A/N: 3 chapters might have been a conservative estimate. Thank you for all of the kind feedback. I appreciate it. Please stay safe out there, and isolate as much as you can.
Enjoy!
"Darling, I don't know where you are, but I need you to get inside, right now, you hear me? Don't wait. Go straight home, lock yourself in. I'll explain, but I need you to call me back. Ok, Chonne? Call me back when you're safe inside."
Michonne hurried down the halls, heels clicking on the marble floors beneath her. The Capitol was abuzz, with assistants running to and fro, ducking out of the offices of senators and representatives alike. Michonne dodged them, rushing on shaky legs.
"Andrea!" she exclaimed, reaching to grab her coworker around the wrist.
The blonde spun, sighing in relief, pushing her hair hastily back into its sloppy updo. "Thank God," she pulled Michonne aside, looking around. "Do you have any idea what's going on? The memo was so vague. I keep seeing bits of the news. Reporters are calling non stop...It's a nightmare."
"I need you to listen to this," Michonne yanked the headphones from her ears, handing one to Andrea.
"Michonne, what-"
"Just listen," she instructed firmly, thumbing at the screen of her phone to rewind the message.
Andrea's eyes widened as Rick's voice repeated the frantic instruction. When the screaming began, she slapped a pale hand over her mouth in horror.
"Michonne," she began sharply. "Who is this? Who sent you this?"
Michonne looked around, ushering them forward again. "He's my…" she shook her head, focusing on what was important. "He's a sheriff in Atlanta."
"This is happening in Atlanta?" Andrea huffed. "They're keeping something from us."
"They always are," Michonne nodded. "We need to leave." She tucked her phone back into the pocket of her blazer, adjusting her pencil skirt back down her legs.
"What?" Andrea scoffed. "There's so much work that needs to happen-"
"Nothing we can't do from home," Michonne turned into their shared office, scrambling to unplug her laptop. She shoved it and the charger into her bag, hefting it onto her shoulder.
"You could lose your job over this," Andrea warned. "You know the waitlist of applicants-"
"People are dying, Andrea," Michonne hissed. "Rick isn't the kind of person who would leave a message like that for shits and giggles. Now I can't get a hold of him. What do you think is going on out there?"
The possibilities had haunted her all day, even before the message. All she knew was there was something happening, some plague or disease, and people were dying by the hundreds. Fear ate away like acid in the base of her stomach.
"I don't know," doubt flickered over Andrea's face. "But we'd be safest here, right? They're not going to let all of Congress get annihilated."
Michonne was on her way for the door already, fishing the keys out of her purse. "Let's not stick around to find out," she said.
Andrea hesitated. "Michonne, I can't leave."
"You can," Michonne protested. "The door is right there." No one would stop them, not in this chaos. She would get home, lock the door, call Rick. He would be ok, he had to be.
"I've waited years for this job," Andrea swallowed. "I think...I'll stay. I'll text you updates."
Michonne nodded, still walking. "Be safe," she offered as parting words. She liked Andrea enough to try to talk sense to her, but Rick was another matter entirely.
"You too," Andrea said.
Michonne shut the door behind her, hurrying out of the offices and into the parking lot. Her SUV seemed miles away, but she made it, fearfully starting the engine. She steered the vehicle, aiming for her home across the bridge in Arlington.
Heart pounding at the empty streets and abandoned monuments, Michonne reached for her phone again, calling Rick's number. It rang, echoing in the confined space before automating to a generic message parroting Rick's phone number.
"Rick," she swallowed, trying to calm herself. "I got your message. I...I'm headed home. It's quiet here, but something is going on. Please call me back. Who was screaming? Was it-" Michonne sniffled. "I love you too. Please be safe. Don't be a hero, ok? Get somewhere secure. We can meet-"
Behind her car, a siren sounded. Michonne cursed, hanging up, dropping the phone onto the passenger seat. She hastily threw her purse over it before centering her hands on the steering wheel, feeling nauseous.
"Ma'am," the cop rapped on her window.
Michonne rolled it down slowly. "Officer," she began.
"You got any idea what's going on?" he asked her, leaning in. He braced one thick, swarthy arm on the roof of her car, taking her in over his sunglasses.
"No," she answered. "I got a call from a family member and-"
"You need to get home," he interrupted her. "They put out an alert. No one but essential personnel."
