was about it as far as his expertise came in.
But he knew enough from his father to know how the basics worked. Windows could be toed in, silicone sealed, painted, shingles were tucked up and under, nailed with wide headed, short roofing nails and everything else would be a learning experience.
Besides, at least it would keep his hands busy, and the other men didn't seem to have much time to bother with the minor details.
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He was halfway through fixing the screen on a window in the backdoor of the dorms, when he realized there was an odd calm to doing something that didn't involve guns or walkers.
Those on the wall kept wandering by, nodding in greeting to him as he worked, and he found it an odd comfort knowing they had enough people on the wall, circling, to keep at least give him a decent enough head's up should any large herds come their way and his hands were busy, which seemed to trick his mind into believing he was doing something.
Well, he was doing something, he supposed. With the screen repaired the sisters could keep the inner back door open again at night, allowing a cooling cross breeze to flow through the dorms, relieving those inside on hot Georgian nights.
He wondered if anyone would really notice his hard work and the smashed thumb he suffered for it.
Not that he wanted the praise, but the damned convent seemed so busy, people everywhere, never really time for anyone to notice the small things.
Glancing to his left, he spied Daryl moving slowly to the well pump, still not up to being about from the infirmary cot yet, but stubbornly moving around as best he could. From the looks of it, he had just finished helping his brother clean Merle's catch of the day as he splashed water on his bloody hands.
The scruffy Dixon jerked his chin in greeting to him, as Rick left the door for the time being and ambled towards him.
"Merle says the game's running thin around here," Daryl greeted, washing his combat knife off with water as well. "Might have to start going across the river, see if it's any better over there. At the very least we could plan a fishing trip to the river itself before fall, catch enough fish to can for winter. Always fish in the river."
"Yeah."
Taking in the hammer in his hand, Daryl squinted thoughtfully at him. "You busy?"
"Just fixing some things around here," he replied, glancing around as Sister Mary Claire passed by on the wall.
"The place has kind of gone to hell, huh?" Daryl went on.
Rick knew the man was horrible at small talk, but he appreciated the effort on Daryl's part. He had come a long way from the scrappy, smart mouthed asshole he was when Rick met him at the quarry.
"Used to be real nice," Daryl said, pointing to the flower garden behind the dorms. "Some roses back there, statues and shit, fucking birdbath that I rammed my balls into in the dark."
Picturing Daryl Dixon, in the dark of night, out on patrol, sacking himself on a birdbath brought a faint twinkle to Rick's eyes. He imagined that the sisters didn't think much of men running into a birdbath in their garden when they put it there at the right height, in the right position to cause harm.
"Hey," Daryl said, "let me finish washing up and I'll give you a hand."
Rick sized him up. He looked like a good gust of wind would knock him over, but he also looked as anxious as he was to do something, anything. Daryl wasn't really the type to sit around if he could help it, but a gunshot to the spleen, well Rick figured Daryl could at least keep him company of sorts. "You can hand me things, looks about all you're up to doing."
"Couple more days," Daryl said, "and I'll be ready to jump back into it."
"You think Carol might have something to say about that?" Rick asked.
"She don't own me," the younger man argued.
"You telling me you aren't scared of a pissed off Carol Peletier?"
Shifting on his feet, Daryl touched a hand to his side, covering his wound gingerly.
"That's what I thought," Rick replied.
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They worked quietly and more quickly with Daryl helping out. Thankfully, he seemed to know what he was doing, but also seemed to realize his limits to an extent, finding it easier for him to take breaks now and then, huffing out deep breaths in mild agony.
"I suppose we'll replace this fucking window," Daryl grunted as they replaced one of the ones from in the infirmary with one from the farmhouse that fit the frame better than any of the other broken windows around the place. "And some asshole walkers'll come and knock it out again."
"Well, if they don't, this window will be better come winter then unsealed plywood." Rick replied, holding the window in place while Daryl secured it properly.
While dropping extra nails he didn't need into the little tobacco can the farmer kept them in, Daryl eyed him and eased down onto the grass under the window to rest in the shade, holding his side. "You thinking we'll be here long enough for winter?"
"God willing," Rick said, not so much religiously, but as something his father used to say.
Rick had the distinct feeling Daryl was eyeing him now and then as he finished the last bit of the work. The Dixon was searching for something to say or perhaps a starting off point for something he was trying to get at.
"I think," Rick started, clearing his throat, "we should see about maybe building another house somewhere on the grounds before winter. We're getting cramped as it is, maybe we could push our walls a bit, gain a little more breathing room."
Daryl dipped his head in agreement.
"Get some building supplies from that home and garden. It doesn't have to be a fancy building, just some rooms and beds."
"Before he went off to Woodbury, Carol said Milton was talking about maybe rigging up some kind of solar generator for us," Daryl said, pushing to his feet again. "Indoor plumbing would be nice at least, for the ladies."
"And some men," Rick added.
They worked in silence again, Daryl casting quick, studying looks at Rick with his sharp eyes.
"You looking to the future here," he asked.
"Thinking ahead," Rick agreed. "If we're going to be here, then we make this our home and burn anyone who even breathes wrong in our territory. We protect our own."
"You won't hear arguments from me on that," Daryl said, rubbing his scruff. "But," he trailed off.
"But?" Rick urged.
"The sisters would probably argue that we should show some mercy at least."
"And?"
"It's hard to say, we have to be cold sons-a-bitches in order to survive, but I've been thinking about Dale lately. Randall was a weasel-y little asshole, but Dale made a good point. I think we shouldn't lose our humanity completely. We need to handle outsiders carefully, feel them out."
"And while we're feeling them out, they're raping our women and gut stabbing our men," Rick pointed out.
