Daryl stared for a long moment at her placid eyelids.
At the end of corridor, a steel frame began to rattle. He whipped his head toward the sound, exchanging a look with Mason.
They proceeded, rifles ready, toward the source. It was coming from behind a small door labeled: "A5: Supplies."
The steel frame shook violently as it was pounded from the inside. Daryl took a position directly in front. He aimed his rifle and gave his friend a small nod.
Mason reached for the handle, closing his fingers slowly. After a long pause, he threw the door open.
Carl's corpse sprang out. It screamed and lunged forward. Daryl's finger slipped from the trigger as he stared into its yellow eyes.
It snapped at Daryl's neck—before going still with a soft hiss.
Mason retrieved his knife from the walker's skull, letting the body drop. Daryl stared wide-eyed at Carl's ashen remains. He made a fist to still his trembling hand.
He barely registered Mason's fingers on his shoulder. The world seemed to fall out beneath him.
His eyes raked over Carl's corpse, before landing on the hat.
It lay like flowers beside a grave, the brim smeared with blood along the edges.
Rick climbed out of the car. He squinted at the debris blocking the road ahead. After a moment, he adjusted his hat and walked toward the rubble.
Two doors shut behind him, and he was joined by Mason and Daryl.
It was a large pile of twisted metal, but the pieces appeared movable. As the men approached, two malnourished walkers stumbled into view. One was middle-aged, the other a little girl with a pink backpack.
Mason grimaced but lifted his Beretta. Daryl appeared next to him, covering his hand. "I got it, brother."
Mason turned away. He heard the soft hiss of two bolts, then the clatter of bodies. He looked back to find mother and daughter motionless on the ground.
The crunch of metal drew his eyes to Rick. He and Daryl quickly joined him. They threw the debris over a retaining wall, combining strength on the bigger pieces.
They were about halfway through when Rick spotted a long banner. He froze in place, reading the advertisement: "WITNESS THE LIFE AND DEATH OF STARS at the FERNBANK PLANETARIUM." The painting of the cosmos was dusty and faded. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Mason looked over Rick's shoulder. "I took my students there once."
"What was it like?" Rick asked.
"It was cool. Had a sense of scope," Mason recalled. "It was all pitch black, like something'd swallowed you. And then these tiny little lights exploded all over." He glanced at Rick, finding the sheriff's expression strange. He gave a little shrug. "It was pretty, I guess."
"I would've liked to see it," Rick said distantly.
He shook himself from his reverie, returning to the task. Mason helped him with a car bumper. They dumped it over the retaining wall.
"If I had it to do over, I wouldn't've taught them about stars," Mason said.
"What would you have taught them?"
"That the Lord our God made the earth in seven days."
Rick chortled, shaking his head. "You don't believe that."
Mason smiled sardonically. "Hell, Rick, the truth's just a lie we all agree to leave alone," he mused. "So why not pick the best lie?"
Rick stopped what he was doing. His grim expression was out of sync with Mason's. "What's so good about it?"
Mason stared at him, perplexed by his intensity. He forced his mouth into a line, and after a long moment said: "If God made everything, then we're all one soul, right?" Rick nodded slightly. "But the Big Bang? If it started there..." Mason spit in the rubble, watching it drip down a rotted finger. "Then we've spent fourteen billion years drifting away from each other."
Rick looked at the banner, unfocusing his eyes. Every line on his face deepened as the little lights in the black blurred and got bigger. And for an instant, everything—everything—folded in on itself, so that he and all things were one stroke of color.
"Rick?"
He wiped his face on his sleeve and got back to work.
She threw him on his back, then climbed to her knees. She cleared her eyes and set them on his wound.
It wasn't deep enough to have ruptured any organs, but the muscle was shredded and he'd lost a liter of blood at least. Without transfusion, he'd be gone in a few minutes.
Beth's heart blasted. Even if daddy was alive, he wouldn't get there in time. She was the last obstacle between Death and the sheriff.
She lay her palm on Rick's cheek. Tears spilled down her face, mixing with his blood. She saw her entire life in one blinding flash: birth, pain, loss, and joy. And then the light faded, so that her mind's eye was one vast vacuum. I love you. I love you forever.
Beth's face hardened. Her eyes snapped right to left, spotting a darkened office.
She tried to stand, but her legs were too weak. She crawled to the door, moving to her knees. She slammed it open with her shoulder.
All around her were boxes and folders. On the desk, there was a computer and office supplies. Beth crawled behind the desk, shoving away the chair. She rifled through the drawers.
Her eyes froze on the last one. Two bottles of insulin lay beside a tourniquet and syringe. Her mind flashed back to a story from her father. She grabbed the tourniquet and syringe and used the desk to climb up. She swayed before steadying. On the desk in front of her were some pens and a stapler.
Grabbing the stapler, she stumbled out of the office and collapsed beside Rick.
She peeled off her shirt, wiping away some of the blood on Rick's stomach. When she had a clear view of the wound, she steeled her eyes and stapled it shut—shuddering with each sickening click. After ten staples, the bleeding stopped.
