Twenty chapters - it feels like an epic milestone! Thank you to everyone, whether you're reviewing every chapter, hitting those Like and Favorite buttons, or just quietly reading along. It's been as much fun for me as it seems to be for all of you. And yet, there's still so much more story to tell...
Chapter 20: Red Sky at Morning, Part IV
The first coherent thought that entered Aaron's mind was that he was wet and he didn't know why. It was the only thing that stayed with him, though, so he ran with it. Okay, I'm wet. With my clothes on. He couldn't seem to shake himself past that, even to open his eyes. Why was he wet? It seemed bright beyond his eyelids – was he outside? Was it raining? Is that where the water came from? No, that didn't feel exactly right, either. Aaron wracked his brain, searching for something tangible to hold onto. What had he been doing? And why was he wet?
Hospital wing. You're Negan's prisoner at the Sanctuary. You do as you're told so that Negan will let you keep writing to your family. You work in the hospital wing, with Jeffrey and Beth and sometimes Savannah and sometimes others who get assigned to help out, and sometimes the older kids from the school who come in with their teachers. Kids… there was a kid, a boy. And a woman.
His memories were starting to rearrange themselves into some semblance of order. He'd been on the far side of the room, moving Mrs. Abbott behind a curtained partition to help her bathe and change after she'd had an accident in her bed. He had vaguely taken note of a woman entering the room and settling herself on a chair beside Father Donovan's bed near the door with her back to the rest of the room, but Aaron hadn't thought anything of it. People did that from time to time, visiting the old priest for counsel or confession. In either case, it was none of his business.
It wasn't until he heard the ear-piercing shriek from across the room that he popped his head around the curtain. A young boy was standing, uncertain, just inside the double doors and the woman, apparently his mother, shouting at him to leave, simultaneously snatching up the bag in her lap. Fingers scrabbling at the latch, she kept yelling, "Isaac, go, you have to go, right now, honey!" Aaron couldn't move from his spot – he was holding Mrs. Abbott upright as she carefully slid her feet into her slippers – but he could see that, whatever was in the bag, the woman was desperately fiddling with it and growing increasingly frustrated.
Finally, she stood, the bag falling to the floor as she called out one last desperate plea, "Isaac, run!" before she turned and started towards the back of the room, arms clutching her prize to her chest.
It happened too fast and too slow, all at once. Aaron's mind could only process it in snapshots: the woman's panicked, tear-streaked face, the odd contraption in her arms, the comprehension of what it was, the realization that he was trapped with her and the bomb between him and the only exit, and then it was oddly quiet, as if all sound had been sucked from the world.
His mind conjured up a flash of an image of the woman on the ground, curling herself around the device, but he wasn't sure if it was real or not.
He did remember the brilliant light as he pushed off with his feet towards an empty bed behind him, the absent thought that, if he got there in time, he might be able to pull the mattress down between himself and the worst of the blast. But his grip was still tight around the old woman he'd been tending to, and her weight dragged him back, making him fall short of his goal, with both of them slamming into the side of the bedrail.
And then he was falling, but impossibly farther than the floor. After that, nothing.
His thoughts felt stable enough to try opening his eyes again, this time with success, albeit the sight in front of him was more confusing than helpful.
Shower tiles?
He knew the room well enough – he was in the large community shower room on the lower level, the same place he'd been taken when he first arrived. And water, both cold and heated, was spraying out from a couple of busted pipes near the ceiling as well as the gaping hole where a showerhead had once been on the wall behind him. Oh. That's why I'm wet. But why am I here?
There was also the odd sensation of seeing the water spewing from the pipes, but not hearing it. Try as he might, all Aaron could perceive was a high-pitched constant ringing. He hoped it wasn't permanent.
That's when he realized that the ceiling wasn't where it was supposed to be, or, rather, that there were two of them: the ceiling to this room, which now had a massive hole exposing the room above, where, Aaron presumed, the elderly room of the hospital wing used to be. Somehow, the blast had punched through the floor, which explained why he'd kept falling when he dove for the bed.
Mrs. Abbott. If Aaron had fallen, she must have, too. He cast his gaze around him, finally taking in the scope of the chaos. Being the middle of the day, thankfully, no one seemed to have been down here showering. The elderly room was perhaps half the size of the community shower, and it appeared that nearly all of that upper room was now down here, with chunks of flooring, furniture, and, now that his vision was fully cleared, people, all haphazardly strewn around the room.
