Jack pointed to his work with a gauze-wrapped finger. "Wiring runs up each wall and across the ceiling," he said, making a sweeping gesture. "I used plastique blocks. They're a little old, but I think they'll do."

Rick moved past Glenn and Daryl. His eyes trailed along the wire. "How's it work?"

Jack held out a device for Rick's inspection. It looked like an old radio; it had an antenna, three lights, and a toggle. "Remote switch—for now," Jack explained. "But I'll rig up a tripwire when we leave tomorrow."

"So," Daryl mused, "someone walks through here and—what?"

Jack grinned. "Boom."

Rick ghosted a smile. He allowed himself the dark pleasure of imagining Matthew in a pile of rubble.

"What if it's not the Prophet?" Glenn asked. Rick gave him a curious look. In a low, grim tone, Glenn continued: "What if it's innocent people just looking for a safe place?"

Rick glanced down. A cold feeling moved up his spine. All the mischief had vanished from the air, which was heavier now with Glenn's question. He narrowed his eyes.

"Rick! Glenn!"

His head snapped up at Maggie's scream. She sprinted breathlessly into view. Her face was desperate and drawn.

Glenn rushed over to meet her, grabbing his wife's shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"It's Mark—he's sick!" Maggie cried. "Daddy's with him, but he's..."

Rick blanched. "Where is he?"

The entire group gathered like gawkers around a wreck. Hershel knelt beside the boy, holding him still, while Mark's head lay on Beth's knees for elevation. Mark's mother mewled in Mason's arms.

"Where's his epi-pen?" Rick demanded.

"It's gone!" Tyrese barked. "We tore the place apart, but there's no sign of it!"

Mark's mother strained toward them—wild and inconsolable. Tears and snot poured down her face. "Help him! Help him!"

Rick squatted beside the boy. "Hershel, how bad?"

The old man shook his head as Mark spasmed. "The reaction's severe," he said bleakly. "If we don't treat him soon, he'll die."

Rick's stomach fell. "I'll find a pharmacy—get some epinephrine."

"Rick, we cleaned out every pharmacy in twenty miles," Daryl said.

Hershel gave them a sharp look. "He's got forty-five minutes—at most."

Mark's mother struggled against Mason. She scratched his arms like a rabid dog. "Do something!" she screamed. "Please—help him!"

Rick looked up, finding Beth's face. It was pale and scared, creased with worry lines. Then he glanced at Mark again. A bloody memory of Carl unspooled itself in his mind.

He shut his eyes for a long moment. When they reopened, they were clear and unyielding.

"Mableton's got a hospital," he said.

Daryl's eyes widened "What?!"

"It's his only chance," Rick said firmly.

Mason released Mark's mother, forcing his way into Rick's vision. "Don't be an idiot!" he fired in the sheriff's face. "You can't do this!"

Rick cupped his hands beneath Mark, lifting him off the floor. "Watch me," he growled.

"Do you know what they'll do to you?" Mason pressed.

The sheriff ignored him, stepping to one side to move past him. Beth watched helplessly as Rick began to leave—only for Daryl to block his path.

"I'll come with you," Daryl said.

"No," Rick replied forcefully. "This goes bad, these people're gonna need you. I ain't back by morning, you leave without me."

Beth shot to her feet, terrified at his tone and at Daryl's acquiescent nod. He was halfway across the block before she could react.

She gave chase, shouting his name, but he ignored her and pressed on. Daryl and Glenn ran alongside her, with Mark's mother, a quivering mess, pulling up the rear.

Rick burst into the courtyard, running for the nearest car. And the sight of the SUV made it all too real for Beth. The thought of him driving off was a like thousand little daggers.

Beth's eyes hardened. Her fearful outlook was replaced by determination. As Rick rushed to the back door, Beth hurried to the driver's side.

At his questioning look, she said firmly: "I'm coming."

"Beth—"

"There's no time to argue," she cut him off. "I'll drive."

Before Rick could respond, she'd already climbed in. He slammed his palm against the car. He couldn't let her do this, couldn't let her—but she was right. There was no time.

Rick lay Mark in the backseat. Mark's mother followed, taking his head into her lap.

Rick grabbed Daryl's arm with an unyielding look. "You don't come after me," he ordered. "I'm not back, you get them to Nebraska. Got it?"

Daryl nodded grimly. Rick slammed the door, then moved to the front seat. As he went to climb in, he was frozen by a shout from a familiar voice.

"Dad!"

Rick whipped his head around to find Carl at the entrance. The boy stared at him with wide, frazzled eyes, peering sincerely from under the brim of his father's hat.

Rick held his gaze for a long moment, then gave the boy a small nod. Carl squinted, forcing down weakness, and nodded in return.

