Shane has to remind himself over the next several days that the way the world is now just seems prone to Murphy's Law. What can go wrong, does. Luckily, some protective bubble seems to surround him and the kids, and he's starting to think guardian angels have to exist. If so, they're likely exhausted, keeping up with their quartet.
Inspecting the fire's damage path that first day, he remembers wishing for a thunderstorm to make sure the remaining embers were doused. Apparently, Mother Nature was listening all too well. After looting the consignment shop for clothing for the girls and clearing a lot of food and supplies from the local farm co-op store, Carl wisely suggested collecting his own clothing. Apparently, what he took with him didn't make a dent in what he left behind, because the boy easily packed up more than a week's worth of sturdy clothing instead of the summery ones he took to Atlanta.
As they left the Grimes' house, Shane spotted the girls looking at the sky and frowning. "The clouds look weird, Shane," Sophia told him. "We were trying to remember the kind of clouds that do that."
Recognizing the incoming rainbands of a tropical storm made Shane curse and hustle the kids home. They were about to get more rain than he wanted.
That prediction proved correct, making him glad the part of his property the house was on wasn't a low lying area. The creek on one side flooded, a rapid rise as night fell, leaving them essentially on an island for hours before the water slowly drained away once the rain stopped. Then the next round of thunderstorms hit. Four days worth of rain, as the damn storm either stalled or moved so slowly he couldn't tell if it was moving at all.
Thank God these kids were already used to being trapped inside, and his house, even half remodeled as it is, is a damn sight better than that hot, stuffy attic room. There's at least plenty of space to spread out, air circulation, and most importantly, a bathroom.
He hopes that wherever the others are, they found shelter after that fire, and that any storms in the area just dumped a lot of rain and wind on them. Venturing out on the fifth day after the storm hit, Shane finds that his property is relatively intact, aside from some good sized limbs blown out of the oak trees, but further down the road, Arthur's place lost an white oak that was probably two hundred years old or more. The oak took out half of Arthur's late wife's prized southern magnolia, shearing most of one side's limbs when the mammoth tree tumbled down.
It missed the road, but gave him the warning he carries back to the kids. "Think we're going to see trees down in several places. Might not be able to travel the same roads easily."
All three look thoughtful as they prepare packs to take with them, surrounded by romping puppies. "Can't really use a chainsaw anymore, can you?" Beth muses with a sigh.
"Depends on the size of the tree," he tells her. "We'll stop at Arthur's and borrow his. Anything small enough, we'll remove. Anything big, we route around. Things look too dangerous, we come back here. Got it?"
The goal is to make it as far as the Greene Farm. Surely the walkers will be gone by now, if the farmhouse is still standing. They can leave a message for the others. If anything of Senoia is left, they'll make a note there, too.
He rechecks that all three have their little pistols, backup ammo, and belt knives. When they stop at Arthur's for the chainsaw, he watches them as they see the two trees and really understand what he said about storm damage. Back in the Jeep, he sighs. "If I use the chainsaw, y'all will be on lookout and guard. Not as likely to have walkers in the fire area, at least."
As they cross into the blackened land, he's at least right about that. Several humanoid bodies can be seen here and there, all most likely walkers before the fire got them. Unlike living things that run from fire, walkers travel to it. That much is a favor, at least.
Senoia is a complete loss. Some of the buildings are vaguely recognizable, but only because Beth grew up here. She sniffles a little from her spot in the front passenger seat, pup held close to her chest. Shane lets her be, concentrating on the road, but Sophia leans forward, hugging her around the seat.
When they reach the turnoff to the farm, Shane stops the Jeep. He already suspects what they're going to find. On either side of them, signs of the fire scar everything, with only the largest trees still standing. Whether or not they'll recover, only time will tell.
"We don't have to go look," he offers, looking at the two girls.
Beth shivers but shakes her head. "I want to know."