Gotta get up, Aaron, got to help them, some of them might still be alive. One, he was fairly certain, was not. He'd been lucky, falling almost straight down to the center aisle between the longer sides of the room. But Mrs. Abbott had not, her body bent impossibly backwards over the tile-encased concrete dividing wall between two of the shower stalls.
You have to check her, he told himself. If she's alive, maybe someone could… but more likely, she wasn't, and she'd need to be put down before she turned.
That's when he felt it. Pain suddenly flared through his entire body, sharp and intense enough to steal his breath away for several seconds. As the sensation receded, Aaron took stock of himself. There was a gash somewhere on the side of his head, blood flowing steadily past his left cheek and ear to soak the shoulder of his torn baby-blue scrubs. And the back of his head, too, had a smaller cut. He testily felt for the edges with his fingers, hissing as he made contact with open flesh – some sort of debris was still wedged in there, and he knew better than to pull it out. Smaller cuts littered his arms, and his left elbow was pulsing pain along the ill-named funny bone, but there was no bleeding there, and his hands were mercifully intact. His side had the makings of a spectacular bruise forming where he'd slammed into the bed railing and his back felt sore, with particular focus on his hips and butt, which seemed to have taken the brunt of his weight when he fell. Lucky me, he thought, saved by my ass. His legs seemed remarkably unscathed, until he saw his right ankle. Somehow, he'd lost his shoe. But at the rate his ankle was swelling, he doubted he'd be able to get the sneaker back on. Alright, that's a problem.
"…ron, Aaron!" the voice sounded distant, but Aaron wisely figured it was a by-product of his damaged hearing from the blast and started searching for the source.
Daryl.
In the several weeks since being taken, they hadn't seen each other more than in passing, but here he was, calling out through a shattered rectangular window set above the showerheads on the opposite wall. Had the blast done that? Aaron didn't see any other windows broken. "Hey!" He called back in what he hoped wasn't too loud or awkward a response, "Could use a little help down here."
Daryl nodded and used something in his fist to knock away the worst of the remaining shards before sliding through to balance awkwardly on the shower stall divider before finally hoisting himself down, his dirty sneakers slipping a bit on the wet tiles.
"Ya alright?" Deft hands checked him over, eyes intently searching.
Aaron nodded, "I'll live. Ears are ringing, can't hear all that well. And I'm going to need your help walking out of here. Not sure I can get up to that window. What was wrong with coming through the door? And what happened to you?" For all his own injuries, Aaron hadn't missed the dried blood and rising swelling on his friend's face and had enough sense to know they weren't from the blast.
Daryl ignored the personal inquiry and instead pointed up to the hole in the ceiling, "Floor's blown to hell, Beth and I near fell through, cracks are spreadin' still. Weren't sure it wouldn't come down even more. Window was the next best bet. How many folks were in there with ya?"
Aaron did a quick mental count, "Eight patients, me, Jeffrey, a woman and her kid. But you're not going to find her. She, um," Aaron struggled for words, "she brought whatever it was with her, freaked out when her son came in the room, looking for her, I guess. She tried to stop it and when she couldn't, she used herself as a shield as best she could." Aaron wasn't sure the last bit was true but didn't see the harm in giving her a bit of dignity. "Where's Beth?"
"Gettin' supplies from the infirmary, gonna set up outside to take care of anyone we find alive down here. The kid," Daryl was suddenly focused, "Did he…"
"I don't know," Aaron confessed, "He was right by the door, but I didn't see…" he trailed off.
"He wasn't pushed out into the hall," Daryl was on his feet, quickly striding to the edge of the hole, jumping back slightly as another sizable chunk of plaster and concrete suddenly came loose and fell just to the side of him, then glancing around him on either side before staring up. "Most of the room's floor caved in, but he could be in a corner, along the edge maybe. Hey kid," he called out with greater volume (and Aaron was silently relieved that he could tell the difference, his ears not fully clearing but other sounds beginning to penetrate the ever-present ringing). "Isaac!"
Aaron couldn't hear whatever sound the boy made, but Daryl clearly did, his head sharply whipping to the left and homing in on haphazard pile of overturned beds and medical equipment. He pawed carefully through the mess until he'd shifted enough aside to see the boy, huddled and whimpering on the tile floor.
Daryl wasn't the coddling type, "Kid, I know this sucks and you're scared, but if you feel like you can move, we need to get ya out of there." Somehow, his straightforward approach seemed to work with the boy the same way it did most kids. Perhaps, Aaron occasionally mused whenever he saw his own son hanging around Daryl in the garage, it was precisely because Daryl was so blunt. There was no sugar-coating or artifice with him, just a simple honesty and a kind of equal treatment that most adults didn't use with smaller children. Whatever the reason, the boy, dusty with blast debris and trembling, still slowly pulled himself upright and accepted Daryl's steadying hand as he navigated the rubble-strewn floor.
