Sending Saviors to Hell: Part Two

Michonne shivered trying to steel her nerves and quiet her mind while she waited for Daryl and Hugh to get in position. When Andre was killed, the pain was compounded by the helplessness she felt. She wasn't there to help him and by the time she got to him again, the finality of it all nearly choked her blind.

This night, however, had not yet reached its finale.

There were so many variables to consider, she could not keep still. This time she was right beside the new love of her life to help him. Her father had prepared her for a lot. But when she shot up a den of helpless bear cubs, she felt the crushing weight of extinguishing life.

Even though she'd promised Daryl that his brother wouldn't be spared, she was thinking about that feeling. How it was something she always said she never wanted to feel again. But maybe she wouldn't have to.

Maybe Merle would say or do something worthy of compassion. Maybe all the Saviors of the Confederate would cower if she caught them unawares and fired a shot in the air. Maybe the sight of KC deputies would make Negan understand that his time was up.

Her mother was going to pull through. Maybe that was just the first miracle of the night. She knew Rick was not a churchgoer, but he was a praying man. The opposite of her father, who went to church with her mother but believed in nothing and no one except himself.

Maybe God is listening to Rick Grimes, she thought as she watched him load a sawed-off shotgun from her father's bag with slugs. After all, despite her keeping her meeting with Merle a secret, he had found her… alive. Maybe that was the second miracle of the night. She would be watching for a third.

Still, this indigestible feeling in the pit of her stomach was too complex to name. She had only felt it one other time in her life. Thinking about it now brought echoes screaming up from her childhood like the crescendo of thunder outside.

"Sink or swim!" Her father's deep voice shouted coldly from memories buried deep.

A river roared and her mother wailed, "Get my baby, Hugh"!

"Sink or swim!"

She shuddered again and then she was enveloped in warmth. "You cold?" Rick wrapped his coat around her and rubbed the length of her arms with his big strong hands.

He seemed so calm. So steady. The sweaty soapy smell of his jacket dizzied her enough to relax for a moment. "A little," she lied and thanked him for his care.

"It's only right. You stole my other coat. You may as well have this one too." His smile blazed over his gorgeous face, from his stormy blues to his white teeth and his soft lips surrounded by an on-coming beard.

It was not like the happy mask he'd worn to Andre's funeral when he was worried about angry ambushes and a chapel full of mourners. There were no cool winks to mask his apprehension. This was no act to boost her morale, no false show of nonchalance. She searched his features with amazement, wondering how he could smile a genuine smile right now.

A pain of guilt struck her and she forced herself to say it. "I'm not cold, Rick. I'm scared." She took his jacket off her shoulders and tied it at her waist, paying the knot more attention than necessary to avoid looking him in the eye.

"We have to level with each other. Even if we think keeping it to ourselves will spare the other pain or stress. We can't fool ourselves. We let them divide and conquer us." She stole a quick glance up at his attentive eyes to gauge his reaction to her statement. When she saw that he had no objections she went back to toying with the arms of his coat sleeves.

"We're here today because you didn't trust my strength and I didn't trust yours. We're both trying to be strong for each other and that made us weak. When we're in the midst of our enemies, I want you to know exactly who you have by your side."

Rick stopped her fingers from their nervous occupation, compelling her to share whatever she was hiding in those soft cinnamon eyes since honesty was the subject.

"A strong woman," she said, "but also a terrified one."

She shook her head, forbidding the fall of her tears. But still they came. Fat and fast from the build up before the fall. "I'm strong enough to do this," she confessed, "but I'm not losing you. I'm not losing anybody else. I'm strong enough for anything else, but I'm not strong enough for that."

Rick took her into his arms then and hushed her panicked tone, one arm curled around her back and one hand cradling her head to his shoulder. "Shh, shh, shh… You're not losing me. Never."

Michonne broke in on his declaration. "You… you said, whatever I need from you... even your life." At first she kept her arms to her side and let him hold her. But slowly she put her arms around him, clutching at his shirt for dear life.

Speaking against the soft cotton on hard muscle, the words tumbled out over her rising emotions with great effort. "Tonight, all I need is for you to live. So promise me you will.

