A Rare Sameness

by LaMorenaReina

An AU slow burn in which Michonne and Rick meet earlier in the ZA. Lori and Mike are alive. How does our group survive? How do Rick and Michonne negotiate their inimitable connection when they already have responsibilities to others?

3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter was a beast to write. A gushy thank you for reading, reviewing, and following. Reviews are my lifeblood.

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Atlanta, Georgia

Five Days After the Outbreak

Experts struggle to identify ground zero of the infection.

Terry perched on the arm of the couch. His eyes bounced between the television and his phone, where he was losing at Solitaire.

Michonne hated that couch. Cracked brown leather. Deflating. A holdover from Mike's college and bachelor days. For someone as fashion-forward as Michael Carlton Anderson, the couch was a monstrosity. Yet Mike clung to it. It was one of the reasons Michonne had been dragging her feet moving in despite Mike's insistence.

Reports coming out of major cities across the globe continue to alarm U.S. officials. The virus is spreading at a breakneck pace.

"This shit is crazy," Terry said.

Ice clinked as he raised the glass to his lips. A near-empty bottle of Four Roses sat precariously on the edge of the sink. Spirals of orange rinds littered the counter.

How many oranges had Terry used?

While experts continue to try and understand this virus, they have reached a consensus: This virus is fatal. No cure has been developed yet.

The counter was sticky from the pulp, and Michonne frowned at the mess. Never had she found joy in cleaning up after men. She revolted on principle. Men were adults, not children. But she needed something to do with her hands.

Absentmindedly, she filled the sink with a bleach-water solution.

Symptoms of the virus include high fever, fatigue, gradual vision impairment, hearing loss…

Michonne stared out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The water thundered into the sink. At least that's how it sounded.

Two months ago, sporadic reports of a mysterious illness circulated internationally. U.S. officials assured citizens that the virus was being contained in Europe and Asia. Scientists were hustling to understand and contain it. Michonne had doubts even then.

Stories poured in from all over. Unofficial reports. Anonymous posters flooded internet forums with warnings. Michonne scanned them, desperate for information in the early days when the nonchalance of U.S. public health officials rang false.

The Reddit posts were so incredible that, initially, they comforted her. Extraordinary, outlandish stories.

Michonne dismissed them as the ravings of paranoid doomsayers, the ones who loaded their basement with survival supplies. People who found perverted hope in fantasizing about the end.

Skeptical as she was, skeptical as she wanted to be, something stirred the more she read.

Far-fetched accounts of decaying, skin-hungry people. Elderly patients on their deathbed attacking nurses. Mothers lunging at unsuspecting children. A motorcycle accident on a lonely road, the mangled biker surging awake to bite the man who'd pulled over to help, the good citizen dying hours later from a high fever. It baffled authorities. Endless stories like that one spilling across the internet only to be mysteriously deleted and then reposted elsewhere.

One Youtube survivalist circulated across every major forum. His warnings were insistent: Do not get bitten. Stay away from the dead. The dead come back to life. His forecast was dire: This will spread everywhere.

The premonitions might have been easily dismissed if not for the overwhelming evidence he provided. Police reports, hospital records, photos, videos. Shaky, grainy footage of shambling people with skin peeling from their faces. It reminded Michonne of that scene in Signs.

Five days ago, the forewarnings were proven right.

Hell broke loose. Everywhere.

If this had been an outbreak similar to the swine flu, Michonne would have worried.

This was a different beast entirely. This virus was catastrophic.

To limit spread and exposure, health officials urgently warn citizens to stay home.

A pipe dream. People were too anxious to stay put. They were taking to the streets, demanding help for sick loved ones, begging for a cure, destroying businesses.

Shelves were emptying at an alarming rate, faster than supply chains could replenish the losses. Case numbers skyrocketed by the day. Emory and Grady were filled to the brim with patients complaining of high fever, fatigue, debilitating vertigo, dyspnea…hunger. Schools closed their doors. Businesses stalled as more employees fell ill.

Michonne turned off the water in the sink and wiped the counters. Discreetly, she poured the rest of the whiskey down the drain. Terry was already slumping.

"What are they saying now?" Mike asked, sliding up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

Michonne suppressed a sigh at the musky, herbal aroma clinging to Mike's t-shirt and jeans.

"The same things," she said, pulling away.

She turned to confirm what she knew. The tender skin around his eyes was relaxed, and his scleras were red. He pouted, reaching for the bottom of her shirt to pull her back to him. She dodged. He was amorous when he got high or drunk, always wanting to fondle or fuck. How he could be turned on right now perplexed her.

"Come here."

Michonne placed a hand on his chest to stop his advance.

"Mike, we need to think seriously about our next steps."

"News says to stay put," Terry said. "Nothing to do but wait for this to blow over."

Like Mike, his eyes were cloudy and soft. He was now hanging over the back of the couch watching them. Both pairs of eyes landed on her, a silent invitation to relax, to " be easy" as Mike had started saying to her.

That was Mike. Easy like Sunday morning. No matter what. It had attracted Michonne to him during her bustling grad school days. Now it agitated her.

Taking a deep breath, Michonne prepared her argument.

"We need to leave Atlanta."

Mike and Terry balked. Eyes wide, they glanced at each other. Terry whistled as if he'd just heard something preposterous. Mike retreated from her a step, shaking his head.

"Meesh, baby, that makes no sense. We're safer here."

Michonne folded her arms.

"Okay," she said calmly. "How do you know that?"

Mike moved around her to the counter. Frowning, he gazed at the now empty bottle of whiskey

"Damn, Terry. You drank it all?"

Slow to comprehend, Terry blinked. "Drank what?"

"The Four Roses."

"Shit, man, I don't know. Maybe."

Mike sucked his teeth. Then his expression smoothened. He shrugged. That's how he was. Easygoing. Lighthearted. Annoyed only in brief snatches. He reached into the liquor cabinet for a bottle of Maker's Mark. Not his preferred whiskey for an Old Fashioned, but it would do.

"Mike," Michonne said.

"Like Terry said, the news says to stay put. Leaving increases the chance of infection. It's crazy out there, baby."

"You still haven't answered my question. How do you know we're safe here?"

"Remember last year, with the swine flu? Everybody was tripping, saying it was gonna be the Spanish Flu all over again. Look what happened."

The generous amount of whiskey he poured let Michonne know he wasn't interested in a slight buzz. He poured with such a heavy hand that liquor sloshed onto the counter she had just cleaned.

"This isn't the swine flu," Michonne said, keeping her voice level. "This is deadlier. Much deadlier. And strange. The reports coming in are showing that this is fatal. Something crazy is happening, something we haven't seen before, and it's all over now."

"What reports, Meesh? That stuff you've been reading online? Reputable news sources are reporting that it's being contained. CNN, NBC, The New York Times. The news sources you normally trust."

Those reputable news sources had in fact changed their tune in the last few days. First, the virus was "contained." Then, it was "spreading rapidly." Now it was "remarkably dangerous."

Gritting her teeth, Michonne moved to stand on the other side of the island, so annoyed with his nonchalance that she needed the space.

"Case numbers are rising. Businesses are closed. There's a military installation here, Mike. Why? If this is contained, if it's nothing to worry about, why is the military suddenly showing up in major cities across the country?"

Mike looked thoughtful and then perturbed. And, because Michonne was studying him so intently, she saw the way his eyes darted to the large windows she'd been looking out of earlier. As if he could see the camp and the tanks surrounding the CDC from here.

"Precaution. People are acting crazy, panicking."

He shot her a meaningful look before tossing the drink back.

Nobody could accuse Mike of being obtuse. Two advanced degrees from the University of Chicago and Yale, respectively. Admirably involved in Atlanta's local politics. A voracious aesthete and a shoo-in for partner at his firm. Mike was cool, self-possessed, but never detached. This apathy was a recent development. A worrisome development.

"I'm not panicking."

She wasn't. Of the three of them, Michonne wasn't tossing back drinks in the afternoon, wasn't rolling up multiple times a day.

"I'm not saying we need to act rashly, but we still need to be intentional and cautious. There's enough evidence to warrant that. And my gut is telling me that something is happening, something big. We need a plan."

Mike's shoulders dropped. He eyed her, perhaps sensing her seriousness. For a precious moment, he was the man she recognized, the one who sat with her for hours after her mother died, just lightly tracing the lines of her hands, holding her when she cried.

"Okay. You're right. We'll be careful."

It was a vague concession. Wanting. One that did nothing to ease Michonne's concern or instincts. Her energy for the conversation sharply waned. She nodded and reached to slide her phone off the counter next to Mike's elbow. He intercepted her hand and pulled it up to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, a move that would normally disarm her.

"We're good, baby. Stop worrying so much."

Detangling her fingers from his, she took her phone and headed down the hall.

"You going to my room?" he asked, eyes trailing after her.

"The guest room. I want to check in with my dad."

In the background, the news continued to play.

The President will be offering a statement this evening.

Michonne shut the door. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, she dialed her father's number.

"Michonne." His voice was warm and relieved but serious.

"Hi, Daddy. You guys okay?"

Voices faded into a murmur as her dad moved to a different room. Michonne heard the click of a door, and the voices cut out.

"We're good, baby. Are you okay? Are you at your place?"

"Mike's."

After a short pause, he said, "You staying there for now?"

"I am."

Her father hummed.

Samuel Hawthorne was an imposing man to strangers. Bald, tall, and broad-shouldered even in his late sixties.

To those who loved and knew him, he was a warm and steady presence. A mountain surrounded by still waters, Michonne's mother, Angelique, used to say.

He was a placid man, prone to observation and listening. He wasn't much for talking. Unless he was teaching. Or if he had a few glasses of Pinot Noir or scotch. Then he could give his wife a run for her money in exuberance. Laughing, twirling her in circles, whispering in her ear, kissing her neck. Things Michonne knew they did often in private, but that her father was reluctant to do in public, even if everyone knew how much he adored his wife.

He had been the calm to her mother's delightful storm. An anchor but never an albatross to her free-spiritedness.

Angelique always claimed that Michonne inherited her father's composure and her mother's rebelliousness. Michonne's gift, her mother used to say, was doing her own thing and making it look easy. Sitting on Mike's grey goose-down comforter, Michonne felt anything but easy.

