Carol had not been shot. The soldier's aim had been indiscriminate, and none of his bullets had struck her, but they had sent splinters of wood flying from the faux tower. Her arms, cheek, and forehead were scraped up, and one larger, sharp piece of splintered wood had lodged itself in her upper leg, which was causing her immense pain as Daryl carried her down the ladder over his shoulder and then lowered her gently to the asphalt. She craned her neck to look down at the blood seeping through her pants and around the splint of wood.

By the time Carol was on the ground, Dixon had run for his motorbike behind the entryway wall of the bathrooms and was now roaring off on it through the open gate. He bent it sideways almost to the ground to snatch a rifle from a dead soldier that had not yet been collected, jerked the bike back up, and slung the rifle over his shoulder before gripping the handlebars with both hands again and picking up speed.

Carol struggled to a sitting position as she watched him fly off. She had no doubt he was heading for the farm. Daryl looked at his fleeing nephew, riding alone to confront three soldiers, and then looked at her. "Go!" Carol ordered him. "Go after Dixon!" She nodded to the splint of wood that had worked its way into her flesh. "It's just a scratch."

It was more than a scratch, she knew, but she would live. Daryl kissed her quickly and then yelled, "T-Dog! Help her!"

T-Dog got on the ground beside Carol and supported her in a sitting position while Daryl ran for his motorcycle and tore off through the gate after his nephew.

Max had now exited the open gate and was sniffing the ground. The dog sniffed his way across the cement entry path to one of the military trucks and barked madly. He jumped up, propped his front paws on the rear bumper, and barked louder.

"What's the dog's problem?" Abraham asked.

"It's a bomb sniffing dog," Rick said warily. "And he must have just hit on something."

[*]

Daryl rode with his crossbow on his back, his rifle on his shoulder, and his handgun at his hip. The weapons felt heavy as he tried to keep up with his sports-racing nephew.

He could see Dixon in the distance, swerving and then jumping something in his path and disappearing around a curve through the barren trees.

Daryl revved his own larger motorcycle and pushed it faster over the beaten dirt path, all the way to its limits, until the bike was shaking.

[*]

Rosita ran to the back of a military truck – the one the Governor had been driving - and threw open the green awning. "Fuck!" she cried. "When did he do this? There's enough TNT and wires in here to blow up everything within a four-hundred-yard radius!"

"It was my failsafe!" the Governor roared. "The countdown clock was triggered when you patted me down. You pressed the button yourself."

"What?" Abraham asked.

"That knife you thought you took off me was a trigger." The Governor began laughing maniacally. He'd lost it, Carol thought. Some fuse had come undone in his brain.

"And the clock's counting down!" Rosita cried. "Ten minutes to go!"

It would blow the gates off of Fun Kingdom, Carol feared, take out a good chunk of the iron fence, explode the faux castle, and kill everyone here.

"We need to pull out in the other truck!" Abraham yelled.

"We'd have to find the keys first!" Rosita shouted back. "We weren't driving. I think Shumpert had them. Or Tim."

Abraham ran to the dead body of Shumpert on top of the armed vehicle and began digging through his pockets to no avail.

"There's no time!" Carol yelled. "Everyone into the interior of the park! Now! Now!"

"Get them all in, Abe!" Rosita shouted. "I'll try to disarm the bomb!"

T-Dog yanked the wood out of Carol's leg to prevent it from working deeper while they fled. She screamed in pain. "Sorry," he apologized before he unceremoniously scooped her up and threw her over his broad shoulder and began to carry her in a lumbering jog away from the bomb. Meanwhile, Abraham, Rick, Andrea, and Glenn herded the surrendered soldiers inside at gun point.

The Governor, however, refused to stand and remained on his knees laughing. Barking as he padded a circle around the madman, Max stayed to guard him.