"I promise. I swear. I'm only marchin' these Saviors to the gates of hell. I ain't stayin' to keep'em company. "

She gave him a dull chuckle but it helped her in regaining composure. God, I love this man and everything about him. "And promise me one more thing," She thought about her father and what carnage had made of him. If tonight turned Rick into a monster like Hugh August…

"Promise me you won't lose yourself to vengeance. Promise me you'll conquer evil with the good."

"T minus 5." Her father's voice crackled gruffly on a hijacked frequency of the walkie Daryl had left with them. Michonne's own inner switch was flipped, when she heard him and she went straight into fight mode.

She raised her pistol, ready to shoot as Rick gingerly let the hatch to the attic fall. The floorboards under their feet became a part of the ceiling below. He dipped his head through the opening to take a quick peek. If anyone had been down there, he was sure they would already be exchanging fire with him. And sure enough, his topsy turvy view was an empty hallway.

Strong swimmer's abs and ropy triceps and biceps lowered Rick in a controlled flip from the ceiling. He landed both feet on the second floor of the house with hardly a sound. He looked around again for an ambush before Michonne dropped down feet first.

Her thick thighs loading his strong arms. She slid down his body, katana slung across her back. She handed him the 12 gauge and walked behind him, ready for a possible rear ambush.

A throng of voices could be heard on the first floor droning out the tempo of a muffled chant.

"Where we go we conquer. Where we conquer we command. Where we command we civilize."

The eerie sound made the pair pause for a moment to share an unnerved look. They stepped lightly over the carpet runner until they were sure this floor of the house was completely deserted.

Michonne tucked her gun back at her waist and pushed open the nearest door as curiosity slowed their pace. Nazi paraphernalia, newspaper clippings and maps cluttered the walls.

Another room, spacious and unlit, set up like army barracks with neatly made bunks spoke to the Savior's constant recruiting. The golden light from the hallway behind them fell on the painted skull and looming cross insignia, large and terrible on the floorboards.

They made their way to the first floor by way of the narrow servant's staircase in the back of the house. They passed an unoccupied space set up as a studio with cameras and podcast equipment. The thought of the poison that was no doubt being poured into those microphones and broadcast to aspiring bigots gave Rick an involuntary sneer.

He wouldn't have to wonder just what kind of swill was being served to Negan's radio listeners, because just then the murmuring chants ceased and the Savior's frontman began to address his guests.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal," Negan said in an almost cheerful tone as he looked over the two story great room.

The imposing hearth of the house boasted a stacked rockface, floor to ceiling. The great room was a large open space just off the entrance and main stair. Knotty rustic beams came to a point high above the assembly under the pitched roof. Dimmed golden light fell over the room from iron and wood chandeliers.

V.I.P's were seated in old Victorian chairs, ornate with scrollwork and velvet. Some, like Negan, had boldly removed their black hoods. Old men with liver spotted scalps and middle aged men in white collars and expensive dark suits sat closest to the S.O.C. altar where Negan extolled the white race.

Young men, some of whom had not dressed so formally, wore printed or plain t-shirts under similar blazers and sat just behind them. Some had long hair, some scalps were skinned and some haircuts were plain and unremarkable. Hard-faced bodyguards were stationed all around the room, nearly outnumbering the seated participants.

"These truths," Negan emphasized pointedly. "Are self-evident. All men are created equal. All men. I had a nigger repeat those words of our illustrious founding father to me once. He thought he could use a wise man's words to support the black man's insatiable need for handouts. I asked him, 'if all men are created equal, how come you need the handout and I don't?'

Scattered chuckles lifted from his congregants.

"It's self-evident, I told him. All men are created equal, but you are not men. Oh, of course you can produce a talented one when pressed. But that's possible with any animal. Give me a hundred mutts and you can teach one to shake your hand, walk on two legs… but he still ain't nothing but a dog at the feet of his masters."

Negan winked at one of the young girls looking up to him from the floor. Each seated Savior sat above two robed women. They looked ready to worship. Hands in their laps, eyes to the floor. Hair blonde as honey, skin as white as milk. They had all been administered a sedative to keep them docile, yet awake.