Aaron watched as Daryl tried, and failed, to touch the boy's other arm, which was bent in the wrong place and at an impossibly wrong angle. "Well, if it weren't broke before, it definitely is now," he observed wryly. "Anythin' else hurtin' that's new?"
"Kinda all over."
Daryl nodded, "Fair 'nough." He started to say more, but abruptly cut himself off and turned towards the doorway, giving Aaron his first good view of the knife Daryl carried in his hand, low but clearly at the ready. Between that and the fresh bruising and cuts on Daryl's face, Aaron was more confused than ever. What the hell have I missed today?
The sound Aaron hadn't heard, but Daryl obviously had, was from the McManus twins, emerging cautiously from the hallway, Murphy brushing plaster dust from his hair.
"Negan's getting the last of the people out of the building and is planning to send in a construction crew to see what can be done about shoring up the floor, making everything safe, but it could be a bit," Connor relayed. "Fucking pieces breaking loose as far back as the stairwell. How'd you get down here so fast?"
"Window," Daryl returned, tipping his head back to gesture to the opening.
"Hey," Conner called out to Aaron, "You look like hammered shite!"
Aaron grinned, "That's regular shit to you. Give us a hand, will you? Some of these folks might still be alive, but others… we don't want to leave them too long."
Connor's eyes drifted to where Aaron knew Mrs. Abbott's body still draped over the concrete divider, a grotesque, broken rag doll that Aaron knew he'd be seeing again in his dreams that night.
Connor quickly maneuvered down the length of the room to the old woman, checked for a pulse, and then sliding a dagger efficiently into her ear to leave as small a mark as possible. Aaron nodded in appreciation.
"Well, until we're sure the floor won't cave in on us, might be best to figure a way of hoisting you and the lad here up through that window," Connor mused.
"Not the boy," Daryl gruffly stated, nudging him into an empty and relatively dry stall. "Folks're gonna be lookin' for him. He stays here until he goes straight to Negan."
Connor considered for a moment before nodding, again leaving Aaron thoroughly confused.
"No!" Murphy's grief-filled shout reverberated through the room, startling them all. From where he still sat/laid on the floor, Aaron couldn't see who Murphy was kneeling beside, but he could guess. Both brothers were at the priest's bedside at least twice a day. Connor rushed to his brother and began helping him shift debris, but Aaron could tell from Daryl's deep frown that whatever they were uncovering wasn't good. Knowing he probably didn't want to see this, and absolutely certain that this boy, whoever he was, shouldn't be seeing any of the carnage around him, Aaron still found himself shifting until he was fully sitting upright and using a divider wall as leverage until Daryl noticed and helped him to stand awkwardly on his good leg. He gestured with the best smile he could manage in his pained state for the child to come closer, and Aaron busied himself with nonsense comments to keep the kid from looking back.
Father Donovan had fallen on his hospital bed, which had bent and broken in the collapse, with metal struts now impaling the old man through the chest, gut, and leg. Both brothers knelt on either side of the priest's head, tears running freely down both their faces as they muttered what Aaron could only assume was the prayer for last rites. When they finished, they moved as one, both gently placing a steadying hand on Donovan's head, the other sliding twin blades into his ears to keep him from turning.
"Whoever's behind this," Murphy vowed darkly, "They're gonna fucking pay."
"Aye," Connor agreed, equally solemn. "But first, let's see to the living."
They rose as one, with Connor directing, "Check that side, see what you can find. Daryl, what do you think? If we put one of the bed-boards across those dividers," he pointed to the stall underneath the open window, "We could lift anyone else we find up there, and then pull ourselves up so we can lift them the rest of the way out?"
"Yeah, should hold."
"You sure we can't make it to the stairwell?" Aaron asked. I know it's the long way, but trying to lift unconscious or injured people up that high…"
Daryl was shaking his head before Aaron could finish his thought, "Know how you 'n' Eric 'n' Luke'll build houses of cards on rainy days? Real buildin' ain't so different – floors and walls lean on each other, 's what keeps the whole thing upright. Hole in the floor's got the walls leaning in too much, putting too much weight on what's left of the floorin'. Cracks're only gonna keep spreadin', pieces breakin' off til there ain't enough left for the wall to lean on. Ain't none of us want to be here when that happens." He grimly declared.
"You in construction before?" Connor inquired curiously. Aaron was interested as well, Daryl rarely opened up about his past, even with him.