She wrapped the tourniquet around her arm, tying it with her teeth. She smacked her arm to find a vein, then inserted the needle to draw her own blood. When the syringe was full, she undid the tourniquet and tied it around Rick.
"It's okay," she whispered. Her voice cracked as hot tears spilled onto him. "S'okay... you're okay..."
She found Rick's vein.
It was relatively quiet. The smattering of walkers had been easily dispatched. A bank, a book store, and two office buildings surrounded some benches and a water fountain. Just past the bank lay the Plaza Hotel.
Daryl watched a lone walker stagger in the distance. "We got daylight if you wanna push it," he told Rick. "Two, three hours maybe."
Rick took a breath, glancing at the caravan before his eyes reached Beth. She smiled supportively and said: "Whatever you think is best."
His stiff back relaxed. He looked past her at the hotel in the near distance. "We'll push on—turn back if the road's rough." He glanced at Mason. "Check the hotel. Clear it out if you can. I think everyone could use some sleep in a real bed."
Mason nodded dutifully.
Rick turned to Beth again, brushing some hair behind her ear. He cupped her face in his palm. "Well be back—quick as we can," he promised. "Just stay safe in the meantime."
Beth gazed back lovingly. She balled his shirt in her fists and tugged him into a kiss. It was sweet and lingering, and she thought she could talk him into anything from the contented sigh he gave.
"Be careful," she murmured.
The intricate ceiling, anchored in the middle by a stained-glass dome, was held up by four golden pillars. Straight ahead was a lavish dining hall. Beyond it, a long hallway stretched out of sight in each direction.
"Man!" Gracie boomed appreciatively. "This is like MTV Cribs!"
"I stayed here once," Bob said wistfully.
Gracie snorted. "Bullshit."
"It's true. My friend's wedding was in the ballroom."
Gracie watched him for a moment for fear of being had. But at his distant expression, she concluded it was true. "Must've been sweet," she said.
"Couldn't tell you. I was still drinking back then."
"Should I padlock the mini-bars?"
Mason gave her an impatient look, then glanced to his right. "Beth, why don't you take Matthau and Lemon here and check out the ground floor?" He turned to Maggie and Tyrese. "You guys are with me. We'll sweep the next two floors, meet back here in twenty."
As Mason moved away, Gracie caught his arm. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
A smirk tugged at Mason's mouth. He ruffled her hair. "Be good, kiddo."
He checked his rifle, then set his eyes on the far end of the room. As he led his group across the lobby, a strange uneasiness began to fill his chest. All was quiet, and yet something about this felt wrong.
When he found Maggie staring, he gave her a tight smile. "Let's go."
Maggie fingered some dust along the desk, squinting out the window. The thin blinds cleaved the sunlight so that it shone on her in slivers.
Tyrese sat on the edge of an immaculate bed. The water on the nightstand had gone black long ago. He leaned past it to the mini-fridge, finding two sealed Deer Parks. "Check it out," he said happily.
Mason exited the bathroom, smiling slightly. He glanced at Maggie to find her staring into the distance. After a moment, he told Tyrese: "See if you can dig up any more supplies. We'll clear the other rooms."
Tyrese nodded appreciatively. He'd no desire to engage whatever lurked elsewhere.
Maggie turned to follow Mason, wiping her fingers on her pants.
He took the lead as they moved through the hallway. His rifle was rock-steady, held at a low angle. There was a strained calm about him that had always intrigued Maggie. He was at once placid and nervous.
Hearing a soft patter in the next room, Mason held up a closed fist. Maggie lifted her gun and froze. After a long pause, a mouse scurried out of the room and darted past their ankles.
Maggie sighed, lowering her gun. Mason gave her a wan smile and nodded at the room. "Come on."
He moved sidelong through the doorway, aiming left while Maggie went right. When he found the bathroom empty, he returned to Maggie's side to find her observing him strangely.
"What branch were you?" she asked. Mason blinked, caught off guard. His mouth opened and closed. "Rosita spotted it," she explained. "Just little phrases, the way you clear a room."
Mason nodded slightly. He walked back to the hallway. As Maggie followed, he said: "National Guard."
"Were you active?"
"Mm-hmm."
They moved into the next room. Mason cleared the bathroom again. Maggie opened the closet, running her fingers over a dusty business suit. "Seems to bother you more than the rest of us," she said, turning back. "The walkers, I mean."
The line deepened between Mason's eyes. His thumb ran restlessly over the trigger guard. "I joined up in 2001—right before college. Seemed like a nice way to pay for books." They left the room, continuing down the hall. "I was sitting in freshman English when the towers fell. We watched it on the projector screen. It was like a bad dream all of us were sharing." He chuffed softly. "Next day, I got the call. We were going to Ground Zero."
Mason opened a supply closet, finding mops and ammonia. He grabbed a small rag and slipped it in his pocket. "They called us the 'bucket brigade.' We sorted through it by hand. The best I can explain, it was a pile of steel and skin. No bodies—just limbs. Burnt and rotted."
