Chapter 37

The moon slips quietly from the Georgia sky to brighten the night under a western town. In its wake the sun begins its climb into a pale blue horizon. Rick lifts his wrist from Erin's shoulder to peer at his watch. He reads 6:13 and then closes his eyes, wishing they could just freeze time and stay like this forever; toe to toe and heart to heart with his arms wrapped across her shoulders, her arms securely around his back, his chin leaning comfortingly against her temple and her breath warming the patch of exposed skin between the opened top buttons of his blue denim shirt. Unfortunately, time is a luxury not to be granted beyond this stolen moment of tenderness. Not today.

He sighs heavily. "Almost time now," he says. "Glenn will be lighting the match in seven minutes." He feels Erin shiver inside her yellow tee shirt and he hugs her tighter against him as they stand in the shadows of a useless gas station, its pumps bled dry and long forgotten. The morning air, warm and pleasant outside of Woodbury's southern gate, cannot be the cause of the tremor simmering through her body. Her arms tighten at his back and he recognizes her own attempt at hijacking precious seconds of peaceful affection, securing them to this spot with a hardy growl at Father Time. "We've got to go, honey."

"I know," she murmurs before burrowing into his neck. "Promise me we'll finish this…this…conversation later."

"I promise." He leans back and lifts her chin to meet his gaze. "It's gonna be fine, Red. We'll be in and out before you know it and I'll be with you the entire time."

"Okay."

"Whatever happens, you do not leave my side," he says firmly, fiercely.

"I won't. Not ever." Her eyes shine with such love and trust that his soul aches just looking at her.

With profound hope and a desperate will to prevail, he holds her chin and lowers his mouth to hers in a short burst of emotion that contains all the fury of his love for her.

Shuffling through the opened gate, Rick leans heavily on Erin. To ease her burden – knowing that her leg isn't completely healed no matter what she says - he pulls his weight as much as he can as he drags his right foot, praying that he appears to be in terrible pain and on the verge of collapse. After a few muffled words are exchanged between the guards above them, three men step down from the scaffolding behind the barricade, leaving one man to keep his gaze on the buildings, trees and pavement that stretch out beyond the confines of their settlement. From the corner of his eye, Rick sees the youngest of the threesome break away in a slow trot, undoubtedly to inform their leader. The other two guards head straight to meet them.

With a quick glimpse from beneath his hooded eyes, Rick sizes up the pair. Though opposite in attitude and appearance, they wear the same expression of military obligation, which says they are used to taking orders and getting the job done. Rick figures them to be both in their early thirties and equally muscular, but where one is very tall and light skinned the other is considerably shorter with dark features.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," Erin says to the taller of the two guards. Though his height should be intimidating, his youthful face, surrounded by shaggy blonde waves and a scruff of patchwork stubble, is much more open and welcoming than the stocky man with his cropped black hair and dark beard. "I don't think we could've survived another day out there. He's so weak and I've never been so exhausted."

"You said a snake bit him? What color was it?" the stocky man asks casually, his tone more of curiosity than concern.

"Light Brown," Erin replies. "We don't know what kind though because it slithered away as fast as it had come out. We just saw a brown blur. I don't think it had a rattle but I can't swear to it."

"Nah," Stocky says, sounding a bit disappointed. "If it was a rattler he'd be dead already."

Rick feels a tremor shimmy through Erin and continue through him like a streak of lightning searching for an outlet. His shoulders move with an involuntary shrug as he thinks of what could have been, and how close she had come.

"Probably not," she says. "But I think it's getting infected. He hasn't been himself all night."

"We'll have the doc check him out," Shaggy tells her. "Once the Governor says you can stay."

"Oh, please don't let him turn us away."

"Don't worry. I don't think he'll object, seeing as how it's only two of you."

"Why is it only two of you?" Stocky asks with a grain of suspicion. "How come you ain't with a bigger group?"

"We were," Erin responds. "We got separated from them four days ago when a herd of walkers came through our camp."

Groaning deeply, Rick leans more heavily on Erin and then shambles toward the right, forcing her to stagger with him in the direction of the book store, where one man stands guard in the early light of dawn.