The sheriff climbed in the car. It sped off before his door was even shut. Everyone watched as the SUV squealed into the distance.

And in a matter of moments, the day went quiet.

The townspeople were overcome with shock. They leapt fearfully from the car's path before it screeched to a halt in the middle of the marketplace. A fearful murmur poured through the crowd.

Rick threw his door open, smashing a fruit cart. He collected Mark from the backseat and rushed into the mass of people.

"Help!" he yelled. "We need a doctor!"

No one reacted. He shouted again as Beth and the mother joined him.

After a long moment, the townspeople's heads turned—and they parted at the center to allow an Indian woman passage. She emerged at the front with a strangely placid look.

"Are you Mr. Grimes?" she asked.

"I'm the guy with a sick kid!" Rick growled, the boy's mother hysterical at his side. He snarled at the woman: "Are you gonna help us or are you gonna let him die?!"

She stared at him, neither angry nor sympathetic. She was like a machine satisfied with its one purpose. After a pause, she directed her gaze at a young man and said calmly: "Luther, get Dr. Harth. Have him meet us at the hospital."

He noddly quickly, rushing through an alley that connected to the next street.

The woman led them through the crowd.

Rick's long strides put him out in front. He pressed his cheek to the boy's face. He wasn't breathing. Oh, shit—no. No no no. The sheriff's heart thumped desperately.

"You're okay," he whispered. "You're okay. You're okay..."

He watched the green line spike and fall, spike and fall, in time with the little chirp. This was complemented by the gentle hiss of air through a thin, clear tube. It sounded a little like music reduced to its bare essence.

Little Mark lay peacefully on the pillow. His mother kept vigil, stroking his hair gently. She was hunched over, relying on the bed to keep her upright. Rick couldn't help but remember those long nights on Hershel's farm.

Dr. Harth stood at the woman's side, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he explained the prognosis. He had that rare combination of compassion and competence.

As they watched through the window, Beth gave Rick a sidelong glance. "You saved his life," she said.

Rick's eyes remained fixed on the patient. He watched the rise and fall of the boy's chest. "You shouldn't have come," he said wearily.

Beth turned to observe him. The adrenaline was gone, and a hint of fear shone in his eyes. She reached out and grasped his hand.

"Any grave gets dug for you will have to fit two," she said.

Rick's face softened. He gave her a sad smile, overwhelmed by her devotion.

He pressed a kiss to her lips, lingering a moment, then pulled back as the door to Mark's room opened. Dr. Harth approached with a warm expression.

"How is he?" Rick asked.

"He's stable. You got him here just in time," the doctor reported. "We have him on a ventilator for now, but if he progresses like I hope he will, we should be able to remove it tomorrow."

Beth asked tentatively, "Is there anything permanent?"

"No, I don't believe so," Harth said with a gentle smile. "I expect him to make a full recovery."

Rick nodded slightly. With Mark's wellbeing secure, the reality of their situation settled on his shoulders. He breathed tensely and asked, "How long until he's ready to travel?"

"Two days, at least—probably three," Harth said. "I don't want to take any chances. This was a very severe episode."

"Thank you, Doctor," Beth said sincerely. "We can't thank you enough."

"Of course," he replied, glancing at his watch. "I'll check back in a couple hours. The nurses will monitor him, but if you need me, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you," Rick said.

Harth patted his arm gently. He took one last look at Mark, then handed a clipboard to the nurse and moved down the hallway.

When he was gone, Beth tugged on Rick's hand, leading him out of earshot. She leaned in close and said, "We can't stay here, Rick."

"I know."

"What are we going to do?"

A dark figure entered their peripheral vision. Rick turned his head to find the woman approaching, hands clasped behind her back like an archaic school teacher. A soft smile rested on her lips.

"I'm told he will recover," the woman said.

"That's right," Rick replied politely. "We appreciate your help."

She studied their faces like they were light in a microscope. And her smile began to fade. "Our God is merciful today."

Rick stared back at her. Her eyes sparkled darkly. "And tomorrow?" he asked. "Will God be merciful then?"

The harsh light gave her head an amber crown. "You can ask him yourself," she said.

Rick looked over her shoulder to find Matthew, Peter, and Simon standing at the nurse's desk.

"The Prophet requires an audience with you," the woman explained.

"If I refuse?"

The woman cast a glance at the sleeping boy. "You won't."

Rick slowly turned to Beth. She was rigid and terrified, reminding him of the girl he'd met back on the farm. But she was also resolute.

After a long moment, Rick nodded his capitulation.

The woman led them past the nurse's desk. Matthew openly leered at Beth, smiling malevolently when Rick's jaw tightened. The sheriff forced down his anger and kept moving, as Simon fell into step beside him.