They were selected for seeding and breeding. Negan had Pete Anderson to monitor their cycles, their health and fertility. Not only was the S.O.C. hellbent on their race war, they were determined to outnumber those of an inferior color to solidify their domination for future generations.

"The white man is the master of all. It's self-evident. Where we go we conquer. Where we conquer we command. Where we command we civilize."

Rick stepped in front of Michonne to survey the room. Negan was out of sight, only his voice could be heard as he and Merle stood to Rick and Michonne's left at an obtuse angle. The Saviors were enchanted by their charming leader and in the dim light, no one noticed the armed couple peering around the extended wall of the adjoining vestibule.

Rick was taking a count of enemies and plotting who to take out first if it came too quickly to violence. His blue eyes were roving, as he judged each man's stance and demeanor. He took note of the placement of their weapons, right side or left, hip or harness holster. He drew conclusions about each one's dexterity, speed and resolve.

Michonne stood at his back observing him observe the room. His breathing was slow and his muscles relaxed, though the hand on his gun was veiny and steady. The cream wool of his coat collar draped over his wide shoulders and beneath the woolly hang of his chestnut hair. She smiled to herself thinking it was time she gave him a trim.

And then as random as that, the memory of being in his wet arms, the smell of chlorine and the feel of warm water bombarded her senses. She remembered clutching his neck that day, afraid he was going to dump her into his pool. She remembered how he'd soothed her with a few words and the sincerity in his eyes.

That thought spiraled to an awful day in her childhood. Her family was on one of their training trips and her father had tossed her into a river near their camp. She had thrashed in the rapids panicking, breathing in water and blinded by her own splashing.

She could only hear her mother screaming at her father to pull her in. Going under the surface and kicking and struggling to come back up, she heard her mother begging through tears, "Get my baby, Hugh!" Then shrill cries of, "Let me go! She's gonna drown! Let me go, Hugh!"

"She's gotta learn." Her father shouted coldly, "You're gonna sink or swim, Michonne. You're gonna live or die. You choose."

As scared as she was, Michonne never really thought she would die that day. And even though Gayle's strong arms pulled her out onto the pebbly bank, she would never forget the look her father gave her as he stood a ways off. Like the rushing water that tried to claim her, his stare was unyielding and cold.

The argument that ensued between her parents as she sat soggy and in shock had ended with her father's fists against her mother's face. It was what finally made her mother leave. But Michonne could see now that they left for her safety, not her mother's.

Little fool that she was back then, she grew tired of hotel rooms and uncomfortable bus rides. She wanted to go back home to the comforts of familiarity. Her own room. So she snuck to a pay phone and told her father where they were. And Hugh August had cracked open heaven and earth, thundering back into their lives, much as she knew he'd been a wrecking ball on his way to her tonight.

In the middle of her memories, she laid her forehead tenderly on the back of Rick's shoulder. It was a final wordless thank you for everything he'd done for her and been for her thus far. It was a nudge of motivation for the law man to put due process on the back burner and send every Savior in the next room to hell. It was a declaration of her unyielding love and a promise she had his back forever. No matter what.

Rick kept his eyes on the room as he turned slightly to give the top of her head a protective kiss.

Then a blanket of darkness fell over their eyes.

Over the confused murmurs from the Saviors, she started to count, knowing Daryl was somewhere below her doing the same. But the seconds were interrupted by the click of a door behind her.

She whirled around instantly and found the grip of her sword. Her eyes were still adjusting but the man exiting the hall bathroom behind her was clearly armed.

One

Two

Three

Rapid shots were fired before Michonne could take in a full breath.

….

As soon as Tyreese gave Rick a location for Michonne, he called in his deputies with the orders to meet him there, come in on foot and await his signal. From every direction in the surrounding area, they had instantly given up their scattered searches and converged on the O'day Ranch.

T-Dog, Rosita, Noah and Jerry had walked about a mile in through the forest toward the acres and acres of old southern money. They left their vehicles concealed by the dense overgrowth of roadside foliage and the cloudy night.

Rosita cursed with every roll of thunder and cursed Jerry when he said it smelled like rain.

Jerry Samuels was a bear of a man. His fellow deputies would say more panda than grizzly. That is, until his friends were in harm's way.