"Hang on, honey," Erin says, straining beneath his weight as she continues to move to the right where a wood bench with wrought-iron rails sits in front of the coffee shop. "Let's get you to that bench."

"Hold on, let's get your weapons and then you can go sit him down." Stocky holds out his palm and flicks his fingers in the universal 'hand-it-over' signal.

"Oh, sorry," Erin says. "I forgot about your price of admission. Here." She lets go of the forearm slung around her neck to reach for the knife at her left hip. Rick eases his hold on her as much as possible without giving anything away. "This is all I have and he just has the Glock in his holster."

The urge to attack the man unsnapping his holster is so strong that Rick has to focus intently on Erin's breathing to keep from blowing their cover. Come on, Glenn. Where's that blaze?

"Alright, go sit him down," Shaggy says. "The Governor should be out in a minute."

"Thank you."

"There he is," Stocky says a few moments later as Rick falls hard onto the weathered seat, dragging Erin down with him.

Rick maintains his illusion of depending upon her support, but tilts his chin a fraction to view the asshole they call their leader. Looking beyond the series of solar panels lined up in the grassy center median that separates the two lanes of Main Street, he sees a tall slender man with short brown hair walking down the steps from a brick building across the street. His gait is confident as his lying eyes scan himself – the severely injured stranger – and then rest long and leering on Erin. Internally, Rick shakes his head. Typical politician. Don't even think about it, dickhead.

As the man steps onto the median, a sudden whoosh and a fearful shriek echo down the avenue. Rick watches the Governor quickly look toward the burning feed store and then back to his guards at the gate.

"Martinez, stay on guard!" he yells to the man on the wall before aiming his finger at Shaggy and Stocky. "O'Malley! Caruso! Get every bucket down to the river!"

Rick turns his head slowly in a lethargic display of confusion until his mouth is just above Erin's ear. "Here we go," he murmurs softly.

"Sully!" the Governor yells and the man guarding the bookstore rushes into the street. "Wake everybody up! We've got to put that fire out before it destroys the whole block!"

The two men race off and Rick glances up at the one man left to guard the whole southern end of Woodbury. Martinez divides his attention between the flames shooting out of the building down the street behind him, and the quiet expanse of blacktop and brick before him. Something must catch his eye beyond the tires because he raises the scope of a rifle to his eye. Probably a walker drawn by the shouting and roar of the fire, Rick thinks, grateful for any and every distraction.

Erin exhales deeply next to him and mutters her benevolent mantra of divinity,"Thank you baby Jesus."

"Let's go."

With just the right pressure and delicate little twist, Rick makes quick work with the bobby pin to open the door of the bookstore. "Give me the light," he says, holding his palm out to Erin as he peers into the dark room, shadows concealing everything beyond the sunlight that spills in from behind him. With the side windows boarded up, allowing only wispy strips of light in to glow upon the now priceless books, the room is full of darkness and deep shade.

"Here."

He feels something a little thicker and more flatly oblong than the small flashlight he knew she had stored in her pocket. Looking down at his hand, he sees the hilt of her knife resting in his open palm and the flashlight being offered from her other hand. Glancing up to her face, he gets an apologetic shrug. He nods in understanding, knowing that she is more than relieved that they didn't have to use the weapon to get through this door, and that she does not want to be the one possessing it if the need arises before they are free from this town.

He closes his fingers around the hilt and reaches for the flashlight with his other hand. He hears a muffled shuffle of movement and points its beam to reflect off a wall about three quarters down the length of the room, beyond a series of tables and low bookcases. A door sits squarely centered in the wall, giving access to the previous shopkeeper who would have used the space to run the business end of the store.

"Come on." Rick walks stealthily toward the door, following the beam of light in his left hand with the knife poised for defense in his right. Reaching the door, he leans in until his mouth is practically touching the jamb when he purses his lips. Blowing soft and steady, a long high note stretches for a few seconds before he follows it with several short deep tones, and then ends with a final lingering whine; a tune that Daryl himself had taught Carl just a few days earlier, and which his son had practiced until his lips were sore and everyone complained about hearing it in their sleep. Hopefully Daryl will hear it now.