"How are the kids? What's happening in Savannah?" she asked.

"They're good. Arguing in the living room. I'm sure you heard them."

She smiled. "I heard them. What about?"

"Apparently The Matrix is the best movie of all time. According to Ellie anyway. Dre disagrees. He says it's The Godfather II."

Michonne rolled her eyes. "Naturally."

Her father chuckled, enamored with his grandchildren no matter what they were doing. When it faded, Michonne knew the conversation was turning serious.

"Things are escalating here. It was calm for a while, on the outside at least. You know how this place is. All these retirees. Bunch of old folks who can't get too fussed about anything anymore. Seen it all. So they say. But this is different and they know that now. People are scared, restless."

Michonne understood the buzzing he was describing, that seething something that kept growing day by day. Atlanta was neither drowsy nor tranquil by nature. Not like Savannah. But the calm facade her father was describing had splintered spectacularly in Atlanta too.

"Dad, this is bad. Something's coming."

Her father sighed. His beloved leather armchair groaned as he leaned back.

"It's already here, Michonne."

Her spine tingled. She sat up straight. "What do you know?"

After a decorated career in the Army, years as a high-profile attorney, and a long-term teaching appointment at Harvard Law, Michonne's father was well-connected. When he didn't know things firsthand, he knew who did. And he wasn't afraid to ask. He could hit up a colleague years later and be greeted warmly, privileged information spilling like water from whatever friend he'd called.

"This virus is deadly, baby girl. The stories you've been reading have merit. Stu's been getting reports from Dhaka, London, Shanghai, and Tokyo. People waking up hours after being declared dead, trying to bite whoever is closest. The infection is spreading that way. So far, nobody has survived."

Stuart Moore was her father's closest friend. Born and raised in Columbus, Georgia, they joined the Army together at eighteen and followed each other around the world for decades. Uncle Stu. Michonne wasn't exactly sure what he did. Classified, baby girl, he would always say, grinning like a madman with a diabolical secret. Where her father was reserved, Uncle Stu was a riot.

All Michonne knew was that he worked in the highest levels of American Intelligence—the agency remained unnamed but she could guess—and he had frightening security clearance.

"Like rabies," Michonne said, thinking.

"Worse. Scientists have never seen anything like it. Whatever it is, they can't contain it."

God. This is really happening.

Neither men were prone to hyperbole, even if Uncle Stu was a loon. An anomaly for someone so good at espionage and intelligence. But the man knew his shit. If he was worried and her father was worried, it was bad.

"I keep telling Mike we should leave Atlanta. Viruses thrive in tight quarters. There's a military camp set up downtown. Apparently more and more military installations are being placed in major cities."

"They are. Stu confirmed it. This virus will keep spreading. They're sending the military in, anticipating the worst because the worst is happening."

Michonne exhaled. She was oddly, perhaps morbidly, comforted by this news. It affirmed her suspicion, her foreboding, that niggling in her gut that refused to be quieted.

"Okay. We'll come to you. I'm worried about you guys. We should be together," Michonne said, launching herself from the bed.

She started making a list of things to do.

Go home. Pack. Get supplies. Get gas. Pick up Mike and Terry. Mike won't leave him. Take I-75. It's the fastest route.

"Michonne, wait," her father said. His voice was firm.

She paused, confused. "What?"

"This is already out of control. I don't want you out on the road for that long, especially not driving through the areas you'll need to pass to get here. There are mobs everywhere. I talked to the police chief. He's getting reports from the Sheriff that people are being stopped, harassed, and attacked in rural areas and on the highway. Especially black people. It's not safe."

"You think I should stay here? In Atlanta? This city is going to implode, Dad."

"I know. Believe me, I want you where I can see you, but it's not safe to travel this far. It might have been okay a week ago but not now."

Michonne sat back onto the bed, deflated. "Dad, I should be with you guys."

"Hey, I ain't no punk," he said, chuckling. "I've fought in a war before, baby."

Michonne huffed, rolled her eyes.

"As you like to remind us. But with your heart and the kids…" She paused. "How's Maddie?"

After a moment, he said, "She's okay, sweetheart. Nervous, worried. But she's staying strong. We're all okay."

"I really think I should come there. If this is what you say it is then we should be together."

"No, you stay put. Like I said, it's dangerous to come this way. Those reports of harassment are serious. Stay with Mike. Stay in the house. Don't leave if you don't have to."

Michonne understood his concern. And perhaps he was right. Savannah was a four-hour drive on a good day. Add the growing chaos, the choked highways, the reports of harassment by virulent racists, and the journey would be longer, riskier. But something kept pushing her to leave. To get out of the city. Now.

"I strongly disagree with this plan. Just want to make that known," Michonne said.

"Wouldn't be you if you didn't."

"Just so we're clear."

"Of course, baby."

She sighed and collapsed back onto the mountain of pillows piled against the tufted headboard.

"How's Mike doing? I'm guessing Terry's there too."

Mike and her father got along fine. Just fine. Just fine.

Her father was always cordial and inviting, but there was something a bit distant about the way he interacted with her boyfriend. Never cold, just…there was something that Michonne could never put her finger on. When she asked about it, her father would only shrug and ask if she was happy, if she was being treated well. She answered yes easily. That's all that matters to me, her father said. Happy and content in her relationship, Michonne never pushed for more details.

"He's fine. Terry too. They think we should stay, like you said."

Her father only hummed. "Where's your gun?"

"At my condo."

"Does Mike have one?"

"Not his thing."

"I didn't think so."

There it was. That thing.

"Look, baby, it's not safe to come here. I wish it was. We miss you and want you safe. But if you have to leave Atlanta, and only if you have to, I want you to go to Fort Benning."

"Fort Benning?" Michonne asked. "Why?"

"It's the closest Army base to you. It'll be safer than Atlanta. According to some friends at Fort Stewart, both bases are fortifying."

Michonne contemplated. Fort Benning was closer, a little less than two hours down I-85 S. A military base could offer better protection, supplies, weapons, trained personnel. It made rational sense. It did. But leaving her family out there in Savannah?

"I know what you're thinking. I know you, Michonne. We're okay. Fort Stewart is close. We're by the water. Folks are pulling together."

Folks. His country accent returned when he was emotional and serious.

"Promise me that you won't come here, Michonne. Stay in Atlanta. If not, get to Fort Benning."

Throat clogged, Michonne shook her head. Not that he could see her. Her father's voice was lucid, strong. Pushing seventy, her father was still capable, a crack shot. Nobody to fuck with, that was for sure.

But he had a heart condition. He developed it shortly after her mother's passing. A heart condition that required a strict, low-cholesterol diet and minimal stress. Nothing about this situation was low-stress.

"Dad…"

"Promise me, Michonne. You stay safe. No matter what."

Pushing away her tears, she opened her mouth to respond, when a burst of noise entered her father's study.

"Gramps! Is that Michonne?"

"Can we talk to her?"

Her father grunted on the other end, likely being manhandled for the phone.

"Aunty?"

"Hi, Meeshie."

The voices toppled over one another. There was a slight echo so Michonne guessed she was on speaker.

"Hi, loves. I miss you."

"We miss you too. Are you okay? Are you safe?" Ellie asked.

"Is Mike protecting you?" Dre asked, more than a little base in his voice.

As he toggled the line of teen-hood, his voice deepened. It freaked Michonne out as much as it delighted her. When did her babies grow up?

Ellie sucked her teeth.

"She doesn't need Mike to protect her, Dre. She's not a damsel."

Michonne laughed. Damsel? Did I know what a damsel was at twelve?

Dre sighed. "So? He can take care of her too. He's tall, Elle."

Ellie paused, thoughtful. Michonne saw her narrowed eyes as if they were in the same room.

"That's true. Good point. Meeshie, are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm good, babe. Mike's good too," Michonne said.

She hated lying to them which is why she almost never did. That wasn't the dynamic she wanted with her loves. They trusted her and she adored them. But there was no point in telling them that Mike was stoned and had been since news reports worsened. She damn sure wasn't going to disclose that with her father listening.

"How are you guys? Are you okay?"

"It's crazy here, Aunty," Dre said.

"People are losing it," Ellie added.

"They canceled school."

"We have to stay home."

In stereo, those two. That's how the twins were. In sync, quick-witted, and hilarious. Dre was outgoing and talkative, sure of his thoughts and feelings, even before he'd really formed them. Ellie was more reserved and contemplative, free-spoken like her brother, but only after careful consideration.

"It's safer to stay inside," Michonne said, heart-heavy.

Always intuitive, Ellie said, "We miss you, Meeshie. Are you sure you're okay?"

The tears Michonne had held at bay spilled over, silent and insistent. Holding the phone slightly away from her so they wouldn't hear the thickness in her voice, she said, "I miss you too, my loves. So much. I'm okay."

"You stay inside too, Aunty. Are you at home?" Dre asked.

"No, I'm at Mike's."

"Good. He lives high up. I mean, you do too, but you should be with people."

Out of the mouth of babes. Michonne swiped at her face. She wanted to be with them, wanted to load Mike and Terry up in her Range Rover, and trek across the state to hunker down with her family.

"Maddie misses you too. She asked about you this morning," Dre added in a quiet voice.

Her sister, Madeleine, was never Mom to them. Only Maddie.

"I miss her too. Where is she?"

"Sleeping," Ellie said.

Someone knocked on the door. It opened before Michonne could say anything. Mike leaned on the jamb. It was obvious that he needed to.

"What do you want to do about dinner?"

It was a question he'd asked her many times in the four years they'd been together, one she loved to answer. Michonne didn't suffer from indecisiveness when it came to food. She loved to eat and knew what she wanted.

How was it that such a simple, familiar question could irritate her so? Rather than answer him, she gave the phone her full attention.

"Listen, babes, I have to go. I love you so much."

"That the kids?" Mike asked, words slurred and loud.

"We love you too. We'll call you tonight to check on you," Dre said.

"Good. Can't wait. Let me talk to Dad before I go."

Her father shooed the kids out of the room with some protest. Her father's voice was stern when he got on the line.

"Michonne, are you okay?"

Eyes on Mike, who ignored her irritation and lingered in the doorframe, she bit her lip.

"Yeah, Dad."

"Michonne."

"We're fine. Stay inside. If you need anything, don't go out. Send Reggie to get it."