Daryl nodded, "If my brother weren't around, I'd hook up with whatever local foreman was hirin', subdivisions and the like were always goin' up back then. Or a garage, if housin' was slow. Ain't gone to school or nothin' for it, but I's alright." Anyone who didn't know him well wouldn't have picked up on the slight gleam in Daryl's eyes when he talked about his past work, but Aaron was fluent enough in Daryl-speak to know that 'alright' meant that Daryl had gotten pretty good at both construction and auto mechanics, and, what's more, had enjoyed it.
"Here," Murphy called from the far end of the room, "she's still with us," he gestured to a crumpled figure on the floor beside him.
One by one, Daryl and the brothers found the other occupants of the elderly ward while Aaron entertained his young charge with silly questions and games of tic-tac-toe by mixing the plaster dust and water into a muddy paste on the shower tiles. Miraculously, most were still alive, with those in the farthest corners of the room suffering fairly minor injuries, like Aaron. Others, though, Aaron could see would need extensive care and even then might not survive. He was particularly concerned about the male nurse, Jeffrey. While there hadn't been much in the way of flammable material in the room, the blast had generated a brief but powerful heat wave that Jeffrey had taken nearly head-on – the entire left side of his body was shiny with burnt skin and flesh, and he shivered so badly with pain and shock that it took all three men to carry him to the space near the open window.
Part of the difficulty might also have been due to Daryl, who was clearly nursing more injuries concealed under the yellowing sweatshirt and pants he was forced to wear. Aaron kept glancing his way while keeping Isaac occupied. Each trip carrying a survivor to their side of the room resulted in Daryl moving with just a bit more care, his breathing too controlled to be natural exertion. Aaron didn't know what had been done to him or why, but he was deeply concerned that his friend was hurt more badly than he himself was. By the time they found the last person, there was a fine tremor running through Daryl's hands. But when he caught Aaron watching him, Daryl quickly clenched his fists and gave a slight shake of his head to warn off any questions.
He wanted to suggest again moving the injured out by way of the nearby stairs, using one of the less-damaged hospital beds, which all had wheels, to make the work easier on his friend. The ceiling, of what was left of it, seemed to be holding for now, with several minutes gone by since the last piece fell. That you know of. Cracks could be spreading deeper throughout the Sanctuary. Either by accident or design (and Aaron knew he was definitely in the dark about a lot of things where this whole turn of events was concerned), the bomb that didn't pack much fire or shrapnel seemed to have been just powerful enough to send a shock wave with potential to bring down the entire factory.
Maybe that's what someone wanted, Aaron mused as he watched Murphy, Connor, and Daryl carefully wrap Jeffrey in a bedsheet to keep his limbs from dangling as they lifted him over their heads and placed him on the bedframe they'd balanced on the shower divider walls. If the Sanctuary falls, where do all these people go? Aaron hadn't seen the inside of the schoolhouse, but he knew the building wasn't nearly large enough to house everyone even just for sleeping. And while Aaron knew there were plenty of other communities in Negan's sphere of influence, the most obvious solution was Alexandria. Nearly 35 homes, including the connecting townhouses, and many of them already standing empty, he'd be a fool not to use it. But Aaron could also picture already the complications that would arise, the inevitable tension from being cramped in such close quarters with their enemies. And with his family and friends all essentially unarmed and defenseless.
Daryl was pulling himself up before either brother could protest and put out a restraining hand when Connor tried to follow, "These ain't built to hold a lot of weight." And so they all watched from below as Daryl cautiously maneuvered himself into a position where he could both turn and ease Jeffrey out the open window space. Watch as outstretched hands from bystanders who had, without any of them realizing, gathered outside and now reached in to help with the rescue effort. Watched Daryl motion for whoever it was to pause as Daryl frowned, gingerly felt around the window frame, and then yanked his sweatshirt over his head in a decisive move, using the grungy material to line the bottom of the frame and protect the injured from being dragged whatever remnants of glass remained. And whatever scenarios Aaron had been considering were wiped from his mind at the sight of Daryl's torso. He wasn't sure which was worse: the fresh marks overlapping each other, some well-defined boot impressions, clear evidence that Daryl's experience in as the Saviors' prisoner was a far cry from Aaron's relatively comfortable existence, or the scars that clearly testified to a life of previous abuse. Not that Aaron hadn't already guessed as much. Most people who knew Daryl were well aware of his aversion to even the gentlest touch, his unwillingness to open up emotionally, and had inferred an unpleasant childhood to varying degrees. But suspicions were one thing and confirmation quite another, and Aaron felt his heart breaking a bit for his friend and the frightened boy he must have been.