"Rick?"

Michonne's voice is muted through the rough plywood but clearly it is hers.

"Michonne?"

"Rick! Get us out of here!" Her desperate plea is followed by a groan and then a murmured, "Easy Daryl."

"Hang on!" Rick whispers fiercely and then hands the flashlight to Erin. He retrieves his sister's spindly universal key and quickly works the spotlighted keyhole. Pulling the door open, he is greeted with a sour musty smell of dust and body odor.

"Oh, thank God," the dark woman breathes when the stream of light permeates the darkness. "How did you find us?"

"Morgan. He followed the guys that took you," Rick replies, peering through the gray shadows above the pool of light that shines upon the floor where Daryl lies on his side, his face an abstract masterpiece created by a demented artist with a fondness for black, blue, purple and all shades of reds. With his already beady eyes now swollen to mere slits, Daryl's angry face is a force of stubbornness and determination while his bent legs lie unmoving on the floor as he pushes his upper body off of the carpet. Rick's mouth goes dry. Jesus.

"It's about time ya got here, sheriff."

Rick's heart had stalled momentarily but now kicks into overdrive when he sees Daryl slowly move his right leg along the floor, wincing smartly with the movement as he grabs his left knee in pain."Shit." Though extremely relieved that his friend isn't completely paralyzed as he'd initially thought, he suddenly realizes that it may not be so easy for Daryl to escape this prison.

Before he can move to help his friend, Erin rushes past him to crouch at Daryl's side. "How bad is it?" she asks. "Can you walk at all?"

"Yeah. They just kick-started my bum knee from a bike crash a few years back," Daryl says thickly, slurring through his swollen lips. "I just need a hand gettin' up."

"Michonne, go check the door. Make sure nobody followed us in here," Rick says, handing her the knife. He bends to get his shoulder beneath Daryl's armpit as Erin gets in position as his other crutch.

With Daryl unable to put any pressure at all on his injured leg, they work together in a ragged but effective hobble to get him to their only exit where Michonne is peering through the slightly opened door. "How's it look?" Rick asks, adjusting his shoulders to alleviate some of their burden from Erin.

"It's all clear right here," she replies. "Lot of carrying on down the street."

"Alright. You're on point," he tells her in a hushed command. "There's an alley just to the right. Stick close to the wall and head down that alley. Morgan and the others are waiting at the fence."

Michonne pushes the door farther out and they all squeeze through. "Go, go, go," Rick whispers urgently as he sees a small mob of townspeople running and shouting in some kind of organized chaos in front of the feed store, bright orange flames licking the morning sky under a thick cloud of billowing black smoke.

Following Michonne around the corner of the building, he almost heaves Daryl straight into her back when she suddenly stops short. He looks beyond her shoulder to see Morgan, Merle, Glenn and T-Dog all breathless and racing toward them, away from the jumble of furniture scattered at the end of the alley… and the small horde of the dead pressing up against the fence as they try to claw their way in.

"Go back!" Morgan yells in a hushed holler with his arms waving madly.

"Oh, fuck." Rick hears three more voices echoing his curse of the fates. Glancing back toward the main street, he sidesteps toward the wall until he's got Daryl and Erin in the shadow of the bricks. This is not good. Fuck! He quickly swallows his frustration to concentrate on a backup plan. The well-oiled wheels of his mind spin smooth and steady. "Okay, Glenn, first things first." He holds out his hand and Glenn pulls the Colt from his belt. When the cool steel of his gun - an old familiar friend - rests against his flesh, lining up along the creases of his palm between the callouses of his job, he feels a little bit more in control.

Merle rushes forward and Rick eases out from Daryl's hefty embrace to lay his thick arm over his brother's shoulders. A soft painful groan emanates from the younger Dixon in the process. "He's okay," Rick tells Merle gently as a look of fear, anger and a bright green splash of jealousy flickers across the man's face. Though Rick hears only a low grunt in response, the reply comes through loud and clear as Merle moves in to reclaim his brother from the sheriff.