Reggie was her father's next-door neighbor. He was young and capable, a Marine veteran. Samuel had taken him under his wing. Last Michonne heard, he was single so she hoped he would just take up the guest room in her father's house until they knew what was going on.

Her father kept silent for a few moments. He sighed.

"Okay, baby. Promise me you'll stay in Atlanta or go to Fort Benning."

She hoped he'd forgotten. But Samuel Hawthorne's memory was longer than a country road.

"I promise."

They remained silent, each feeling reluctant to hang up the phone, each sensing something earthshaking looming. Michonne feared that if she hung up the phone, she would never speak to her father again.

"I love you, baby. You're my heart."

Mike continued to stand in the doorway, eyes gliding around the room in a lazy fashion, waiting on her verdict about food. Meanwhile, Michonne's heart cracked.

"I love you too, Dad." In a sure voice, she added, "I'll talk to you soon."

Michonne cradled the phone to her breasts. Absently, she stared at the red silk scarf she wore to bed. It hung from the vanity that Mike bought after she started sleeping over more. He continued to linger in the doorway.

"I got you, Michonne," Mike said, tenderly, as if he wanted to say something else.

Looking at him, in all of his sudden earnestness, her stomach plummeted. The way it did when she was rock climbing at the gym and missed a step. She wanted his words to be true. Yet she was unable to find purchase in them.

His eyes were lucid and gleaming, dragging across her face. Much clearer than they had been in the kitchen. He seemed to be searching for something in her. Michonne didn't know what he was looking for or whether he found it. He gripped the doorframe and then walked out of the room.

Atlanta, Georgia

Twelve Days After the Outbreak

Heart thundering, Michonne sprinted down the stairs. An overstuffed backpack thumped against her ass. Its heaviness nearly threw off her stride. The groans echoed behind her. She careened around the final landing and burst through the door, shoving the push bar so hard that the door flung open and hit the wall. She slammed it behind her. The new barrier between her and the head custodian—Chris—muffled the sound of his groaning.

Chris had managed the custodial staff in the building for thirteen years. A sweet, congenial man with a wife, Agnes, and three grown children. He always had a kind word for Michonne, often telling her how proud he was that "A sistah is outshining all these white folks." She bought him coffee every morning and a gift for every birthday and Christmas.

Heaving, Michonne turned slowly to look through the door's window. The stairwell faced the opposite wall so Michonne didn't see Chris tumble down the stairs, but she heard him. The crunch was sickening and wet.

Chris—no, that's not Chris anymore—struggled to his feet.

Michonne saw why. The fall had snapped one of his ankles. His foot jutted out from his leg in a way that would have made the most stalwart men cry. Chris only pressed his weight on the break, looking around. He saw her through the window. Snarling, he limped on a broken ankle towards the door.

Impossible.

It was revolting to see her friend lurch towards her with dead eyes and molting skin. Michonne watched him a moment longer, heartbroken to leave him there in that stairwell alone.

Where was his wife? Was she looking for him? Was she alive? His children?

"I'm so sorry, Chris."

Michonne turned towards the building's main entrance. People rushed by, some screaming. The orange glow of flames reflected off the opposite building's windows. Someone had set a car on fire. Michonne was grateful for her law office's darkness. It obscured her position as she formulated a plan.

Chris beat against the door with large, peeling hands. Michonne pressed her weight against it to hold him at bay. She would have to run.

East exit. Centennial Street. Straight shot to your apartment. Seven blocks.

Taking a deep breath, Michonne nearly took off.

No. Wait. West exit. Carter Street. Slightly longer route. Fewer people.

True. Centennial was crawling with rioters, some set on violence. Getting to her workplace had been a hassle. But worth it. The supply closets were loaded. Batteries, first aid supplies, and even two flashlights. Her colleagues had left non-perishable food behind too. Granola bars, trail mix, bottled water. Her backpack was already heavy with her find, and she still needed to get to her apartment and fill the duffel bag on her right shoulder.

In her left hand, she gripped Mike's 34" Louisville Slugger. An avid football fan, Mike had never played baseball a day in his life, and he wasn't too enthused when Michonne bought the bat for him. For home security. Since he wasn't keen on guns, which Michonne wasn't inclined to judge him for. She didn't love guns either.

Nobody's going to break in here, Meesh, he insisted. I'm on the top floor.

Michonne had simply ignored him and plopped it into his umbrella stand. It sat there for years untouched. Mike protested tonight when she grabbed it just before leaving. He did that a lot these days. Protested.

You don't have time for this, Michonne. Go.

She inhaled deeply. Launching herself from the door, she dashed to the left. She did not look back but whispered a breathless, "I'm sorry." The night was warm, the air thick with smoke and panic. She ran the entire seven blocks, dodging frantic, yelling people on her way.

She approached the back entrance of her building cautiously. Praying, she held her keycard to the card reader, hoping the building's power was still running. If not, she would have to use her key at the front entrance. The reader chirped, turned green, and the lock disengaged. Michonne pushed in with the bat raised. The hallway that led to the lobby was eerily still. In the dark, she could see that some of the plush chairs were overturned. Seeping across the floor was a large dark stain.

Michonne didn't dare get closer.

She cursed her twelfth-floor condo as she flew up the stairs, huffing as she reached her floor. Her heart nearly exploded out of her chest.

This hallway was clear and still too. She listened for the sound of her neighbors. Nothing. No signs of life.

It wasn't unusual. Her neighbors were chill, and the floor's normal quietness had always been a perk.

Not today. The silence frightened her. There was something wrong with it.

Paranoid, she crept to her door and put her ear to it to listen. Nobody should be there, but, after seeing Chris, she felt on edge.

The air of her condo was stuffy from her absence. She moved, barely pausing, filling her duffel bag with as many essentials as she could carry. Clothes, toiletries, candles, more batteries, snacks.

In her bedroom, she pulled the lockbox from the top shelf of her closet.

The Smith and Wesson was leaden and deadly in her hands. A thirtieth birthday and housewarming gift from her father. You never know, Kiddo.

After checking the safety, Michonne added the gun, the holster, the cleaning kit, and a box of ammo to the duffel bag. Her father would scold her for not carrying it if he could see her.

What's it going to do in your bag, baby girl?

Fair question, dear old Dad. Just let me work up to it.

She wasn't ready to openly carry a firearm through the streets. Streets that were bursting apart at the seams. The time would come. Those overturned chairs, that dark stain in the lobby. Yes, the time would come.

For now, it was going in the bag.

Despite her urgency, Michonne paused in her apartment, suddenly melancholy. She'd bought this condo a few years ago, her first home. Making excellent money at her firm and settling into Atlanta, it had felt like the next step in her life.

She loved this place. It was hers. The memories were good, warm. Dinner parties, drinking tea at the counter or on her balcony, weekends and summers with the twins, making love to Mike on the couch, in her king-sized bed.

Standing there Michonne knew, somehow, that she could never come back here again.

As she came to depressing terms with that, her eyes landed on the mantle. She stared.

A flicker. A nudge. Gentle fingers tapping on her prefrontal cortex, pushing.

She reached up and pulled one of the items down. It felt different than the gun had. Unlike her gun, she had handled this many times over the years. A product of nerdiness and sentimentality. This and its smaller cousin, perched on two nails a few inches south, had been housewarming gifts from her mother. Her mother who loved history and martial arts cinema in equal measure.

With a wink, Angelique had handed Michonne a slender, elegantly wrapped box.

Just as deadly as a gun, love. But more elegant, sophisticated. Like you.

Her parents had lovingly bickered about the gift's effectiveness. Decorations, her father scoffed, cleaning her new gun. Unfazed, Angelique watched her daughter open the box. Michonne fell upon her gifts as soon as she laid eyes on them, delighted. She looked up to thank her mother but paused at the look in her eyes. There was something serious about her expression, out of place in the playful atmosphere.

"Keep them where you can reach them, love."

That was all she said before the look in her eyes cleared, and then she smiled. Michonne thought of that look and her mother's words now. The clarity in them had frightened Michonne at the time. It filled her with a sense of foreboding, and she could never say why.

There was no way her mother could have known all of this was coming. Impossible. But that was Angelique. Knowing things without always knowing what she knew. She had always insisted she passed that gift on to her daughters.

It was with her mother's clarity, not her own, that Michonne put the smaller item in her bag. She strapped the longer one to her back as best she could with the backpack and duffel bag hanging off her.

She left her condo for the last time.

Atlanta, Georgia

Fourteen Days After the Outbreak

Phone lines jammed. Then they stopped altogether. Emails bounced back. The spinning circle of doom taunted those desperate to connect with loved ones.

A great wailing erupted in Atlanta.

Screaming. Pleading. Grating metal. Glass breaking. Gunfire.

Groaning. God, the constant groaning.

The world went dark.

Atlanta, Georgia

Fifteen Days after the Outbreak

Bang. Bang.

Stillness hovered. Echoed.

Bang.

Michonne lurched upright. Alarmed, she listened.

Seconds passed. Silence. She listened harder, leaning her body forward on the couch towards the door. Nothing still.

Was it a nightmare? Michonne tried to recall if she had been dreaming. Focusing was difficult. She was groggy from sleep. Her heart pulsed between her ears.

After more silence, Michonne was sure she'd dreamed the sound. She was wired and tense. Everyone was. Atlanta was a near war zone. Every day Michonne's resolve to leave strengthened. Mike and Terry would have to get on board.

She startled at a new sound. A door swinging open. Footsteps, scampering down the hallway. Mike. The length of the hallway shadowed him until he moved closer. The glow of the counters' puck lights illuminated his face. It was crooked with sleep and worry.

"Did you hear that, baby?"

The hair on Michonne's arms bristled.

Before she could answer, another door opened. Terry ambled down the hallway. He emerged into the light rubbing his left eye. Michonne didn't need to see it to know that it was red. He and Mike had smoked before bed.

"Wassup?" Terry asked, loudly, mouth swallowing air in a wide yawn.

Michonne shushed him and held up her hand. Terry frowned.

What the fuck? he mouthed to Mike who had turned to watch the door.

Moving without much thought, Michonne slipped off the couch and crept to the kitchen. She cut the lights over the counter, drowning the condo in near darkness. Only thick strips of moonlight fell across the hardwood floor. Terry retreated a few steps back towards the hallway as Michonne moved to the door. She let her fingers whisper across the lock and door guard, making sure they were engaged. Satisfied, Michonne took three steps away from the door.