It's the least he can do for her, so Shane turns down the long drive. The sight is a grim one. The historic farmhouse is in ruins, only two of the three brick chimneys still standing. All of the outbuildings are gone, piles of burnt wood. He wishes they hadn't come as Beth starts crying in earnest. Shane and Carl lean in, adding their comfort to Sophia's as best they can.
"Well, now we know," Beth mumbles, after blowing her nose on a tissue Sophia offers her. "Guess we keep looking, and at least they weren't here."
The lack of any burned out vehicles supports Beth's theory, so Shane just suggests she might want to sit in the back with the others, waiting for her to settle in the middle seat surrounded by friends and puppies before leaving. He has to stop to use the chainsaw before they reach the blocked highway. A fire damaged hickory tree didn't outlast the storm.
The jam is another dead end, cars fire damaged as the fire had enough power to cross the highway here. They continue, searching the area and finding nothing but the fire's ravages. All of Coweta County seems gone under the elemental's hunger.
"What do we do now?" Carl asks, sounding exhausted.
Shane stops the Jeep so he can turn and face the kids. "We go back to my place and make it as safe as we can. Then we hope someone thinks to come looking for us." He sighs deeply. "I am sorry. I promised to find them."
Sophia gives him a wavering smile. "You did look. It's not your fault about walkers and fires. Plus they say in school not to keep wandering if you're lost, but to sit still until you're found. We're gonna sit still."
When the other kids nod in agreement, Shane feels relief he didn't expect. Failing the kids is not an option. But the more they drive around, the more risk he takes ending up trapped in something he can't get them out of.
With a heavy heart, he sets course for home.
Being trapped in the quarry for four days of almost constant rain makes Glenn realize they have to find another home base. As everyone dodges the mud to venture outside, he calls for their attention and announces they can't stay here.
"Where do we go?" Dale asks. He and T-Dog are the only ones really paying attention. Rick is such a shadow of himself that Glenn wonders if he should be concerned the man will turn suicidal like Jacqui and Andrea.
"There's a state park not far from Atlanta that could work. There's a lake to fish in, and maybe places Otis can hunt. It's north of where the farm was, so T-Dog, Maggie, and me can keep looking for the others and gather supplies, too." At least he hopes Maggie will manage. Her grief has him worried.
Dale glances at Rick, who is back on top of the RV on watch, but seems to understand why Glenn doesn't include Rick in planning, here or at a future location. "How far is it from here?"
"Less than twenty miles. I went camping there once with some college friends." That trip doesn't compare to the unending camping trip since the world ended. "They have furnished yurts."
Since no one argues, Glenn actually gets everyone loaded up and on the move before noon. Even Maggie and Rick show some sparks of life at having a goal to aim for. Driving the wrong way on the freeway, they reach the proper exit within an hour of leaving the quarry. There's a bit of a hitch in having to clear out a half dozen walkers, but the park is reasonably intact, and the fire didn't reach this far north.
"Think we could move the yurts to higher ground? No fences has me spooked after the last few weeks," T-Dog suggests as he and Glenn check through the visitor's center. The place has solar power, part of some eco-friendly thing the state is trying out. "This place might hold us all inside, but Jesus it's hot in here."
Glenn thinks over the area and grins. "The roof. It's flat, and we can put them on the roof for sleeping quarters and use the bathrooms down here to have running water."
With that plan in mind, they go to find the others. It's definitely a weird feeling for Glenn to realize he's somehow become the fragmented group's leader, despite being one of the youngest. With his family so far away and Maggie right here with him, he's more insulated from the grief plaguing Rick, Andrea, and Otis.
Hershel sets the heavily laden basket on the counter near the door as he enters the small farmhouse. After the rain stopped this morning, he loaded everyone up and sought a way back home. It didn't take long to determine the county he spent his entire life in was gone, turned to charcoal under the raging wildfire. With two vulnerable women and Jimmy to look after, he turned back west.
It doesn't take long to find his cousin's farm. There was a time when Hershel thought George was crazy, with the way he holed up on his scrap of land and went off grid. Maybe the man was smarter than his college educated cousin, since there's no way his place would fall easily to even a herd of walkers. Thankfully he has the gate code to the little compound from years of free veterinary services offered, Hershel brought them here in hopes of sanctuary.