Now free to lead the team, Rick turns to the other men. "T-Dog, take over for Erin. Glenn, get an eye on the street," he says as he unlocks the safety on the Colt. "Is there still just the one guard on the wall?" he asks as the Asian man peers around the corner of the building.

"Yeah."

Rick moves into place next to Glenn. "Alright, you got the silencer?"

"Yeah, but I don't think I can make the shot from here."

Judging the distance between their alley and the wall, Rick marks it as highly ambitious effort for a man with rudimentary skills. But not for a cop with over ten years of experience behind the trigger. "Here, give me that one."

They exchange weapons, bringing a much-relieved expression to Glenn's face. Rick lifts the Beretta to his eye, adjusts to the feel of the semiautomatic pistol, and lines up the sights until he is looking down its extended foot long muzzle with the black hair of the lone sentry in its bullseye, dead center. He inhales slowly, doing his best to ignore the sheer brutality of his actions as he reminds himself that it is either him or me. Him… or Erin. Simple decision, no question about it. He releases the breath as his finger pulls back on the trigger.

A cushioned pop and the man goes down as a silent apology is sent skyward.

Rick swallows the bile creeping up the back of his throat, shakes off the mantle of guilt at wasting a life, and hands the weapon back to Glenn. His friend gives him a pitying look full of regret and redemption that says I'm sorry you had to do that, cries Thank you for saving us, and screams How in the name of all that's holy did we end up here?!

With a quick glance to the right and ensuring that the chaos is continuing to thrive up the street, he turns back to the others. "If we stick close to the shadows we should make it to the gate." He looks at Daryl, his battered body balanced grievously on one leg between Merle and T-Dog. "We're gonna have to move quick. You up for it?"

Before Daryl can answer for himself, T-Dog lifts his chin in determination and firmly states, "We'll get him there."

Merle coughs and Rick knows that he is choking on the gratitude that he can't help but feel toward the black man who is fighting for his brother.

"Okay, Morgan, you'll lead. I'll cover the rear and we'll keep Daryl in the middle," Rick says. "Just keep close to the coffee house and then we'll make our way along the wall until we reach the gate." He follows Erin closely, keeping one eye on her back and the other eye on the Main Street of Woodbury. She is keeping a steady pace with Glenn, who is trailing the trio and moving as quickly as Daryl's human crutches can carry him, which is fairly swift for the most part. As they make the turn to run in the shadow of the barricade, Rick hears the scrape of metal resonate from the alley they had just vacated. A moment later the rasp of scuffing wood joins the metallic crunch of the fence.

The walkers have gotten through.

Stepping through the gate behind the rest of his group, he glances toward the gas station where he and Erin had waited for the sun to rise, and sees several more clusters of walkers descending on the town. By the time all the walkers reach the wide open entrance, it will be a good sized herd to finish the job that he and his friends had started.

He turns right, following Morgan's lead toward the cars they had left by the railroad tracks on Harper Road about a mile away. They race past a scattering of trash and debris from a not-so-ancient civilization, left to blow in the breeze outside of the high walls and tidy lanes of the newly condensed town. He turns the corner around the Bank of Woodbury, a two-story cream-colored structure with red bricks adding some color where they climb up the corners of the building. Lifting his chin to peer around Erin's shoulder in an attempt to gage Morgan's progress in the lead, he nearly steps on his lover when she suddenly drops in front of him.

Glenn turns around at the grunt and muttered curse and Rick tells him to keep moving. Bending down to Erin, he slips his gun in its holster and rests his hand on her knee. "Are you okay? Is it your leg?"

"It's okay," she replies. "I just tripped on something."

"Come here." He pulls her up and catches her favoring her wounded leg. "Can you walk? Tell me honestly?"

"Yes. It's sore but I can walk. Come on." She turns and takes two steps, limping on her right leg.

With his focus aimed at her calf as he watches her take a third step, he is completely taken aback when an arm suddenly darts out of an opened doorway and grabs onto Erin, roughly pulling her back inside the perilous trap that is Woodbury.