The heavy set guy breathed heavy breaths in through his nose as his heart beat pulsed in his ears with every step. He wanted to join in the hushed conversation being whispered between his colleagues ahead of him, but there was no wind left in him for words. He could only listen, stepping as lightly as he could to avoid twigs and roots and stones hidden in among the leaves underfoot.

"These white boys done fucked up now," T-Dog spit, fuming.

He might let you slide with any other offense, but two things the barrel-chested deputy did not play about was his loud and proud call of the Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity and the disrespect of black women. With a frozen stare into the dark, he kept a determined pace and grit his teeth. "Imma put somethin' in their ass!"

"Out of all the women in the world, why would they want to go after Rick's?" Rosita shook her head, perplexed. "I wouldn't be surprised if we get there and find Grimes with a wagon full of redneck scalps. Shane always said the sheriff had Apache blood."

"These motherfuckers better be glad Shane ain't in this party," T-Dog mused. "Cuz his ass was all the way crazy."

"True shit." Rosita agreed and mumbled in Spanish that God rest his soul.

"What's the signal again?" Noah interrupted. He was feeling antsy at the disjointed way they were going about this. He kept his voice even lower than the others, wary of the Savior's surveillance capabilities.

Rosita answered him at her own volume. "I told you he couldn't say yet. He says we'll know it when we see it."

By the time they came to the edge of the clearing, Jerry was washed in sweat and parched. T-Dog stooped to tighten his laces. Noah blew warmth into his cupped hands as a stiff breeze broke over their backs. Rosita kept her eyes on the large hillside house glowing in the distance.

She was never any good at waiting. She could be a bitch in a restaurant if the kitchen was slow. She'd deliver razor burn with her heated rolling r's when Daryl was late for their shift.

Her impetuous nature was also manifesting itself tonight. While everyone around her was preoccupied with thoughts of how best to survive a small army of militant xenophobes, her mind ran rampant with thoughts of her partner.

Only a few months ago, did she realize her feelings for Deputy Dixon were deeper than infatuation with his mysterious melancholy. She was drawn to the thinly spread moments of levity between them. The moments when his soul peeked out from the dark clouds he was always wrapped in.

Times when he'd stop the squad car to help Mrs. Lopez with her groceries. Or give panhandlers money even though it was against county ordinance. He'd pick up trash at the playground barehanded and lecture anyone littering.

Rosita would never forget the time someone called in a couple of teenagers steaming up the windows of a parked car. The occupants turned out to be two tenth grade boys who hadn't come out to anyone about their sexuality yet. They were scared out of their minds, shaking.

She expected Daryl to do what most guys she knew would have done in that moment: ridicule them and blast their secret to everyone. But Daryl calmed them down and let them go with some advice.

"People think they're keepin' secrets. All the while, the secret's keepin' you," he'd told them.

Rosita would never forget the way the air shifted around him when he said that. She didn't comment on the tears in his eyes and for a while after that, she thought he was the closeted homosexual.

But the secrets keeping Daryl were all directly related to his brother. Rosita now knew about one of those secrets.

She had tried to defend him after the altercation at the station with T-Dog. On paper, what he'd said and done was indefensible. But from what she knew of his character, it couldn't be as simple as black and white.

The next morning, she'd walked into Saint Matthew's cathedral and lit a candle in prayer for him. She went back every day. So when Rick explained how her partner was a mole for the side of justice, she felt relief in her heart and fear in her gut. But no feeling of surprise. She always knew she was god's little Conchita. He'd look out for her and, by extension, the man she loved.

Now as she waited outside the ranch she wished she could be by his side, like she always was. She wished she could be there to watch his back. And watch him prove her right. He was a good man. A better man than Merle. A better man than most men.

The kind of man she could give her heart to, knowing he'd keep it safe. And she was ready to do the same for him. She just had a few racist conspirators to get out of the way before she could.

"I still think we could've gotten a warrant if we'd just waited until the morning. This is going to cost us our badges." Young Noah murmured, fretting to her left.

"Fuck a badge." T-Dog answered him in a gravelly whisper to her right. "This is about holding it down for Grimes, like he always holds it down for us. He told you, you don't have to be here if you don't want to be."