Daryl didn't say anything, eyeing Rick quietly.
"I mean look at that jackass in the infirmary," Rick went on. "Do you know what he's doing right now? How do we know he's not in there slitting Milton's throat and robbing us of all our medicine?"
Seeing Daryl fall into his silent defence, Rick sighed heavily.
"I'm not saying burn them all, Daryl," he said. "I'm just saying we can't be so neighbourly. We have to make it known that we'd sooner shoot a stranger in the face then shake his hand. If people are smart enough, they'll keep clear of us."
"For how long?" Daryl demanded. "This won't ever end, Rick. If we let it become bloody and hateful, then it'll only get worse."
"You think the groups out there feel the same way?" Rick demanded. "Daryl, you of all people know what bastards the human race is made up of. A single man is only looking out for number one and they won't give a good goddamned about our mercy policy if we have something they want."
They both stopped their arguing as Beth approached on the wall, singing softly. Standing about as she passed by, one of her ancestral Irish songs on her lips, the two men reconciled their differences of opinions without words, Rick going back to work once she had passed and Daryl easing back down to take another rest.
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He was sitting on the steps to the church later. Taking a break with Daryl flopped back onto the steps worn out completely, when Merle slumped into a spot between them.
Rick, as usual with Merle, put up his defences. The man seemed to make it his duty to be as unpleasant as he could get away with and since he and Rick had bad blood, the younger man didn't seem to ever let his guard down around Daryl's brother.
"You know," he began evenly, "I'd suggest finding a goat to take care of this lawn for us, if I wasn't worried about stepping in goat shit every three steps."
"Well, we can't spare the gas for a mower," Daryl replied. "Goat might be the easiest option."
"Besides," Rick added, "they fertilize as they go. Back home people paid a lot of money for that kind of lawn treatment."
Daryl scoffed.
"Hell," Merle began, "maybe if things work out with this new group we can barter with them for a cow. At least they give milk that's not already sour right from the teet."
"Cows?" Rick asked.
"Sure, they had a whole herd of dairy cattle," Merle replied. "Probably some kind of farm remnants there."
Rick scowled. "How'd they make it out with cattle?"
"Amount of dead shitheads they had hanging in the woods around their pasture, I'd say they were cloaking their cattle's scent from the biters, had a hell of a good fence up too, minefield in the woods, I'd say they covered their ass well."
"Even some chickens would be nice," Daryl said, sitting up carefully.
"That's if they're willing to be neighbourly," Rick pointed out. "Besides, what would we offer? Nuns? Communion wafers?"
"Gear?" Daryl suggested. "We picked up at least fifty or more of those Kevlar vests at the base, a shit-ton of combat knives, some other goodies we could spare."
"Maybe your Cajun dog of war will have a better idea of what they'd need once he meets with them," Merle grunted.
Long after Sister Mary Claire appeared and shuttled Daryl back to a cot to lie down, Rick had worked on the convent. He threw himself into fixing it up as best he could, taking his mind off everything but the work.
Finally, after weeding the last of the flower beds, he mustered the courage to do what he knew needed done.
Carl had enough time to cool off and there was a lot needed saying.
Wiping the dirt off his hands with a rag, Rick moved to stand just below his son on the wall.
"Carl," he called up, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and shifting his feet uncomfortably on the ground. "Look, I know," he began nervously, "you're just a teen right now, should be out toilet papering trees and drinking milk until you puke in back alleys with your friends. All that stupid kid stuff. It's unfair that the world went to shit. It's unfair to a lot of us. But you have to learn to control yourself."
"Why? You don't."
Rick took this jab to the chin with a small nod. "Yeah, well, I'm going to. We both can learn a little control, dial it back a little."
"Bullshit."
"Carl, when you start to grow a beard you can curse all you want, but while you're still a teen and my son you're going to keep your mouth clean and you're going to get off the damned wall when I ask you to. And from now on, until you learn to control yourself around our own, you won't touch a gun."
Finding sullen silence the only thing facing him from his son, Rick cleared his throat. "Carl, the only other option here is for you to be seen as an adult. But you might want to rethink that choice, because there are a couple of people around here lining up to whoop your ass. Adults face the consequences of their actions and you made some people mad today, Merle Dixon being one of them and the most likely candidate to beat you into the dirt."
Again Carl continued to ignore him, glaring anywhere but at him.
"I'm not saying I wasn't acting like an ass today, because I was, but I'm going to rectify this. I'm going to ease up on the reins, let others do the thinking for a while. We're both in no condition to be put in any position of power, I think we both need to just fade into the background for a while."
Climbing up onto the wall beside Carl, Rick went on, "look at them, Carl." He motioned to the inhabitants of the convent who were spread out across the lawns before them, a few in the garden weeding, some on the wall and at the gate. "We lost mom, we lost our home, everything we owned, civilization and all law and order, but what we do have is them and this convent, and I can't promise we won't lose them or this place, but for now we need to just appreciate what we have. Stop trying to prove yourself, stop thinking about past mistakes, the people we lost, the places we've been, we need to focus on the here and now. If you keep fighting our own, if you keep making enemies out of them, then the real enemies, the real threat, is going to blindside you. Maybe," he added as a finale to his long winded speech, "maybe we should take a little lesson from the nuns, show mercy, and turn the other cheek."
Carl was looking at him with an unreadable gaze and for the first time Rick was actually scared, because he realized then and there that he really didn't know what his son was capable of or what was going on in his head.
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No replies to very kind reviews. I'm much too exhausted. It's been a wacky day. You're all very sweet people, you know you're probably some of the classiest, kindest people on earth and you know you'll be getting back as much love as you give.