[*]

When Daryl broke through the woods at the front side of the farm, he saw four cattle loose in the field outside the farm's fence line, where they never grazed. Two of them had been brought down by walkers that were now feasting on them, and the other two were about to be, because there were at least a dozen more walkers spilling out of the forest on the other side of the field.

Inside the fence, the roof and sides of the barn crackled loudly with fire. That same fire licked its way in a thin line across the ground to the edge of the farmhouse, where it climbed the left side of the house and was creeping up the shutter of a first-story window.

The iron cattle gates, still bound by chain and padlock, lay bent and busted off the posts of the fence on the earth. That, and the heavy vehicle tracks, suggested the soldiers had simply plowed through the gate with the armored vehicle that was now stopped outside the farmhouse.

Beth was standing in front of that vehicle now. Hershel and Patricia were on their knees beside her. One man was holding them at gunpoint. Another, who had his rifle shouldered and was holding a knife, stepped back from Beth when he heard the roar of Daryl and Dixon's motorcycles. Beth's shirt had been cut open, and she was holding an arm protectively across her chest.

Dixon, several yards ahead of Daryl, had by now roared over the fallen cattle gates. The man who was assaulting Beth dropped his knife and swung his semiautomatic rifle into his hands. The teenager leapt off his bike while it was still moving to avoid the shots, rolled over on the ground, and lost his own rifle. While he was rolling, however, he drew his handgun and shot back.

By the time Daryl burst through the open gate area, Dixon had already killed the man who had cut open Beth's shirt. Driving with one hand, and holding a handgun with the other, Daryl now fired on the second soldier, who had turned on Dixon. The soldier's head snapped to the left, and he dropped to the earth.

Daryl skidded to a stop, boots down on the dirt, and looked around for the third soldier. The Governor had mentioned three names on the CB.

Patricia stood from her kneeling position and helped Hershel up from his. Beth was weeping. The straps of her bra had been cut off from her shoulders and lay drooping over her arms, which she was using to hold the rest of her bra to her chest. Dixon, limping form his drop and roll, probably with a sprained ankle, moved quickly, if jerkily, toward her. He shed his black-and-red racing jacket, wrapped it around her, and zipped it up over her. The he held her, crying, to himself.

"Where's the third?" Daryl demanded.

"Dead on the porch," Hershel replied hollowly. The old man looked tired, broken, and defeated.

Daryl looked beyond him to the porch and saw the body lying there – not lying, but rising as the flames licked across the wood planks and drew closer to it. The walker slowly hissed as it struggled to a sitting position. Daryl dismounted his bike, holstered his handgun, and drew his knife. He strutted around Patricia and the armored vehicle before jogging to the porch stairs and clambering up them. He thrust his knife into the forehead of the freshly resurrected walker before retreating from the flames that were expanding quickly across the porch and were now consuming the splintered, front door of the house.

"Hell happened here?" Daryl asked after he hastened back to the others. He looked to Patricia for an explanation, because Hershel's head was bent and his eyes closed.

"They burst through the gate in that vehicle," Patricia said, "and then set the barn on fire with a grenade launcher. It was so loud." That, Daryl thought, along with the high-burning fire, had drawn the walkers from the forest. "When we wouldn't come out of the house, they stormed up the stairs of the porch. Hershel shot that first one straight through the door in the chest with his shotgun." So the old man had lain aside his pacifism when push came to shove. "But the other two…" Patricia shook her head. "They burst through the door so fast. So fast and so hard. They disarmed us all and dragged us out here and held us at gunpoint. And that one…"

Patricia spat on the fallen body Dixon had shot. The dead, hardened-looking Hispanic man had prison tattoos crawling out from underneath his sleeves and up his neck. Tomás, Daryl assumed. "He took out his knife and cut off Beth's shirt and then …if you two hadn't shown up when you did…" Patricia sighed shakily. "I think Hershel would have stood and rushed him, and then he'd be shot dead. And then what those two men would have done…" Patricia was unable to finish.