It is a safe haven, although an uninhabited one. For all his rants about end times and corrupt government, the reality overwhelmed George, or maybe he got sick. Hershel's just glad no one was with him when he found the dead man hung in the barn, and that the man left his animals loose so they didn't starve.
"How's she doing?" he asks Patricia, who reaches for the basket of scavenged garden vegetables. With the house's third bedroom acting as a prepper's pantry, they aren't hurting for food, but might as well enjoy the fresh food while they can.
"She ate on her own, at least. Still staring off vacantly and not talking, but we won't have to do another IV, I think. I sat her out on the porch to see if the sunshine might do her some good."
Hershel finds that Carol is eating is good news indeed, because he's almost out of supplies to help her. His truck was a mobile office, never meant for long term support. He still intends to take Jimmy raiding soon to find replacement medical supplies. They can't risk being without them. The last few months taught him that much.
Patricia calls Jimmy to come peel potatoes, so the teenager leaves the book he's reading to assist his mother. Hershel takes a minute to check what the book is on his way by. It makes his heart ache to see the Army Survival Manual. It's knowledge the boy needs, so he should remember to encourage him to keep studying.
On the porch, Carol is seated on the porch swing, sunlight bathing her too pale skin and making her look ghostly. Worried despite her progress today, Hershel takes a seat on the swing beside her, setting it to move as he considers what to say. He suspects she can hear them. It would be unusual if she couldn't.
"Carol. I know it seems impossible to survive such pain. I wanted to rip my heart right out of my chest when my son died, despite having two living children to care for. But what they taught me was that I honor his memory best by going on. If I die, that's one less person to remember my Shawn."
She doesn't respond, although he sees her eyes track toward him just a little.
"I did not know your girl very well. But she is the first friend my Bethie has had in a while. Her best friend moved away last year, and they were two peas in a pod so long that neither had many other friends. You know how middle school girls are about their established friend groups. She was very lonely this last year."
It gets him a deep exhale, almost a sigh, so Hershel just keeps talking about Beth, then Shawn and Maggie, and despite how painful it is, eventually Annette. The surprise comes when he feels a bony hand take his when his voice breaks, feeling the grief plaguing him heavily.
When Hershel stops speaking and looks, he sees intelligence behind Carol's clear blue eyes for the first time in over a week. Blinking away tears, he smiles softly at her, and feels like he's done something right when she actually smiles back.
Months of leaning on others for protection were such a mistake on Lori's part. She spent so many years forgetting where she came from that she sometimes thinks that even Rick has forgotten that her life was probably much like the Dixons before a college scholarship whisked her away. She could never quite look straight at Carol and Ed in the quarry because of old memories.
She should have insisted Ed be kicked out, but she was weak and never did. It makes her as bad as everyone who ignored all her mama's asshole boyfriends in all the years after her daddy died. Pushing away the thought, Lori swings the bat at the walker that lurches her way when she steps out of the rusted old pickup she appropriated for the trip to town. It goes down, and she feels glass crunch under her boots as she hastily enters the tiny pharmacy.
It's clear, and heavily looted, but she's hoping the bandits missed the good stuff while looking for narcotics. Laying the bat on the counter, she sorts through the mess of scattered bottles among tipped over shelves. The benefit of being a mom of a kid who seemed to take on the challenge of having every childhood infection possible by age five is that she could probably recite the entire catalog of antibiotics in her sleep.
Finding what she needs, she empties out a canvas bag that advertises some drug company and stashes her bottles and creams inside. Spying the employee first aid kit, she dumps the contents in the bag, too, glad the looters ignored it. Back in the tiny shopper's area, she clears everything she can salvage, cursing the lack of serious first aid supplies.