"Ok," she nodded, eager to do just that. "I'm going straight home. I-"
The sentence died in her throat when she noticed a sudden crowd growing off in the distance. For one absurd moment, she wondered whether a marathon was in progress. There seemed to be hundreds, some dressed in suits for work, some like tourists, all ambling forward.
The cop turned, sensing her gaze. "Oh, what the hell?" he cursed.
"Oh fuck," Michonne breathed out at the same time, realization settling in.
Dead. The whole lot of them looked dead, a bloodied, filthy mess. Some were missing parts, some had crimson running down their limbs, some looked as though they'd been eating raw meat with their bare hands. Michonne's pulse jumped at once. She looked at the officer.
"You need to run!" she yelled, considering taking him with her.
"Get out of here!" he seemed to reach the same conclusion, smacking her car to wave her away. He sprinted to his own vehicle, reaching in for the radio as he opened the door.
They hit in a wave, faster than she could have ever anticipated. From the crowd, there came a kind of melancholy hum, a chorus of mindless moans. It chilled her to her core.
"Watch out!" she screamed, hand on the door. She flung it open, fumbling with her seatbelt.
The cop did not respond. Instead he opened fire, shooting wildly into the fray. A few fell, but most kept coming. Michonne finally untangled herself, hurtling out of the SUV to help. Before her, the police officer began to scream as the first of the hoard reached him, sinking their teeth in like something possessed. The blood sprayed, staining her skirt.
Michonne yelped in surprise when something grabbed her from behind.
"You can't help him!" an unfamiliar voice yelled. "You have to run."
She turned, nearly teetering off her heels. Unceremoniously, Michonne kicked herself free from the shoes, taking in the man pulling her backwards.
"Who-" she began.
He shook his head. "No time!" he yelled. His eyes were on the crowd, still moving towards them.
Michonne took his advice, bolting, the stranger at her side. She opened the car door again, climbing in, unlocking the backdoor by instinct. Her accomplice dove in head first, dragging the door shut with a loud bang.
The dead hit the side of the car like a fist, gnawing at them. Michonne rolled the window up, trying to keep her calm as she threw the car in gear.
"What are they?" she demanded of her passenger.
"No idea," he gasped, crouching down in the seats, bracing himself while Michonne hit the gas pedal. It was gritty beneath her bare foot.
"Are they alive?" she asked again, gaining speed.
One collided with the front of her car, half of its body exploding in a gruesome shower. He kept going, limping along without an arm and half a ribcage, still biting.
"Do they look alive?" the man in the back challenged, eyes wide.
Michonne swung the wheel, plowing straight through the middle. Her windshield ran red. The car lurched over the bodies, squelching and crunching as it went.
"Oh God," Michonne lamented, flooring the gas.
It wasn't until the crowd was long gone in the distance that she chanced a glance at the man in the backseat. His appearance startled her. Even in the heat, he wore a forest green beanie that had seen better days. It was pulled snug over his long dark hair. Most of his face was obscured by a thick chestnut colored beard, but his eyes, bright and intelligent, peered out at her.
"Thanks for saving me," he spoke before she had a chance to ask the obvious, extending a hand into the front seat. "I'm Jesus."
Michonne shook her head, refusing to take it. "Jesus," she snorted, nearly hysterical. "I guess if dead people are walking around, why not Jesus?" she jabbed at her car, spraying wiper fluid across the windshield. It streaked, mixing with the gore. She let out a curse.
"Real name's Paul," the man in the backseat continued. "And you're…"
"Michonne," she glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
"Pretty name," he nodded. He paused, watching the windshield wipers struggle to clear a view. "I get if you're uncomfortable with me here. You can let me out."
The suggestion hung in the air for a moment before Michonne dismissed it.
"I don't want to be alone right now," she admitted, hands trembling. "And if you die…"
Jesus smiled, his whole face brightening. "I appreciate that."
"Well, you might be the real Jesus," the joke escaped her lips on a shaky laugh. "And I think I could use you. Besides, you saved me first."
His smile widened. "Where you coming from, Michonne?"
"The Capitol," she said, steering onto the roads.
"Don't take that way," Jesus piped up. "It's bumper to bumper."
"How else do you get across the bridge?" she asked.
"Go the long way," he rattled off instructions in a calm voice, watching her. "Are you new here?" he asked.