Dixon held Beth more tightly. "It's all right," he whispered. "It's over. It's over. I'm here."

"It is over," intoned Hershel, opening his eyes and turning to look at the fire that had now jumped from the barn to a wooden pike of the spiked fence. "The farm is lost. This farm that has been in my family from generation to generation, for 160 years. No bucket brigade can stop this now. The fire will devour it all in a matter of hours. Walkers are already coming to feast on the animals."

"No, Daddy!" cried Beth, pushing away suddenly from Dixon. She ran the back of the leather sleeve of his racing jacket across her eyes to dry her tears. "We haven't lost all of it!" She pulled the zipper of Dixon's jacket up all the way to her chin. "It's time to play Noah's ark! I'm rustling the yearlings! Get the trailer!" Beth ran toward the stable.

As if snapped to attention by the determination of his daughter, Hershel told Patricia, "I'll get the truck with the animal carrier and drive it to the east field for what cattle we can grab. The walkers haven't made it inside the fence yet. Get the rooster! And as many chickens as you can! In cages! Before the fire reaches the chicken coop!"

Daryl unshouldered his rifle because a walker was lurching through the flames that were now licking the ground near the busted-open gate. They were lurching in all over now, all along the burning fence line. Dixon swept up his fallen rifle and, limping on his sprained ankle, joined his uncle.

The pair moved forward and began calling walkers – one o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, two o'clock….

Meanwhile, Beth was thundering out of the stables on horseback, with a lasso at her side, and Hershel was cranking the engine of a farm truck.

Daryl and Dixon emptied their magazines taking the lurching walkers out as they stumbled through the open gate and the burning fence. Where the hell were they coming from? So many at once? There must have been a migrating herd nearby when the rocket launcher exploded.

Daryl dropped his now empty magazine from his rifle, pulled out another pre-loaded one from his belt, and slapped it in. Dixon, who had no extra magazines strapped to himself, simply discarded his firearm. Daryl handed him his rifle and swung his crossbow off his back instead.

Dixon fired off nine more rounds, taking down walkers one by one, while Daryl shot two of the hungry creatures with wooshing bolts from his bow. Seeing no more walkers emerge through the flaming fence, Daryl shouldered his bow and ran to help Patricia at the henhouse, ripping out his arrows from the fallen walkers along his way.

Patricia had already managed to close four hens into one cage, and now she was trying to rustle the rooster into a second cage. Daryl got his hand pecked as he helped to shove the angry cock inside. Patricia slammed the cage door shut. The rest of the chickens waddled, ran, and half-flew in retreat. One was snatched up by a walker Daryl hadn't seen lurch through the burning fence. The walker ripped into it like one of those old circus freaks – called geeks – that used to bite the head off chickens. No wonder Merle had called them geeks at first.

When Hershel pulled up with the pick-up, Daryl and Patricia settled the cages in the bed. The old farmer drove on to the east field, where Beth had just lassoed a yearling bull. Patricia ran to help them, while Daryl swung his crossbow off his back and turned to shoot the walker that had almost finished with its chicken dinner.

Another walker lurched through the flaming fence, its clothes afire, but it's hunger unquenched. Dixon dropped it. Then the teenager shot another emerging walker. Daryl took out a third with his bow and ran to recover his arrows. He reloaded as Dixon continued firing the last four rounds of his fifteen-round magazine at the creatures stumbling through the fiery fence toward the sounds inside the farm – the pop of bullets, the crackling of fire, and the frantic mooing.

Beth continued to lasso and rustle yearlings into the the animal carrier. The large, five-year-old bull, in terror of the fire now blazing its way like electricity along the outer fence of the farm and of the approaching, growling walkers, busted free from its pen and took off running toward the front gate, which drew several walkers in its direction and away from the farm. A pack of walkers took the bull down thirty feet beyond the fence and began feasting. That would keep them busy for a while.