They listened and waited.

The collective thudding of their hearts was almost audible. Mike pressed his hand to the small of her back, perhaps in an attempt to soothe her.

"It was probably nothing—"

A long and shrill scream clanged against the walls and reverberated down the corridor. It was so loud and desperate that Michonne felt it vibrating in her teeth. Mike stumbled back as if the person had screamed directly in his ear.

"Oh shit."

Bang! Bang!

Gunshots. Booming gunshots.

Coming from somewhere on their floor.

"What the fuck," Terry said, breathless.

Heart clambering up her throat, Michonne stared at the door, frozen. The stillness of the night fractured. There were more screams, some pleading. Thunderous crashes. Disjointed gunfire.

And then there was Mike behind her, and Terry behind him. Whispering stunned curses, desperate questions.

What's happening?

Fuck.

What do we do?

Oh shit. Shit.

What the hell is going on?

Two gunshots, only a breath between them.

Shit, we gotta…we gotta hide. What do we do?

A scream. Then another, louder than the last.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. They're slaughtering people.

Who, Michonne wondered. Who was slaughtering people? The questions came to her as if being whispered from another room. Her heart galloped. Still, she stared at the door, waiting.

Bang.

Waiting.

Somewhere down the corridor, a door slammed open. Michonne could hear it smash against the foyer wall, could hear the soft crunch of the plaster crumbling. Something heavy toppled to the floor. Someone shrieked.

Ashlyn, maybe.

Three condos down. Redhead, pretty, cordial. A corporate attorney and pilates instructor on the weekends. She had an obvious thing for Mike. The smiles, the sultry "Hey, Mike." Michonne noticed and never cared, despite Terry's teasing. Mike was handsome, charming, loyal. A blow-your-back-out panty-dropper, Michonne's bawdy aunt, Jocelyn, called him. A panty-dropper who didn't go in for white women. Unfortunately for Ashlyn.

Ashlyn—Michonne was sure now—screamed again.

And Michonne stood there. Waiting. The hardwood floors sprouted hands and held her in place. Right there by the door.

Mike and Terry continued to exchange panicked words behind her. They stood paralyzed too.

There was so much noise. Ashlyn screaming. Banging. Gruff voices. Shuffling. Groaning? Mike and Terry. The ocean in her ears. Her heart beating, beating, beating, faster than it ever had.

Then, abruptly, the noise stopped. Like the background hum of an air conditioner shutting off. The floor released her. Her head cleared.

Michonne moved.

She whirled around, startling Mike, who had been staring at the door.

"The guest bedroom. Now," she ordered.

Mike stared at her. She didn't wait for him to catch up. Couldn't afford to. She hauled them down the hall, the two larger men staggering behind her.

She shut the door, ignoring their confusion and protests. From the top dresser drawer, she pulled out an armful of clothes and shoved them into their arms. The shoes she tossed thumped at their feet.

"Hurry. We need to go."

Unresponsive, they stared at the items in their hands. Michonne repeated her instructions, stripping down to her bra and panties. Terry averted his eyes. She pulled on jeans, a black tank top, and black boots.

When they continued to hesitate, standing shirtless and dumbfounded, Michonne snapped.

"Change. Now. We have to go."

"Michonne, what—"

Mike spoke as he shoved on the clothes. Terry did the same, tripping as he pulled off his pants, Michonne's urgency having burned away any sense of propriety.

Michonne rushed to the closet. Grunting, she dragged out three full duffel bags.

"Yours," she said to Mike, pointing to a navy one. The burgundy one she shoved towards Terry. "Yours."

"When did you do this?" Mike asked, dressed and fumbling with the bag.

It was filled with clothes, supplies, and cash. The cash was just a precaution. One Michonne suspected they would no longer need. Money wasn't a cure, and it seemed it couldn't produce one either.

"A few days ago."

From the top shelf of the closet, she retrieved the gifts from her mother. One on her back, the other on her hip.

"Your swords?" Mike zipped up his bag and gawked at her. "What are you going to do with those?"

Videos of the sick circulated before the internet had gone down. By the time broadcast television went kaput, videos played on every news channel. But Mike had not seen it in person. He didn't know what happened to a body, what it looked and smelled like after the fever burned through it.

Michonne had.

She also knew the rumors.

Go for the head. Sever the brain stem.

She had yet to test that theory. Handcuffed by fear, she had left Chris to rot in that stairwell. His bulging eyes and sallow skin appeared in her dreams every night.

Glancing at the closed bedroom door, Mike asked, "What are you looking for now?"

They could still hear the commotion in the corridor. Even from the back of the condo.

Michonne pulled the Louisville Slugger and an aluminum bat from under the bed. Louisville for Mike; aluminum for Terry. They held them too loosely for Michonne's liking.

"Go for the head. You have to sever the brain stem. Otherwise, they won't stay down. Do not get bitten or scratched," Michonne explained.

Terry choked on a watery, hysterical laugh. Mike stared at the bat in his hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Michonne, this is crazy."

His voice trembled, and, despite the exigency, Michonne's heart quivered for him. It was crazy. All of it. Mike and Terry's reactions were appropriate. Sane even. None of them were prepared for this. This was a nightmare. Something straight out of Michael Crichton or Stephen King's imagination.

Michonne dropped her bags on the bed. Tenderly, she put her hands on Mike's face, caressed his cheeks with her thumbs. A breath shuddered out of him and he gripped her wrists.

"It is insane. I know that. But we need to leave. Right now," Michonne said.

Mike and Terry knew about her father's insistence on staying in Atlanta, Fort Benning if that fell through. They had relaxed, grateful that her father was echoing their desire to stay still.

Michonne didn't bother arguing that leaving Atlanta was inevitable. Instead, she prepped. Now they needed to go.

She kept her hands on Mike's face. Watched his eyes dart around the room. She let him come to terms with their reality. His frightened but resigned eyes finally landed on her.

"Fuck." He scrubbed his hand over his handsome face. "Okay, okay. Let's go."

"Nigga, you serious?" Terry asked.

Mike threw his hands up.

"People are being shot in the hall, Terry. We can't stay here. Maybe we can find somewhere else in the city, somewhere safe," Mike said.

Michonne let him go. There wasn't "somewhere safe" in Atlanta. One step forward. Another step back.

No, no, give him some credit.

At least Mike saw, finally, that they needed to leave the building. It was something. Terry would follow, even if reluctantly.

"We should go to the refugee camp in Piedmont," Mike said pulling the duffel bag over his head.

Prepared for this, Michonne shook her head as she walked toward the bedroom door.

"A refugee camp in the middle of Atlanta is the last place we want to be. It's chaotic out there in the streets. I've been out there. You haven't. The camp is too exposed. It's in the middle of the city," she said.

Mike put a hand on her stomach to block her movement.

"It's guarded by the military, Michonne."

"You've seen the news. You know the stories. How long do you think that camp will last without stable walls? Not to mention the virus spreads faster in close quarters."

"So where the fuck are we gonna go, huh? It's the military! They have supplies, guns!"

Mike never yelled. He was too mellow for such outbursts, and Michonne didn't tolerate them. Over the last two weeks, though, Mike had taken on a few new habits.

He sighed, realizing his octave. His face momentarily disappeared behind his hands, and he groaned.

"Shit, babe, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I'm just on edge."

Michonne stared at him. Then her eyes slid to the door. The noise from the corridor had stopped.

A bad sign.

"We need to get to the parking garage. My car is there. The west staircase is closest to us. We'll take that one." She moved around Mike to the door and placed her hand on the doorknob, leveling him a severe look. "And keep your voice down."

Michonne eased down the hallway and to the door. The corridor was grimly quiet. There was no movement through the peephole. Just the flickering emergency lights.

A flash of red. Then darkness. Repeat.

"They still out there?" Terry asked.

"Probably."

Disengaging the lock, Michonne edged the door open. A listless figure unfurled from an open doorway. One arm extended above the head, the other disappeared into the darkness of the apartment. There were several open doors, obviously kicked in. Including Ashlyn's.

Raiders.

The reason Michonne's father begged her to stay put. They weren't just confined to highways and backroads.

Many seemed motivated by greed. Others by panic. Some were just sadists who found ecstasy in the chaos.

Anarchy chased the heels of the outbreak. It was dizzying how quickly lawlessness had set in. Martial law had been instituted and usurped in less than four days.

Most disturbing was that the groups of raiders were unconnected. Just random clusters of degenerates feeding on the swelling fear and panic.

They invaded homes and businesses, looting and killing. Taking what they needed and what they didn't. Most times, they left as quickly as they came. Sometimes they took up residence, taking over mansions, factories, grocery stores.

…Apartment buildings.

Carnage was their signature.

The evidence of which Michonne, Mike, and Terry had to pass to reach the west stairwell. The emergency lights gave the pools of blood a shellac gleam.

It was a cautious trek towards the stairs, Michonne leading Mike and Terry down the corridor. Glaring in the dark, the EXIT sign beckoned them. The stillness was pronounced, tangible. Wrong somehow. There hadn't been any sounds in minutes. It agitated her.

Just make it to the stairs, Michonne thought. If they could make it to the stairs they would be alright.

Three condos between them and the exit. The first on the left, a body protruding from the door. Then Ashlyn's. Door open, quiet. The last door, on the left, open. Like Ashlyn's, no signs of life.

Michonne was just about to pass the first door when Mike stopped her. His hand was damp and hot on her arm, his mouthed words lost to her. It was too dark. But she understood. He wanted her behind him. Short on time, she complied.

And Mike transformed.

Standing at his full height, shoulders taut, he cut a menacing figure in the dark.

He was no longer the Mike of the last two weeks, cavalier and rattled. He wasn't even Attorney Mike, the coolheaded smooth talker.

This was varsity quarterback Mike. MVP Mike. Full ride athletic scholarship, pre-injury Mike. The one who liked to put his large frame to use, toss her around the bed, rough her up when she wanted it. The one who didn't have mercy on her.

That Mike led them past the first door. Something squelched, the carpet pulpy under their feet. The open door swallowed the lower half of the body into a dark abyss.