But Noah quickly countered the deputy's familiar argument with stale sarcasm. "Of course T," he rolled his eyes, condescending. "What a surprise for you to pull out your go-to insult whenever I remind you that there are rules... call me a sellout. This isn't about loyalty. This is about the law. How can we expect the people we police to obey the law if we don't?"

Rosita rolled her eyes at the flash of lightning above. Even though she didn't agree with Noah's rationale, she campaigned for the rookie the best she could. "Come on, T. He hasn't even had his badge a year yet. You know we all thought like him at first."

T-Dog dismissed Noah's point and turned his attention back to the house. "Obviously, you're too wet behind the ears to get it."

The comment was meant to burn but Noah also knew how to drag an opponent over the coals. It was the dirty D-word that sent T-Dog into a tizzy every time he heard it. "And this is exactly why they want to defund us right now."

Before T-Dog could throw a fit and give away their position, Jerry had finally caught his breath and interjected, "It's called conscience. We don't need a badge from the county or a warrant from a judge for permission to do the right thing."

"Fucking A." Rosita nodded, still focused on the house on the hill.

Jerry continued, "It's the societal construct of 'us versus them' that does a civilization in every time. The Muslim versus the Jew. Commoner versus nobility. Black versus white. We've seen it a million times since the beginning of time. Trust, respect and unity are as much essentials for human life as food, water and air."

Jerry ran a palm over his damp curly hair and leaned against the trunk of a tree as a line of thin violet clouds covered the moon. He had Noah's full attention. The skinny unseasoned deputy only wanted things to make sense and Jerry was often a sensible voice. He leaned in to the big guy's perspective.

"Humanity's gonna have to acknowledge that we're all us and there is no them," he said accepting a swig from T-Dog's flask.

"Bullshit." T-Dog spit. "We're here right now to teach 'them' a serious lesson about fucking with 'us'."

Rosita concurred, "Facts."

But Jerry argued his point. "I understand the mentality to fight. I've explained my tattoos and the Siva Tau to you guys." "I come from a warrior culture." He moved gracefully into the Samoan warrior pose. A sideways crouch, fists balled, arms raised and flexed, his face drawn into a fearsome expression. "But fighting only gets us so far," he said as he relaxed and slouched again against the tree.

"Where I'm from, you either pack tuna for a living or you enlist with Uncle Sam. And even though the military is trained for combat, the core principles are trust, respect and unity. Samoan life is not about individual rights. Of course, people do what they want, but the focus is on community. Work, possessions, even caring for the children, it's all shared by everyone on the island. And that's why our culture has been thriving for 3,000 years."

"And America ain't even reached 300 years and already on the verge of collapse." T-Dog scoffed.

"You know, this land used to be a Cherokee burial ground," Rosita supplied.

"What land? Where we're at right now?" T-Dog's eyes went big. Another thing he didn't play about was spirits and ghosts.

"Yeah."

Jerry tied his hair back. "The entire country is a Native American burial ground."

"Maybe that's why shit is so crazy." Rosita surmised, "We're feeling all that negative energy from their ancestors."

"And African ancestors being bought and sold by the O'days on this ranch during slavery..." T-Dog figured, "I know they had to've brought more than a few witch doctors over on ships and everyone of them had a special root for 'massa'."

Noah asked, sarcastically, "So what are you saying? America's cursed?

"I don't know about America but, the motherfuckers in that house," T-Dog dipped his head toward the hill, "those motherfuckers are definitely cursed. Every Savior in that bitch is on his way to hell tonight."

Just then, all the windows in the house went black.

"Look," Rosita got everyone's attention. "That's gotta be it," she referenced the darkened hilltop. "That's our cue."

The four deputies, clad in jeans and bullet proof vests, moved cautiously into the clearing. Suddenly, the bang, bang, bang of a firearm rang out faintly from the direction they were headed. The first floor windows burst with a millisecond of blue white light in quick triple succession.

"Oh, Shit!" T-Dog exclaimed recognizing the sound of Rick's colt 45.

Rosita pinched the golden cross around her neck to her lips for a kiss, whispering a prayer. Frowning as a raindrop flattened against her cheek, she led the pack into a sprint, "Let's go!"