Maggie exhaled sharply. "Jesus."
Mason shut the closet. He paused, leaning heavily on the wall. She could feel his memories the way you feel winter air when a door is first opened. "The air was poison," he continued. "None of us had masks. Most of my buddies weren't right after that—cancer, trouble breathing. Lot of 'em died, last I heard." He worked his jaw to each side. "I guess God just didn't want me."
After a long moment, he pushed off the wall. His eyes cleared. "That used to be a good story. I was large and tragic," he said. "But now we've all been in the rubble."
Hershel carefully adjusted Carol's catheter. Her face was pale and drawn still, but she was clearly on the mend.
They'd been lucky to find the clinic in the bowels of the office building. It was almost untouched. And Hershel was highly experienced treating people with veterinary tools.
Beth stood silently over her father's shoulder.
A commotion exploded down the hall. Sharp cries—banging metal.
"Rick, chill out! Calm down!"
Hershel snapped his eyes at Beth, who took off immediately. She bolted through the OR to the recovery room. Jack and Daryl stood in the doorway, trying to hold back Rick.
The sheriff was surprisingly strong for his condition. He pushed past them into the hallway, careening into the wall with wild eyes. Sweat poured down his face; his hair clung to his forehead.
"Stop, brother!" Daryl pleaded.
Rick gnashed his teeth together. "Let me go! I have to go! They killed my fucking boy!"
Jack grabbed Rick's shoulders. "I know, buddy. But you gotta rest. You're hurt. You—"
Rick elbowed him out of the way. He staggered forward until Beth appeared in front of him. It was enough to make him pause.
Beth grasped his arm, nose wrinkled in concern. "Rick, it's okay," she soothed. "Stop—let's talk."
But her words didn't calm him. A new fervor took hold. He pushed past her, gnarling: "No! I'm not gonna stop! I'm not gonna stop! I'm gonna kill 'em! I'll kill 'em all! I'll kill everything!"
Beth cut him off again, exploiting his sluggishness. He tried to go around her, but she matched his movements.
"God damn it, Beth! Get out of here!" He slammed his hand against the wall. "Move! Move!"
Daryl appeared behind him, holding a syringe. He made a move for Rick's arm, but Beth shook her head. Daryl gave her a pleading look, but Beth remained firm. He finally stepped back.
Beth lay her hand on Rick's face. His skin was dangerously warm. The feel of her cool touch momentarily sedated him. He leaned into her palm.
Rick shuddered, hands trembling at his sides. His face was twisted in a miserable grimace. "I have to go," he rasped. "I have to go. They killed him..."
Beth's heart tore at the seams. She fought back the tears pricking at her eyes. "I know, sweetie," she whispered, caressing his cheek. "And I'm so sorry. But you're sick. You're not thinking straight."
"It's all my fault," he croaked. "Everything. I gotta make it right. It's all my fault."
"Oh, honey—no. None of it's your fault. None of it, okay?"
Rick squeezed his eyes shut. She couldn't separate his sweat from his tears. He swayed to one side, but Beth was there to catch him.
She drew Rick's head to her shoulder, and pressed her mouth to his ear. "Sweetie, you're so sick. And you must be so tired. I need you to come lie down. Could you please do that for me? It'll make me really happy."
He lifted his head, staring helplessly into her eyes. "You'll be happy?" he whispered.
Beth nodded, pouring tenderness back at him. After a long moment, he let her slide beneath his arm. And he didn't protest as she walked him back to the room.
Daryl and Jack gathered the instruments off the floor, placing them on the table. Then they quietly left as Beth walked Rick to the bed and guided him down gently.
Beth stood up to shut the door.
"Stay," Rick mumbled. "Please stay."
"Shhh. It's okay," she whispered, returning to his side. She leaned over him and stroked his forehead. "I'm not goin' anywhere. I'm right here, honey."
His writhing stilled. He became docile as she gently laid his arm down. His eyes were desperate, but there was no fire now. All the fight was drained out of him.
Beth ran her fingers through his hair. "I need you to rest, Rick. Do you think you can do that?"
He drew his eyes together. After a long moment, he mumbled: "Stay?"
Beth gave him a reassuring smile and lay down beside him. She turned her back so it was pressed against his chest. He crushed her body in his arms. She hooked one leg around his, trapping it so that he might feel secure.
His shuddering breaths tickled her ears. She placed lingering kisses on his wrist, and after a time, his breathing evened out.
Beth rubbed her cheek against him. And as she hummed softly, his arms finally loosened.
He killed the engine, sitting quietly for a moment. A pair of walkers staggered toward the car. He waited until the first one reached the driver's side, then threw the door open, smashing it in the face.
He climbed out and stomped its head in. On the passenger's side, his comrades quickly dispatched the second walker.
They met at the front of the car, standing in a row. Straight ahead was a sign reading:
"Welcome to Fort Benning
Home of the Maneuver Center."
Matthew smiled.