Matt. A software engineer. Matt had a girlfriend. Was she inside? Michonne hoped not.

The trio inched past the door.

Thud. Soft and subtle.

Michonne paused, looking into the apartment beyond the door. Not that she could see anything. Terry bumped into her and flinched back, frightened. Michonne listened.

Thud.

Mike turned slowly, as if afraid of what he'd see. Terry staggered into the opposite wall. The impact resounded down the hall.

They stared at the gaping wound of the door. Another thud sounded. Then another. Glass shattered. Michonne could hear the pieces splintering across the floor. Then a shuffling. More thudding.

Thud, shuffle, thud.

Someone…something…was walking towards them.

"Run," Michonne said. "Run now."

Terry launched himself from the wall. Mike whirled towards the stairs with Michonne on his heels. Just as they passed Ashlyn's condo, someone stumbled out of the third door.

The door just shy of the exit.

Terry's momentum was so great that he slammed into the person, knocking them both to the ground. The person let out an ugly, choked sound. Mike leaped over them, just avoiding a collision.

The emergency lights flashed. Red, darkness, red, darkness. Terry was pinned as he held the person at bay. With each flash of the lights, the person, teeth bared, drew closer to the soft skin of Terry's throat.

"Shit!" Terry yelped.

Behind Michonne, someone or something gurgled, as if using mouthwash. She turned. Matt jerked. First his head. Then his elbow. His back concaved sharply.

"Mike," Michonne said. "Get Terry."

Matt continued to heave to life on the floor. Out of the apartment's darkness spilled another body. Matt's girlfriend, bloodied, mouth open in a grimace, dead eyes focused on Michonne. Cloddish and ungainly, she toppled out of the door.

Michonne drew the sword from her back.

Both Matt and his girlfriend struggled to their feet. The girlfriend's leg appeared broken, canted at an unnatural angle. Like Chris' ankle in that stairwell. These two were fresher than Chris. Not as rotted. But they were the same. Dead but not dead.

Terry screamed to Michonne's right. Mike exclaimed something. There was grunting and groaning. That awful gurgling. Michonne could only focus on the two in front of her.

Not giving them the chance to fully rise, Michonne crouched and swung, cutting off Matt and his girlfriend's arms in a single swipe. They keeled headfirst to the floor like bikes without a kickstand.

Neither screamed. Or gave up their quest. Eerily in sync, both reached their opposite arms towards her.

"Fuck," Mike exhaled, somewhere to her right. "Fuck."

If he was skeptical before, he was persuaded now. These things were inhuman. This nightmare was real.

Michonne raised her sword again. She thought of Chris and how she left him in the stairwell, hungry and dead-eyed. She would not make that mistake here. With force, she plunged the sword's tip through Matt's skull. His movement ceased immediately. There was a sickening crunch as she dislodged her weapon. She did the same to Matt's girlfriend.

In her periphery, the shadows shifted. Michonne turned just as Ashlyn lunged for her. Pivoting, Michonne swiped up. Ashlyn stumbled. One, two, three steps. Half of her head sloughed off diagonally, the rest of her body following it to the ground.

When Michonne turned, Mike and Terry were slowly backing away from the crawling dead one, incredulous. Mike's bat dripped with blood. He'd hit the dead one in the head at least once. Michonne saw the gaping wound at its temple. But, evidently dumbfounded, neither man had finished the job. Michonne made quick work of Mike's neighbor. For a few moments, their harsh breathing was the only sound in the hall.

Terry slumped against the wall. "Fuck, man."

Mike mirrored his position. He stared at Michonne and reached for her.

"Shit. Are you okay, baby?"

Michonne ignored his extended hand. Her hands shook. She was shaky, vibrating from the inside out.

Still reaching for her, Mike stood straight. "How did you do that?"

She let Mike take her hand. It helped.

"I don't know. I just—I just did it."

She had training, sure. Mixed martial arts mostly—boxing, Taekwondo, grappling, and Muay Thai. And she had practiced with the swords. YouTube. Martial arts films. A surprisingly knowledgeable teen in her building. It challenged her. Just a fun way to keep in shape.

It was never meant to be practical. It was never meant for this.

Pulling away from Mike, Michonne shook out her limbs. She surveyed the corridor. It was filthy and odorous.

"Let's go," she said.

Neither man hesitated.

Atlanta, Georgia

Piedmont Park

Fifteen Days After the Outbreak

Michonne used to frequent Piedmont Park's running trail. At four miles, it was the perfect loop for a short run.

In the early days, when the virus was only a whisper, Michonne would frequently run past a man. He would station himself near the King of Pops cart. Always dressed in black cargo pants, he prophesied warnings into a megaphone.

The virus is coming.

Don't be fooled.

It's coming.

Sticky-fingered children stared. Parents covered their ears and ushered them away. Passing runners shook their heads in disbelief. A few stopped to listen. Michonne was among them a few times. At first out of boredom. Then, as the rumors grew persistent, out of interest. The man's warning grew more insistent, his predictions more ominous.

The end is coming.

Hyperbole, Michonne convinced herself. Cliche. All the man was missing was a cardboard sign. So why, she asked herself then, did her heart race when she made eye contact with him? Why was her gait so heavy as she jogged away? Past the near-empty dog park and botanical gardens.

Now surrounded by concrete Jersey Barriers, Piedmont Park hummed with dread.

Tents, canopies, shelters. Floodlights. Humvees. Armed soldiers.

People poured out of the tents. Lines extended as far as the eye could see. For what Michonne did not know. Food. Medicine, perhaps. Some people were ashen, covering bloody wounds. Soldiers stood guard everywhere, their faces gaunt and hard.

There was so much noise. Barked orders. Crying children. Injured people pleading for help. The endless murmuring—questions, questions, questions.

How fucking long is this line?

Did you see the thing they put down?

Mom, will we stay here now?

Do you think this is infected?

And then there were the endless rounds of gunfire. Soldiers were posted around the entrances to the park, shooting the encroaching undead.

More than anything, it was the noise that put Michonne on edge. So much noise. No doubt drawing more of the things. For every dead one put down, the noise had to draw at least three more.

"This place won't last."

"Why do you say that?"

Michonne turned to her left, not realizing she had spoken aloud. An older white man smiled at her. His face was kind, lined by life and what Michonne assumed was a love of laughter. He wore khakis, a floral shirt over a wife beater, and a bucket hat. Extending his hand, he smiled wider.

"Dale Horvath."

She shook his hand. "Michonne."

"A lovely name. French?"

Impressed, Michonne raised an eyebrow and nodded. Dale released her hand with a gentle squeeze.

"So, Michonne. Why won't this place last?"

Michonne looked around. Mike and Terry stood a few feet away. Aside from insisting on the refugee camp—despite Michonne's hesitance—both men had been quiet. Now they were chatting with a group of men, passing a blunt around the small circle. A soldier stood nearby, glancing at the blunt longingly, but otherwise ignoring the group. Better to have a group of relaxed men than panicked ones. Michonne turned to Dale, who had followed her gaze.

"Your husband?"

"Boyfriend. Boyfriend's best friend."

Dale nodded. "So?"

Michonne assessed him. How useful would it be to share her fears about this place? Especially when she had two men sure that the camp was a safe haven. Dale waited, smiling all the while. No alarm sounded in her gut at his keen gaze. She took that as a good sign.

"The noise," Michonne said. "There's too much noise. And it's too bright. It draws the dead right to us."

Dale frowned, thoughtful. "You think noise draws them?"

"And the light. They move towards what they can see and hear."

Dale observed their surroundings—the tall lights stationed at intervals around the camp, the movement of refugees and soldiers, the droning of voices, rising and falling, the gunfire.

"That's a reasonable observation. Do you have a lot of experience with them? The undead?" Dale asked. "God, I never thought I'd have to utter those words."

"I've been up close to a few."

He studied her, eyed her swords.

"I see. What do you do, Michonne? Or what did you do?"

Shaking her head, she smiled.

"Nothing that would have prepared me for this."

"So you're not a professional ninja?"

Michonne snorted. "Attorney."

"Criminal?"

"For a few years. Then medical malpractice."

"Well." Dale chuckled."You are very prepared for crazy then."

Michonne laughed, warming to him even more. They laughed together before Dale's eyes sharpened. He looked around them once more.

"I get the impression you're an intelligent woman, Michonne. You think this camp is doomed?"

"I think it's unsustainable, yes."

"An attorney indeed," Dale said, smirking.

"We're in the middle of Atlanta. The barriers are temporary. There are more people here than soldiers. Every day, the dead outnumber the living. Yes, this place is doomed, to use your word."

Dale fell silent, thinking. After a few moments, he turned and waved at two blonde women, one younger than the other. Both were pretty with blue-green eyes. Definitely related.

"Michonne, I want you to meet Andrea and Amy. Ladies, this is Michonne."

The younger one, Amy, smiled and waved. Andrea extended her hand. Her grip was firm and confident.

"Andrea is an attorney too. Civil rights."

"Not that it does us any good. Can't tell you how many civil rights violations I've witnessed in the last twelve hours. For fuck's sake. Also, nice to meet you," Andrea said.

Michonne liked her already.

Dale gestured for the women to move closer to him. In a whisper, he relayed Michonne's prediction. Amy's eyes widened while Andrea's narrowed. She nodded.

"Makes sense. This place is a clusterfuck. I can't see it lasting long."

Amy exhaled, sending her bangs flying. "So what do we do?"

Until now, Michonne's "we" had only included Mike and Terry. Her lover and friend, two men she was beholden to by love. Escaping Atlanta with others never crossed her mind. With more people, the risks increased exponentially. Especially since Michonne wasn't entirely sure what her plan was yet. Dale, Andrea, and Amy seemed nice enough, but Michonne didn't know them.

But, perhaps, sticking with more people was smart. It helped that this new "we" shared her concerns. Or didn't dismiss them.

"We leave."

All eyes landed on her. Only Amy seemed surprised, but, thankfully, not distressed. Dale whistled.

"Where do you suggest we go?"

"Out of Atlanta for starters. My father suggested Fort Benning."

She hadn't talked to her family since the phone lines went down. The last she'd heard, Savannah was collapsing, like Atlanta. Like everywhere.

"Why Fort Benning?" Andrea asked.