"Is it obvious?" Michonne huffed, eyes on the street. Every movement in the distance seemed to herald their doom.
Jesus shrugged. "I grew up here, so I guess it is to me. Where are you from?"
"Atlanta," the word stung.
"You have people there?" Jesus' tone softened.
"Just one," she sighed. "Can you call him for me?" She reached for the phone, tossing it into the backseat.
"Rick?" Jesus obediently picked the phone up, holding it to his ear. In a few seconds he shook his head. "Voicemail."
Michonne blinked back tears. "Thanks," she muttered, trying to stay focused.
"He's probably just busy," Jesus tried. "I'm sure he'll call back."
"He called already," Michonne reported. "Told me to get somewhere safe."
"Smart man," Jesus mused.
"He is," Michonne swallowed the knot in her throat.
More of the dead meandered out on the streets, but they whipped past them, heading into Virginia and Michonne's home. She steered into her garage, only leaving the car when it was shut behind her and her house alarm was armed.
"Nice place," Jesus observed, climbing out after her. "You sure you want me to stick around?"
"Come on in," Michonne opened her door. The thought of being alone was terrifying. "And it is nice. Haven't gotten much of a chance to decorate though."
The walls were mostly bare, and boxes were still stacked unceremoniously against them. Michonne navigated around, gesturing for Jesus to sit on the couch.
"What do you do? For work, I mean," she clarified, rushing for the kitchen. She filled two tall glasses with water.
Jesus chuckled. "I'm not homeless," he said knowingly. "But I do work with people without homes. I was trying to get people off the street, get them safe. Then that...herd," he searched for a word to describe it. "I was trying to outrun them when I bumped into you."
Michonne nodded, sitting beside him. "Do you think people are going to be safe in the city?" she asked.
Jesus looked down at his hands, picking at his short, neat nails. "I hope so," he sucked at his teeth.
Michonne reached for the remote, flicking on the tv. A silence spread between her guest and herself as channel after channel went by. The carnage was unbelievable. DC, NY, LA…
"Atlanta," Michonne gasped. She dropped the remote from her hand as images of her old home filled the screen. Atlanta was a warzone, a smoldering remnant of what she'd left behind.
Jesus offered soothing words, but they fell on deaf ears. Michonne called Rick's number again. As it went to voicemail, the tears broke free. She collapsed into the cushions, shaking as Atlanta burned on screen.
"He might be ok," Jesus said, patting her on the knee.
Michonne only sobbed, covering her face, her heart broken entirely.
-l-l-l-l-
Rick ran, lungs burning, muscles screaming. The world around him was on fire, a cacophony of sound. The sirens had stopped long ago, as had the familiar buzz of his radio. He dropped it, same as his phone in the chaos. The crowds around him still surged like a hive of bees. He hadn't seen anything living in hours.
Rick paused, darting into an alleyway to catch his breath. His uniform was stained in blood, though he could not discern who it belonged to. There was a ringing in his ears, threatening to drive him to his knees. He braced himself against the wall, shaking. His stomach gave a violent lurch and Rick doubled over, vomiting. The act hurt, throwing into sharp relief the acute pain rushing through his veins. He took a moment to inspect himself, noting the gash running through his pants and into his leg. He poked gingerly at it, wincing. His leg was going stiff and cold, throbbing. Rick's fingers wandered, closing in on the jagged piece of glass that had lodged itself there. He wiggled it experimentally, then yanked it free.
He swallowed his scream, ripping at his uniform to make a bandage, tying it around his thigh outside of his pants. He sat up with effort, looking around. Everywhere there was horror and destruction, mutilated corpses climbing to their feet. He'd run out of ammo shortly after the hospital. It had been a stampede of panic, of people falling and flailing, shoving and scratching. They had been slaughtered by the dozen, either under foot or at the hands of the dead. Rick wondered if he would ever stop hearing the screams.
A rattling moan brought his attention to the end of the road. A group of walkers were swarming, heading for him. Rick attempted to move, but his body simply wouldn't cooperate. Dizzily, he staggered, falling to the ground. He hit the asphalt in an undignified pile, closing his eyes. He could hear them, getting ever closer.
He wondered if he might die before they reached him, if this was the end of the line. The idea didn't scare him the way that it should. It might be nice to have a reprieve from the pain. There might be something beyond, something pleasant. Michonne certainly believed so.