The thought served to remind Aaron of the terrified boy he currently had next to him, who had in all likelihood just witnessed his mother's death, and who was scared and hurt and more than a bit traumatized. So Aaron forced himself to turn his attention to the child he could help in the present, keeping the occasional sideways glance on the progress being made as Daryl, Connor, and Murphy worked in tandem to get the survivors out.
By the third one they had a system going, with Daryl staying perched on the divider walls while the brothers wrapped each person in whatever bedsheets they could find. Someone outside had passed Daryl a length of rope, which was looped carefully around the waist of the person they were lifting. With Daryl pulling gently from above and one brother on each end, they were able to keep the victims fairly level as they were hoisted up to the makeshift platform. Then Daryl would work with whoever was outside the window to ease the injured person out to what Aaron hoped was Beth, Dr. Carson, and whoever else worked in the other part of the hospital wing.
It was Aaron's turn. Everyone else except the boy had been pulled from the rubble, even the dead. He gave a quick grin to the child, "I'll be waiting for you right up top."
It was more than a bit awkward, being hoisted up five feet in the air to the makeshift platform. But once he was there, Aaron was hesitant to go through the window. Less than a foot between them, there was nowhere for Daryl to hide how badly his muscles were trembling with exertion, his features both pulled tight and sunken in from weight loss and constant stress, the deepening shades of red marks that would soon darken to purpled bruises. He didn't know if this was the first time or the latest in a continued state of mistreatment. To Aaron, it didn't matter. He'd hoped that Beth, with her connections and general presence, would have been able to shield Daryl somewhat, but there was no denying what was in front of him. Daryl was being starved, beaten, and worked beyond his limits. He wanted to say something, he wasn't sure what exactly.
"Daryl – "
"Let's go," a hand stretched towards him from the same direction as the voice. When Aaron looked, he was surprised to see that the person who'd been helping pull the injured and dead through the busted window was Negan himself.
With no excuses to linger, Aaron reluctantly turned to take the offered hand and began carefully shifting himself on the platform so he could maneuver safely through the tight opening to the outside.
"Watch your back," Daryl muttered at a near-whisper. He might have merely meant to avoid the few remaining glass shards in the window frame, but Aaron sensed the warning was intended to be for a different and more pressing danger. With Negan just inches away, all Aaron could do was nod in return.
The sun's glare seemed harsher than it should, and Aaron squinted against the brilliant light as he let himself be pulled a few feet to the side of the opening. As his vision adjusted, he realized that the Sanctuary's entire population was outside, gathered in tight clusters and most seemingly at a loss of what to do other than stare at the rescue operation taking place.
The boy, Isaac, was next to emerge. Still sitting on the gravel near the ground-level window, Aaron heard Daryl's raspy voice, "Keep him close."
Negan's acknowledging hum was just as quiet as he eased the child through the hole and out into the open air, deftly sliding him along the wall until he was between himself and Aaron.
The exchange between Daryl and Negan was all of five seconds but clearly belied an understanding, even a connection, between the two men that was completely incongruous with Daryl's physical condition. Seriously, what the hell is going on? Aaron's interest was piqued.
The twins easily made their way out of the shower room and placed themselves on either side of Negan, spaced far enough away to appear casual but noticeably close enough to stand guard.
Daryl was last. And like the moment of the explosion, it seemed to happen too fast and too slow. Slow enough that he could see exactly what was about to happen. Fast enough that Aaron couldn't pull himself together and cross the few feet of distance between himself and his friend. Daryl's sneaker slipped in the gravel as he was hauling himself through the broken window. Normally, he would have righted his stance with no one the wiser, but he had pushed his body beyond its capabilities. So Daryl went down with a grunt on the jagged rocks and pavement, his weight falling heavily on his knees and forearms, head bowed as fatigue shuddered through his exhausted muscles. That Aaron could clearly see, and from the gasps and whispers around them, everyone in the Sanctuary could see, too, because Daryl's sweatshirt was still draped over the window frame, putting the private man's childhood scars on full display.
Aaron felt as if all his reflexes were locked on a time-delay today. His brain told him to get up, lay either the ragged sweatshirt or perhaps his own bloody scrubs over his friend. Not that it would undo the damage – Aaron knew from the slight shift in Daryl's frame that he, too, had realized his predicament, and what little of him hadn't already been discolored from his previous injuries was now flushed red with embarrassment. But by the time Aaron had gotten his muscles to cooperate with him, someone else was draping a familiar black leather jacket over Daryl's back and shoulders. Negan.