"It's fortified." Michonne disclosed what her father told her. "Either way, Atlanta's not safe anymore."

"Where does your father live?" Maybe Andrea sensed her worry.

"Savannah."

"Our parents are in Florida," Amy said, eyes downcast.

Sisters, then.

And Florida. Fuck. Florida might as well have been on another continent.

"I'm sorry," Michonne said. "I hope they're okay."

Andrea wrapped her arm around Amy's shoulder. They leaned into each other.

"So, we leave then?" Dale asked.

"Who's this, Michonne? And what's this about leaving?"

Mike settled behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He bent to kiss her neck. With eyes watching, Michonne didn't immediately pull away.

"Mike, this is Dale, Andrea, and Amy. This is my boyfriend Mike, our friend, Terry."

Mike shook each hand with an easygoing smile. Terry nodded and offered a "sup."

"Who's leaving?" Mike asked and kissed her neck again.

Michonne stiffened. PDA was the last thing she wanted at the moment. She patted his arm before disengaging from him.

"This camp isn't sustainable," she said in a low voice, not wanting to draw attention to their conversation. "There are too many people. Too much noise. The dead will be drawn here."

Mike looked down at her. "It's the military. These are trained soldiers."

Pressing her lips together, Michonne inhaled slowly.

"I know. But for every soldier here, there are at least a dozen people. The dead are drawn to noise. There's plenty of that here too. How long do you think this place can stand in Piedmont Park? There aren't even walls."

"You don't think being in here is safer than, what, leaving? Trying to get down the highway? We don't know what's out there."

"No, but I can guarantee that everything that's in the city will eventually get in here," Michonne said. "And we know how that ends."

"She's right," Andrea said, eyeing Mike. "This is the worst place for a refugee camp."

"Are we really thinking this through? Leaving this camp would be stupid," Terry said. "There's food here. Supplies. Trained soldiers, like Mike said."

Dale waved his hand in a so-so motion. With his chin, he gestured to the many lines snaking through the mazes of tents.

"I'm not sure the supplies or soldiers are enough."

Dale's voice was even and calm. Michonne wondered what he did for a living.

"I get your concern, Mike. I do," he continued. "We don't know what we'll find outside of Atlanta. But I think your beloved makes a good argument. This place is a ticking time bomb. Fort Benning might be a good option. More stable."

"We could travel together. There's safety in numbers," Andrea said.

Michonne was fine with joining forces. As long as they left. Soon. Mike turned away from her, his eyes scanning the tents, the people, the lines. She hoped he saw what she did. Not a safe haven as much as a powder keg. When he turned back to her, his eyes were hard, distrustful.

"Excuse us a minute," Michonne said, taking Mike's hand and pulling him away from the group.

Mike looked at everything but her. She moved until she captured his wayward eyes.

"Mike."

"We don't know what the fuck's out there. I get what you're saying, Michonne. I do. But you want us to leave a military camp to go to a military base? Why not just stay here then?"

Truthfully, her heart was not set on Fort Benning. It was the safer option, however.

Plus she made a promise.

"I've already explained why."

"How do you know this place is unsafe, Michonne? How do you know Fort Benning is even letting people in?"

"We don't. But we tried staying put, remember? You thought we'd be safe in your condo."

Mike sighed and turned away. He laced his hands behind his head. They were lucky the raiders had skipped Mike's condo. They were lucky to have made it out of his building alive at all. Michonne wasn't willing to rely on luck this time.

"Mike, baby. Look around. What do you see? Really."

To Michonne's relief, Mike looked. With sharp, judicious eyes. Eyes she was familiar with. He regarded the camp with the kind of look he devoted to his work, to the people he cared for, to her, to her body. He sighed, from somewhere deep in his gut. The drag of his knuckles across her cheek made her pussy flutter. She hadn't felt this for him in a while.

"Okay." He sighed again. "Okay, Meesh. Let's—"

It started with one scream. Ear-splitting. Everything near them stopped. The crowd held their breath. Another deafening scream. It was a domino effect. Because then there was more screaming. The crowd swelled then splintered, pockets of people running in every direction. Soldiers moved in the direction that people were running from. Towards the entrances. Gunfire detonated.

"Shit," Mike said.

Through the waves of people, Michonne made eye contact with Andrea. Michonne jerked her hand. Andrea took her cue and grabbed Amy. Terry needed little prompting. He ran towards Mike and Michonne. Dale took off behind him.

"Where's your car?" Michonne yelled as they ran.

She could barely hear herself over the roar.

"A few blocks over. RV," Dale said.

His chest heaved. He stumbled. But, determined, he kept up.

"Meet us on 10th street. Midtown High School. In the back. Near the trailers. Do you know where that is?"

"I do. We'll be there." Dale dodged someone moving too slow.

"Twenty minutes," Michonne said. "Okay?"

The warning was implicit. Twenty minutes and then they were moving on.

Andrea met her eyes as she sprinted. "We'll be there."

They split off. Michonne's group ran to the left, Andrea's group to the right. Around them, people fought off attackers. How did so many undead get into the park? Where were they coming from? To conserve energy, Michonne simply dodged them. Mike and Terry followed her lead. All of them struggled under their pace and the weight of their bags.

The crowd thinned as they cleared the 10th Street exit. The noise from the camp was still deafening—the gunshots, the screams, the tanks roaring. None of them looked back. They just ran, lungs close to bursting. The school's parking near the back trailers was empty, which is precisely why Michonne had hidden her SUV there.

"We should go," Mike said, tossing his bag in the trunk.

"Not yet." Michonne swung herself into the driver's seat. "It hasn't been twenty minutes."

Terry looked anxiously out the windows. "We don't owe them shit."

Michonne started the car but didn't drive off.

"Michonne," Mike said. "Come on."

"Not yet."

Dale, Andrea, and Amy still had ten minutes. For whatever reason, Michonne wanted to keep her promise to them. They seemed smart and wise. It could be helpful to travel together.

Mike stared at her in disbelief. "We just met them."

"Half an hour ago, neither of you wanted to leave the camp at all. Now you're both eager to leave?" Michonne demanded.

Terry slammed his fist into the back window. "Fuck! Let's go, Michonne."

Mike turned. He leveled Terry with a strict look.

"Don't do that shit again."

That was all he said. And then he stared at his friend. Abashed, Terry held up his hands.

"Sorry, man. Sorry."

Indifferent to Terry's outburst, Michonne kept her eyes forward. She kept the headlights off so as not to draw attention to their location.

Seven minutes left.

Terry kept quiet in the backseat. Mike gripped the grab handle, his eyes scanning every dark corner. His knee bobbed.

Five minutes.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

"They're almost out of time," Mike said.

Michonne was aware. Eyes forward, she placed the car in drive.

One minute left.

The glow of headlights washed over the Range Rover as the RV swung into the parking lot. Surprisingly, Michonne sighed in relief. Dale pulled the RV until their windows were parallel.

"Ran into some trouble," Dale said, smiling like nothing was wrong.

"Are you all okay?" Michonne asked.

Andrea popped her head out of Dale's window. "Peachy. Sorry for the wait."

She looked more frazzled than Dale did. Sweat matted her blonde tresses to her forehead and neck. Her skin was flushed a deep red.

"Good. I don't know what I-85 South looks like these days, but it's the fastest way. We can reroute if we need to."

"Lead the way," Dale said.

With little fanfare, the group eased onto 10th Street. Getting through the city was tedious. Roads were clogged with people, overturned cars, and bodies. It was harder for the RV to navigate the roadblocks, but Dale managed just fine.

I-75 South /I-85 South was clear. Just an eerily empty stretch of road extending into the distance.

I-85 North into Atlanta was a different story. It was bumper-to-bumper congested. Completely stalled. Cars were going nowhere. The road was so crammed that people sat outside of their cars, many leaning against their hoods and trunks. Some huddled together. More than a few people gestured with angry hands towards the city. No doubt wondering about the hold-up.

"Damn. That's a lot of people," Terry said.

"Yeah," Mike said. "Probably heard about the military being in Atlanta."

Even in the dark, Michonne could see the heads turned to follow their cars. People pointed after them. Something tugged at Michonne. If they continued to Atlanta, they'd be likely going to their deaths. There was no safety to be found there. Michonne slowed the car but continued on. With each passing face, many of them children, her heart plunged.

"They're just trying to find a safe place," Michonne said.

The car fell silent. They knew Atlanta wasn't safe. Michonne suspected the number of safe places was steadily decreasing.

They continued cautiously down the highway, the line of cars on the other side of the road never-ending. Michonne grew heavier. The Atlanta skyline towered in the rearview mirror.

"Maybe we should warn them."

Mike sighed. "You want all those cars following us to Fort Benning?"

"We don't have to tell them where we're going. There are kids over there. Families. People going to Atlanta because they think it's safe. We know it's not."

"There's hundreds, if not thousands of people over there, Michonne. We can't save them all."

Michonne slowed enough so she could glance at him. He leaned back in the seat, hand still gripping the handle, one leg propped up. He kept his eyes on the road. Like they were on a road trip, not fleeing the apocalypse.

"We don't need to save everyone. But we can warn some of them."

"We barely made it out of Atlanta. Leaving was your plan all along. You wanted to wait for people we just met. Now you want to stop for people we don't know?"

"If we're following that logic, you shouldn't have much to complain about. You never wanted to leave. What're a few more minutes to help people?" Michonne said, trying to keep her irritation in check.

"Well, you convinced me. We're doing what you wanted."

Michonne recoiled. "Are you fucking kidding me, Mike? You think I was, what? Trying to get my way? I was trying to keep us safe."

Mike sucked his teeth and pushed his head into the headrest.

"And you did. So let's keep going."

Anger, hot and sharp, flared in her chest. His dismissiveness baffled her. This wasn't the Mike she knew. This wasn't the Mike who volunteered weekly with a youth sports program, who had an open-door policy with the kids. This wasn't the Mike who doted on her niece and nephew. This certainly wasn't the Mike that checked on Mrs. Johnson, the elderly woman who'd lived on the first floor of his building.

Michonne struggled to find words for him. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt.

A Honda Civic veered onto the grassy median, then swerved onto the highway. Their side of the highway. Michonne jerked the wheel, angling her car around the intrusion. Mike cursed. Terry cried out. They narrowly missed a collision as Michonne pulled onto the shoulder and braked hard.