Matthew trailed behind them but stopped when he realized Peter hadn't moved. He turned back to find the man intently watching Mark.

Peter fidgeted with the tape on one of his wrists. His tongue rolled around his mouth like a bored child's. But his eyes were protected from study by a few threads of wild hair.

"Was this necessary?" Peter asked after a moment.

Matthew lay a brotherly hand on his shoulder. In a low, gentle voice, he said: "It's not for us to question to God."

The steel door creaked open.

Lurking behind it was an empty gray room. There were a few splashes of blood, and a pair of brass hooks dangled in one corner. In the Old World, it might've been a meat locker. But there were no carcasses now—just two well-worn chairs at the center of the room.

Beth's eyes locked on the brass hooks. Her heart blasted in her chest as the woman led her inside. She was defenseless. No guns, no knives. Even her guile was made useless by fear. She fought the tears pricking at her eyes.

As Rick moved to follow, Simon blocked the doorway.

Beth spun around, panicking at his absence. "Rick? Rick!"

The sheriff narrowed his eyes at the much larger man. "Move," he snarled.

"I can't do that, Mr. Grimes," said Simon. "The Lord our God has special plans for you."

Rick's stomach tightened. He couldn't let them be separated. He stood nose to nose with Simon, and in dangerous voice repeated: "Move."

Matthew grabbed his arm. Rick turned immediately and punched him in the mouth. Then he spun back, slamming Simon against the wall. But Peter landed a brutal punch to Rick's side.

"Rick!" Beth screamed.

Peter yanked the sheriff back, smashing him with a forearm. Rick fell to his knees. The last thing Beth saw before the door shut was Simon's right cross.

Rick dropped to his back as Matthew and Simon pounded him with their boots. He growled as they worked him over.

Matthew cocked his foot back for a head shot. But Rick caught his other ankle, tripping him to the ground. Then he sent Simon reeling with a kick to the groin.

Rick struggled to his feet as Peter grabbed him from behind. He threw a hard elbow, shaking him loose, then belted him in the face. Peter slammed against the wall.

But there were just too many. Simon and Matthew hammered him in the ribs. When he started to fall, they each grabbed an arm to hold him up.

The sheriff was helpless. Blood poured into his eyes, blinding him. He could feel a rib bone digging against his skin.

Peter gave Rick a bloody smile, spitting a molar in his face. "Ohhh, that was a good one, Sheriff Rick," he gnarled, letting out a mad cackle. "You're a man," he continued with a note of admiration. "You really are. Like Jimmy Stewart or some shit." He worked his jaw around. "Fuck—you hit hard."

"You want s'more?" Rick grunted.

"I'm afraid we haven't time for that," Matthew interjected, provoking a grimace as he twisted Rick's arm. "We do have a schedule, after all."

Rick let his head drop. His eyes slipped shut against the pain. "A schedule for what?" he mumbled.

Simon grabbed his hair, yanking back, and put his mouth to Rick's ear.

"The end times," he whispered.

He couldn't remember how far they'd taken him—another two hallways maybe. His concussion blended it all together. They'd dropped him face-down in the middle of another room.

Rick's brain felt disconnected from the rest of him. There was only pain and a vague sense of inevitability. After several tries, he braced his palms on the floor and pushed up to his knees. His body swayed back, nearly toppling, before he found his equilibrium.

The sheriff opened his eyes, finding his vision blurred and bloody. He wiped his face with a torn sleeve, squinting, and his surroundings came into focus.

Like the other room, this one was mostly bare. Gray walls surrounded him, and an old wooden chair sat at the room's center. He used the chair to climb to his feet, moaning at the pain it brought.

He narrowed his eyes at the far wall, finding a square movie screen suspended from a thin rod. Craning his head the other way, he spotted a film projector behind a glass window near the ceiling.

Rick leaned heavily on the chair-back, letting his eyes close. He sucked sharp gulps of air, fighting back bile at the stench of rotted carbon. It smelled like a morgue without power. He felt he was standing at the nexus of all death.

"Richard Paul Grimes."

Rick's eyes snapped open. He searched out the voice but found no one in the room. The rich, booming brogue echoed off the walls, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. It surged like our worst dreams out of a black void.

"I've been waiting for this moment," the voice said. "Since before time began."

Rick's knuckles went white where they gripped the chair. His dark eyes circled the room.

"What is this?" he demanded.

There was a brief silence before the projector flickered to life. Rick followed its light to the screen. At first, there was only a bright flash of sepia. After a few moments, the grainy film came into focus.

An eight year-old Rick Grimes appeared, giggling in his grandpa's arms. He turned on his stomach and laughed happily as his face was licked by a brown lab.

Rick's breath hitched. His heart thundered in his chest.

"Judgment Day," the voice said.