Michonne. Her image filled his mind. A memory of their first meeting came back with it, as clear as it had been in the moment it happened.
"Can I help you with something?"
Her voice snapped Rick out of a momentary trance. His skin ran bright red at once as he realized she'd caught him staring.
"Sorry," he stammered, face heated. He hadn't meant to gawk at the defense attorney in the form-fitting dress. He hadn't seen her around the courthouse before. He would have remembered her umber skin, her long curled locs, the way her hips moved as she strutted around in those heels.
"Aren't you a sheriff?" she asked, looking more amused than anything else. "I think I've seen you before. In uniform though," she clarified.
"You have?" The thought shocked him.
"You were chewing someone out," she smirked. "You got pretty heated."
Rick recalled exactly what she'd been talking about. One of his squad had been making a complete ass of themselves in court, sassing the judge. Rick had pulled him outside and laid into him.
"You were there for that?" his face burned brighter still.
She smiled. "I'm not surprised you didn't see me." The woman shrugged. "A little disappointed though."
"Why's that?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.
"You're pretty handsome all fired up, Sheriff…"
"Rick," he extended a hand, grinning right back at her.
"Rick," she repeated, rolling the syllable around in her mouth.
Rick found his eyes drawn to her lips. He wet his own. "You're..." he prompted.
"Michonne," she slid her hand smoothly against his, holding tightly for a moment.
"Michonne," he liked the sound of it. "I promise I'm not always angry," he told her.
"I hope not," she dropped her hand to her side, dark eyes sparkling.
"I can prove it to you," he said, filled with reckless courage. "Can I take you for a drink?"
"As long as there's food," she accepted. "I'm starving."
"Dinner then," Rick amended, tilting his head at her.
Her smile widened. Michonne bent to pick up her work bag, stepping to his side. "Do you want to drive, or should I?" she asked.
Rick rattled the keys in his pocket, hardly believing his luck. "If you don't mind riding shotgun, I'll drive. Then you can still have your drink." He reached for her bag, slinging the heavy pack over his shoulder.
"Well aren't you chivalrous," Michonne laughed.
"Comes with the job. Protect and serve." He liked her laugh immensely.
Michonne looked him up and down, smiling to herself. "I hope so," she said.
Rick's eyes snapped open. He braced himself, palms pressed in the damp asphalt beneath him. It was raining now, fat droplets pelting down from the sky. Rick realized with a start that the dead were just feet away. He pushed up, gaining his footing, and ran again.
The fifth car he tried was unlocked. Rick dove inside, snapping the door shut. He hunkered down, watching as the rain fell and the dead scratched at the metal sides.
Michonne. The thought of her would not leave him. Had she gotten inside? Was DC under siege as well?
He grappled for the keys, twisting them round in the ignition. The cheap metal keychain banged against his bruised knuckles. Rick scarcely felt it, focusing on the faint beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. The engine roared to life, and Rick let out a relieved sigh, gripping the wheel with bloodied hands. Navigating the streets was tantamount to picking his way through a minefield. Still, he persisted.
The nearest police station was surrounded, teeming with the dead. Rick took a deep breath, calculating. He took the distance from the car to the door at a flat sprint, prying it open and yanking it closed behind him. Dozens more were inside. They zeroed in on him at once.
Rick dodged, diving for a radio on the counter. It was warm in his hand as he went, huffing, his feet sliding on the slick tile. He managed to reach a storage closet, kicking a hole into the face of a pursuer. The dead fell backwards, allowing Rick to draw his bloodied foot in, shutting himself into the darkness. Outside, the dead wailed and moaned, clawing as they gathered.
Rick shut his eyes, cursing himself. Panting, he thumbed at the radio, listening as it hummed to life.
"This is Sergeant Rick Grimes," he spoke, desperate. "Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me?"
Silence was his answer.
"This is Sergeant Rick Grimes," he tried again. "Is anyone out there?"
There was a crackle, and then, "There's plenty of us out here, cowboy. But no one dumb enough to pull what you pulled."
Rick's heart hammered. "Who are you?" he asked, clutching the radio.
"Plenty of time to answer that," the voice told him, exasperated. "But first what do you say we get you outta there?"
"Yeah," Rick gasped, watching the door in front of him shake. "Let's do that."