Dale wasn't as lucky. Rather, the smaller car wasn't. The bulky front of his RV slammed into the Honda. With a screech, the Civic careened and spun down the road before it slid to a stop in the embankment. The RV skidded to a stop a couple of yards down the highway.

Limbs trembling, Michonne climbed out of the car.

"Michonne, wait," Mike protested.

She ignored him and ran to the Honda, calling out to Dale. She reached the Honda as Amy emerged from the RV, looking shaken. Andrea followed behind. Neither looked injured. Dale joined them. He slumped against the side of the RV.

"Dale, are you okay?" Michonne asked.

"Fine, fine. I'm just catching my breath."

Andrea pressed gently, checking for injury. Dale waved her away with a shaky laugh. He repeated his assurances. Michonne turned back to the Honda. The driver was tall, his head nearly touching the car's ceiling. He sat frozen, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

"Hey," Michonne said, knocking gently on the window. "Are you okay?"

The man didn't move. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. His blue plaid shirt clung to his sweaty skin. Michonne knocked again.

"Do you need help?"

He whipped his head towards her, eyes confused, and she stepped back. He looked around then back at her. Easing the door open, he swung his long legs out.

"Sorry 'bout that ma'am. Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay. Are you hurt?"

The man stood from the car. He towered over her.

"Don't suspect I suffered too much damage. I'll be sore though. It's my own fault."

"What's your name?" Michonne asked.

"Name's Jim, ma'am. Sorry about swerving into the road like that. Are you okay?"

Michonne nodded. "We're fine. Why don't you sit back down?"

Jim glanced around. Michonne did too. A couple of people from the other side of the road were making their way over. Mike and Terry approached. Jim looked down at her and nodded. He sat down with his legs hanging out of the car.

"Can I inspect you, Jim?" Michonne asked. "Just to make sure you're okay."

"You a doctor?"

"Nope. Lawyer."

"You're awful pretty for a lawyer. Hope you don't mind me saying so."

"You've never seen a pretty lawyer before, Jim?"

He shook his head. "Not where I'm from. They were old, fat, or bald. Sometimes all three, ma'am."

"Michonne. You can be old, fat, bald, and pretty, you know."

"Maybe so. Not those guys though. But gon' head and take a look."

Michonne bent over him and prodded gently. He winced when she pressed her fingers into his left shoulder.

"Yeah, you'll be sore. But you don't look too bad."

"First time anyone's said that to me."

Michonne smiled. "I doubt it. Are you in a hurry to get somewhere? You pulled out fast."

Jim lowered his eyes. Then he looked behind her. Mike and Terry were standing there, faces pinched. Terry wasn't all that intimidating on his own, but standing next to Mike, the two made a fearsome pair. Michonne gestured for them to back up. Neither did. She sighed.

"I'm real sorry about that, ma'am—"

"Michonne."

"Michonne," Jim corrected. "This is gonna sound crazy, but I just got a real bad feeling looking at Atlanta. Like I should turn my car around as soon as possible."

"You could have killed us, bruh," Terry said.

"Believe me, I'm sorry," Jim said, glancing at the gathering crowd. "I just got a bad feeling."

Andrea, Dale, and Amy approached. Dale was steadier on his feet. He approached with the smile Michonne had come to expect of him in the short time of their acquaintance. Michonne quickly assured them that Jim was fine.

"His car might not be," Andrea said, inspecting the back. "There's a lot of damage."

"Serves me right," Jim said.

Michonne turned, prepared to ask Terry to grab a bottle of water for Jim, when she saw others approaching. She zeroed in on a man with the gun strapped to his belt. His gait was powerful and authoritative, his build muscular. He had thick, wavy black hair, large ears, and a broad nose. Handsome, definitely.

"You folks alright?"

A country boy. Thick-accented. And a cop. Even without his badge affixed to his belt, she would have known. Rural cops had a way of carrying themselves. His inquiry was practiced like he'd done it a million times.

Standing beside him was a slender woman with long brunette hair. His wife, probably. Following them was a Hispanic man wearing blue Wrangler jeans and a white t-shirt.

"We're all good," Mike said. He extended his hand to the officer. "Mike."

"Shane Walsh," he said, shaking Mike's hand. "Sheriff's Deputy in King County."

"Shit. You coming to arrest me, officer?" Jim asked.

Shane put his hands on his hips. Yes, Michonne thought, definitely a man used to authority.

"No, sir. I ain't here for that. Just making sure you folks are okay."

"We're okay, officer," Dale said. "Just a minor accident."

Michonne continued to watch the officer, Shane. His eyes landed on her and lingered. First on her face, then on her swords, the one on her hip in particular.

"Officer," she said.

His eyes moved to her face.

"Ma'am," Shane said. "Quick reflexes. I saw you swerve."

Michonne shrugged. The woman reached to touch Michonne's arm. She introduced herself as Lori, the man with them as Martinez.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Michonne said. "Thank you."

Shane continued to watch her before turning to Jim.

"What made you swerve like that, man?"

Jim repeated his ominous feeling. Andrea and Michonne exchanged a look. Dale looked at Jim thoughtfully. By now, Mike and Terry were leaning on the passenger door of Jim's car.

"Must be clairvoyant then," Mike said.

The newcomers turned to him.

"Why do you say that?" Lori asked.

"Atlanta's not safe," Michonne said. "Were you heading to the refugee camp?"

"Yes," Lori said. "We heard the military was there. Guarding the CDC and setting up a place for people."

"The camp probably isn't standing anymore," Andrea said. "The CDC might be viable, it's fortified, and we heard they're working on a cure, but getting through the city is impossible right now."

Lori's eyes widened. She looked at Michonne, as if awaiting confirmation. Pleading with her eyes for Michonne to give her different news.

Michonne nodded, watching the woman's hope diminish. "It's true."

"You're sure?" Shane asked. "You're absolutely sure?"

Michonne could tell by his face that he knew. He was sharp. She saw him working it out. If they were on the highway, it meant the camp was a no-go.

"It was chaos," Dale said. "People running and screaming. The dead got in somehow. It was in Piedmont Park. Not a lot of ways to keep it safe."

"Fuck," Shane breathed.

Lori gripped his hand. He pulled her into his side and kissed her forehead.

The reality washed over Shane, Lori, and Martinez. Their faces fell. Martinez glanced across the median, towards the other side of the highway.

"My kids are over there," Martinez said. "What do I tell my kids? My wife?"

"Hey," Shane said. "Atlanta's still standing, man. We can try."

Mike stared at Michonne. His eyes were so heavy that she felt them on the side of her face. Without turning to him, she knew he was pleading with her to keep their destination a secret. Their group was drawing attention, probably because Michonne, Dale, and Jim's cars were the only ones on this side of the road.

Why would a Range Rover and RV be traveling in the opposite direction of presumed safety?

"You can try. But you won't find what you're looking for. That's what we're trying to tell you," Michonne said.

Mike sighed, loudly, and stalked away. Terry followed.

"There's gotta be something," Shane said.

He narrowed his eyes at Mike's retreating back. Then he turned to Michonne, eyes insistent.

"I understand it's hard to hear," Michonne said. "The city's the perfect place for the virus to thrive. And it has thrived. The dead are everywhere. If it's not the dead, it's the living. There are raiders. People who are taking over whatever they can get their hands on, killing for it. Believe me when I tell you, Officer Walsh, we stayed in Atlanta as long as we could."

Shane pushed two hands through his hair. "Goddamn."

"And the CDC just isn't an option?" Lori asked.

The CDC was an option Michonne had considered. The story was that scientists were working to understand the virus and develop a cure. Last Michonne had heard, there was military personnel stationed around the CDC to guard it. It was locked down, however. Nobody was going in or out.

It was a very last-case scenario, one Michonne wasn't willing to bank on at the moment.

"Right now, I'd suggest staying far away from the city."

Searching Michonne's face, Lori nodded. Shane reached for her before she could reach for him. Michonne looked for Mike. He and Terry were standing on the median, their heads bent together. Michonne pursed her lips and turned back to Jim.

"Let me get you some water," she said.

"That's very kind of you," Jim said.

Michonne turned to her car and stopped. They all looked up at the booming sound. In the distance, they could hear the sound of an approaching aircraft. It sounded like multiple aircraft. Heading in their direction.

The highway fell silent.

The collective stillness unnerved her. Perhaps more than anything else had.

"What's that?" Amy asked.

Michonne and Shane came to the realization at the same time. They locked eyes.

"Fighter jets."

Michonne bolted, passing Mike and Terry on the median. Mike yelled out. Someone was right behind her, dogging her heels. Shane. Lori and Andrea not too far behind. Mike's voice trailed them. He must have been running too.

Michonne weaved through the cars, jumped down the embankment, and sprinted up the incline into the woods. She ran until they reached higher ground. Atlanta's outline stood against the dark sky from their perch. The jets drew closer, the sound exploding across the sky.

"Oh my god. What are they doing?" Andrea asked.

"They wouldn't," Shane said. "They wouldn't."

Mike and Terry thundered up behind Michonne. Mike's words stalled as the first bomb dropped. Michonne had never heard anything like it, a rumble so deep her gums tingled.

More bombs fell. Columns of fire sprouted from the impact.

Atlanta was on fire.

And the screaming.

They could hear it miles away.

Because thousands of people were screaming. All at once.

Shane rocked backward. Lori collapsed to her knees, sobbing, her hand gripping the leg of Shane's pants. Stunned, Michonne covered her mouth.

"Mike," she said. "Mike."

He hugged her from behind, and she wobbled in his arms.

"This can't be happening," he croaked. "This ain't fucking real."

Those around them were in varying states of disbelief. Some wept openly. Others buckled. Most were too stunned to speak, only able to watch the flames spread.

"They can't do that!" someone yelled. "They can't do that!"

But they did. Atlanta—Atlanta—had just been bombed.

Fuck, Michonne thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The screams were so loud now. As if they had traveled the miles down the highway and up the hill. It took Michonne a second to realize that the screaming wasn't coming from Atlanta.

It was coming from the highway.

Lori jolted away from Shane and stood.

"Carl!" Hair flowing behind her, she rushed down the hill. "Carl!"

Shane followed, quickly overtaking Lori. They disappeared out of sight. Michonne turned, prepared to run after them.