Beth had just rustled a calf into the animal trailer when Patricia slammed the door shut. She leapt up on the running board of the pick-up truck and grasped the bar atop the hood. Hershel drove back toward Daryl and Dixon, and Beth galloped after them.

"The piglets!" Beth yelled as she neared. "They're just now weaned! Throw them in the bed! Forget the mama!"

Dixon shed his empty rifle and limp-ran to the nearby pigpen, which had three grown pigs and six piglets. He swung open the gate and slapped the largest pig hard to send it running and squealing. That drew off several walkers that had just lumbered through the fallen, ashy fence – away from the pen and after the pig.

As Patricia, Beth, and Dixon tried to gather the piglets, Daryl covered them, shooting the walkers that weren't feasting on the bull or chasing the pig or going after the other cattle and chickens. The animals were keeping most of the walkers busy, but every now and then one would lurch toward the pig pen, and Daryl would send a bolt flying.

One piglet kept slipping out of Dioxn's hands, and the teenager fell stomach-down in the mud. Beth caught the pig easily and dropped it in the bed of the pick-up.

"How do you do that?" Dixon asked as he pulled himself to his knees.

"Haven't you ever wrestled pigs at the county fair?" Beth asked as she scooped up the last squirming piglet and set it in the bed.

"Let's go!" Hershel yelled out the window, and Beth mounted her horse while Dixon ran, still limping, for his motorbike. Patricia ran and grabbed one of the fallen soldiers rifles before jumping into the passenger's side of the pick-up, and Daryl plucked up the other soldier's rifle before mounting his motorcycle. He left his and Dixon's empty rifles behind.

Hershel drove toward a smoldering part of the fence line, where the flames licked only gently now and most of the wood was already burned away, so they wouldn't have to drive through high flames. He plowed the truck and animal trailer through first, making a clear path for the horse and motorbikes.

The truck slammed into a walker on its way out, thumping and thudding over its fallen carcass, and Patricia picked off two more out the passenger's side window with her rifle. The truck rumbled across the field with the horse fast behind. Dixon and Daryl split out on their bikes and roared up on either side of the horse to keep Beth safe and to keep the startled horse galloping forward instead of veering off into the forest. Using handguns now – because that was the easiest weapon to shoot one-handed – they picked off approaching walkers as they rode.

Soon, the caravan was on the dirt road, and though some walkers still lurched after them, most remained feasting on the abandoned animals. Those that did follow had no hope of catching up.

The motorcycles slowed and pulled back behind the horse now, until uncle and nephew were riding side by side. Daryl holstered his handgun, grasped both handlebars of his bike, and finally let out the long breath he'd been half holding.

"Woooh-wheee!" Dixon yelled next to him, and in that moment, he sounded exactly like Merle.

Daryl wondered what had come over Beth back at that farm, what had turned her, in an abrupt instant, from weeping victim to builder of the ark. Was it the humiliation of Tomas's aborted, attempted rape, a desire never to be such a victim again? Was it watching Dixon risk his life to bring her would-be rapist down? Or was it seeing her father's bleak sense of defeat and simply not being able to bare it?

This world changed people, Daryl thought. Often for the worse. But not always. Sometimes it brought out their worst bitterness and meanness and their deepest, darkest urges. But sometimes, it brough out their strengths.

They slowed down considerably once they reached the highway, because Beth's horse needed to relax to a trot, and the chickens and piglets were getting too jostled in the bed of the pick-up. Dixon kept pace with the slow-moving caravan, which was creeping along at only nine miles an hour now, while Daryl peeled off and rode on ahead to Fun Kingdom, at closer to seventy miles an hour, anxious to check on Carol.

As he rode, glancing into his rearview mirror, the sky behind him spoke of an impending, late-night storm, though the wind did not yet whisper it. They'd lose a mile of forest perhaps to the fire, which would consume some of the wild game in its path and drive the rest closer to Fun Kingdom, but the fire would stop soon enough, miles from their gates. His people would be safe.