"No, Michonne. Let's just go. We've already waited too long."

"They might need our help."

"That's not our problem!"

Face smoothing, Michonne retreated from Mike. Two steps.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He bent over. Then he straightened abruptly and pulled her to him, turned her around to face the burning city. "Look at Atlanta. Look!"

She yanked away from him. "I see it. We all see it."

His face puckered in despair. It was more emotion than she'd seen from him in weeks. This was that tumultuous thing she saw in his eyes, the thing he tried to smother.

"This is crazy, Michonne. I mean, fuck. What are we even doing? Where are we going?"

"We have a plan."

"For what, baby? Huh? For what?"

Her stomach nosedived at his words. They gutted her.

The look in his eyes frightened her. In that moment, he frightened her. But she didn't show it.

He needed her strength, her surety. She could give him that. Reeling, heartbroken, confused, she could give him that. Bombs had just been dropped on her home, for god's sake.

But she could be strong for him. He'd held her up before.

The screaming continued to cycle through the trees.

"Mike, I'm going to help. You don't have to, but I need to."

She left him there on the hill as she ran towards the highway.

Panicked, people ran in every direction. Nearest her, a group of men shoved each other harshly, exchanging threats. Children sobbed. Parents attempted to soothe them. The flames and smoke from Atlanta billowed over the tree line.

"What do we do?"

"Where's my daughter?"

"Do you think they'll bomb the highway?"

"Have you seen my wife?"

"Where can we go?"

It was the groaning that turned Michonne's skin to ice. The dead had made it to them, likely drawn by the noise. There must have been a dozen in Michonne's line of sight.

"Oh god," Andrea said from beside Michonne. "Where the fuck did they come from?"

Michonne unsheathed her sword. "Don't know. Go for the head."

On light feet, she weaved through the cars, yelling at whoever would listen.

"Get in your car! Lock the doors!"

Some listened. More scattered, too afraid to think clearly. The most frightened people ran right into the dead.

Skin came off. Chunks of shoulders, necks, faces.

The screaming intensified.

Horrified at the scene, many froze. Too many.

Michonne shoved an immobilized mother holding an infant into the backseat of a car. She then grabbed another woman and pushed her into the front passenger seat. Startled, the women stared at her.

"Lock this door. Now."

Only when she heard the lock click did she move on.

"Right on, lady," a grizzled man said.

He held a crowbar covered in blood and brains.

"You know how to kill them?" Michonne asked driving her sword into the head of a waif-like dead one.

"Sure do."

"Good."

Michonne left him to it.

A few cars ahead, a woman screamed. She shoved a large creature away from her only to fall back against the station wagon. Two sets of small hands banged on the window. A boy and a girl. The creature lumbered towards the woman again.

"Carl!"

It was Lori's voice, but Michonne couldn't see her. A few feet away, Shane wrestled with a man. A living one.

Station wagon woman screamed bloody murder. Michonne ran, hard. When she was close enough she sliced off the creature's arm.

Unfazed, it turned to her and growled. Michonne thrust her sword forward, miscalculated, and the sword went through the dead one's chest. It pushed forward which propelled her backward, nearly off her feet.

"Fuck," Michonne grunted. "I don't think so."

She planted her feet and then brought her right leg up in a surefooted front kick. The force of it dislodged her sword. She raised it and sliced the dead one's head in half. It crumped to the ground.

"Oh my god," the woman on the ground said. She sobbed.

She was dressed in a cardigan and had short grey hair.

Michonne helped her to her feet. "Were you bitten or scratched?"

Trembling, the woman shook her head. "No, no."

"Good. You're okay."

"Carl!" Lori yelled.

She pulled the backdoor open. The boy threw himself into her arms. They exchanged tearful words. The short-haired woman reached for the girl. They clung to one another. Michonne stood back and let them have their reunion. She looked around, her sword held at her side.

No dead approached.

Shane joined them, sweaty and hair matted to his forehead. Blood trickled from his lip.

"You okay, Uncle Shane?" the boy asked.

Shane swept the boy into his arms. "Yeah, man, I'm good. You okay?"

The boy, Carl, nodded. Lori stood and assessed Shane's face.

"What happened?"

"Some fucker trying to take our car," Shane said. "I knocked him out."

The boy stared at Michonne, his eyes traveling from her face to the sword at her side. She winked. Blushing, he smiled and ducked his head.

"Thank you," the grey-haired woman said. "I didn't know what to do."

Michonne nodded and smiled at the little girl. "You okay?"

The girl nodded eagerly. "Yes ma'am."

"Shane, what do we do?" Lori asked drawing Carl against her.

He continued to stare at Michonne.

"We need to—"

"FUCK!"

Michonne's heart sunk. She whirled. Her eyes searched frantically through the tumult.

She ran. "Mike!"

She couldn't see him. Where was he? She was sure it was his voice. She knew his voice.

"Mike!"

"Michonne! Over here!"

Terry. In the median. Crouched over Mike. Mike who was writhing in the grass, screaming. Dale, Andrea, and Amy hovered nearby. A car sped away, fishtailing before regaining control and zooming down I-85 South.

No, no, no. Please. No.

Footsteps thundered behind her. Michonne didn't turn to see. She just ran.

"What happened?" she demanded.

Terry moved out of her way. He laced his hands behind his head.

"The car came out of nowhere, man. Hit him. Mike tried to jump out of the way."

Michonne knelt beside Mike. He was curled into a ball.

"Fuck," he screamed again. "Fuck."

"Baby, let me see," she said, voice measured.

She felt anything but fucking calm.

"My knee," Mike groaned, voice thick with pain.

"Here," Shane said from behind her.

She took the heavy flashlight he offered her. Gently, she rolled up the leg of Mike's jeans. As much as it would go. He winced.

"Shit, man," Terry said. "Shit."

Mike's knee and the area around it had ballooned so dramatically that it looked like it would burst. Even through his jeans they could see the swelling.

"Can you move it? Even a little bit?" Michonne asked.

Mike shook his head. He met her eyes, and his were watery.

"It's my ACL," Mike said. "I landed wrong when I tried to jump out of the way."

Fuck.

An ACL tear was horrible at the best of times; it was catastrophic at a time like this.

"Are you sure?" Dale asked. "Maybe it's just a sprain."

"He's torn it before," Michonne said.

The group deflated at the news, at the almost certain diagnosis.

"Let's get him off the road," Shane said.

Dale sighed. "We all need to get off this road. The dead will just keep coming."

"He's right," Andrea said.

Michonne rubbed her hand across Mike's forehead. He gripped her thigh.

"Y'all looking for a place to go?"

They turned. Two men stood a few feet away, watching the group. The one who'd spoken was tall with short-cropped hair, a plethora of tattoos covering his arms, wearing a black leather vest. A serated bowie knife hung from his belt. Beside him stood a slightly shorter man. More muscular. Long, greasy hair. Shrewd eyes and downturned lips.

"You know a place?" Shane asked, standing to his full height.

He was Deputy Shane Walsh of King County now.

Bowie knife spit. A long ribbon of dark mush. He and Shane sized each other up. Shane's hand went to the butt of his firearm. Sensing the tension, Dale stepped forward.

"We do need a place. Somewhere secluded, perhaps. Where the dead can't easily go. We've got an injured man here."

The man with the knife peered around Dale and Shane to where Michonne still hovered over Mike. His face twisted in disgust at Mike before he leered at her. He pursed his lips at her in a vulgar kiss. Shane planted himself in front of Michonne, blocking the man's view of her.

"There's some campgrounds near here. Three exits down. High up. Above the quarry. Doubt the retarded fucks can climb that high."

Michonne examined Mike's leg. It would continue to swell. And he couldn't walk on it. It was best to get off the highway, get him settled. He was in no condition to travel at the moment. Not far at least.

"We should get off the road," she said to Mike quietly. "Get you off your feet."

Mike turned away from her. Angry and pained, he grimaced.

"That sounds perfect," Dale said. "Will you lead us there?"

The man tried to peer around Shane again.

"Sure. We're nice fellas. Ain't that right, little brother?"

The long-haired man grunted.

"My brother don't talk too much," the man said. "Name's Merle. This my brother Daryl."

Nobody said anything in response.

"Since we feelin' generous and all, we'll take you nice folks on up there. I'm guessin' that pretty Range Rover belongs to you, sweetheart?"

Michonne stood, sword in hand, next to Shane. She nodded.

"It is."

"There she is," Merle said. He grinned wide. "How's about we pull up next to you and that ugly ass RV. Whoever's coming bets to come on. For we leave ya."

Merle turned. Daryl followed.

"Are we sure we want to follow them?" Andrea asked. "They're bad fucking news."

"Ain't no doubt about that. But we need a better location," Shane said looking down at Mike and then at the continuing chaos around them. "Now."

"Let's put him in the RV. It has a bed in the back. He's tall. He can stretch out," Dale volunteered.

Mike cried out as Terry and Shane lifted him to one foot. Michonne took Shane's place so that he could tell Lori about the new plan. They hobbled Mike to the RV and settled him down. Dale handed him a bottle of Ibuprofen and left them alone. Michonne lingered on the edge of the bed, pressing her hand to his cheek.

"We'll get you somewhere safe," she said.

Mike groaned as he shifted. His eyes hardened. Wordlessly, he turned away from her.

Michonne watched him for a few seconds. "I'll be right in front of you."

"We'll take good care of him," Dale said. "Terry's gonna ride with us. Andrea will ride with you."

"If that's okay," Andrea said.

Michonne nodded. "Of course. Come on."

Outside of the RV, people continued to panic. Many had turned their cars around and driven away. Where, Michonne would never know. She stared down the road. Andrea sighed next to her.

"This is so fucked up."

Michonne pulled her hair up and then let her locs drop. "It is."

Andrea rubbed her arm. "Let's go. Before that crazy fuck leaves us behind."

Shane pulled up with Lori and Carl in tow. A few more cars followed. Martinez and his family. The grey-haired woman, her husband, and their daughter. A white van driven by a large black man with a beautiful, gap-toothed smile. A handsome Asian guy who couldn't have been more than twenty rode shotgun. Two more cars that Michonne didn't bother looking into.

As they drove away, Michonne gazed in the rearview mirror.

Atlanta continued to burn.