Necessity is the mother of invention, she reminds herself, grabbing her bat and returning to the truck. Running over the two lumbering walkers in her way gives her a dark thrill, and she makes her way back to the small trailer park she's taken refuge in. She leaves the pickup parked next to Daryl's battered Triumph and unlocks the front door of the last trailer in the back corner.
"Daryl?"
No answer, so he's still sleeping off her makeshift medication efforts from earlier. Nyquil may not be what he actually needed, but it certainly makes him rest. Lining up her bottles on the table, she opts for the one she remembered being a higher level antibiotic Carl was given after two different ones failed to cure an ear infection.
She heats up a can of soup, hoping Daryl has the same childhood memories of the cheap chicken noodle soup that Lori retains decades later. Pouring some into a coffee mug, she takes what first aid supplies she's managed and goes down the hall to the single usable bedroom in the tiny trailer.
Daryl's soaked with sweat again, and doesn't stir as Lori peels away makeshift bandages off his left arm, hip, and leg. When the Triumph spun out of control in the rainstorm that first day before they could find shelter, she was somehow flung free of the motorcycle. She's nursing bruises that paint her a rainbow of purple and yellow, but it's nothing that judicious use of ibuprofen doesn't handle. Daryl wasn't so lucky.
The broken arm meant he was unable to pilot the Triumph, which meant Lori admitting something she never would in other circumstances. She knows exactly how to drive a motorcycle, although never anything the size of the Triumph. It was enough to get them to this trailer park, with Daryl clinging to consciousness behind her. The concussion still worries her, even though he was relatively alert when awake the last few days. It was only yesterday, when his fever set in, that she began to really be afraid.
The scraps of leftover bottles of medicines scavenged from the other seven trailers were no longer enough. More afraid of being alone permanently than braving the small town nearby, she managed the trip.
Dropping each strip of repurposed bedsheet into the bucket she'll use to wash and sterilize them, Lori reveals the infected road rash that sheared off most of his skin on his shoulder, arm, hip, and leg. Cleaning each wound takes nearly an hour while Daryl whimpers softly, never rousing. She returns the makeshift splint to his forearm, careful to avoid the skinned spots, made easier by putting antibiotic cream covered gauze pads on the forearm.
Checking the crooked stitches she placed in his thigh where it was gashed open by road debris, it looks less inflamed than his arm. Having jeans on protected him more from whatever bacteria he picked up in the spill. The burn on the inside of his left calf would be much worse without the denim, but it's still frightening.
"Lor?"
The mumbled attempt at her name makes her look up as she ties the clean bandages over the pad she's using to catch ooze off the burn. "You able to take some meds and soup?"
It's a testament to how injured and sick he is that Daryl just blinks and tries to sit up. He stopped fighting her attempts at nursing by the evening of the second day, too weak to protest, especially after she burst into tears and admitted to being terrified of being on her own. The fact that he's completely nude under the sheet is no longer something he tries ro hide. Shoving pillows nicked from the other trailers behind him, she hands him his soup and pills.
"You went to town, didn't you?" His voice is gruff, eyes fever bright, and all the unerring attention he can manage set on her.
"It wasn't bad. Told you I would turn around if it was. Got antibiotics and some supplies. No good painkillers, sorry."
Instead, she reaches for a zippered pouch and opens it. The scent of decent marijuana wafts out, making Daryl sniff and shake his head. "Don't wanna get high, woman."
From the embarrassed blush, she thinks it's that comparison to Merle that clouds his judgement here. As he watches her in growing astonishment, she deftly rolls the joint. It's been nearly fifteen years, but some things, even years of selective amnesia don't erase.
"My dad died when I was thirteen. Mom had a series of boyfriends, one who was quite the enterprising pot dealer. He used to pay me to help him prep his product, because he didn't think the cops would throw the book at a misguided teenage girl."
"Jesus Christ." Daryl blinks at her, but doesn't argue when she hands him the lit hand rolled cigarette. "And you married a dogooder cop."
Lori shrugs. "Rick knows, although he always pretended it didn't happen. They did expunge my record after I turned eighteen, at least, and the year of juvie wasn't too bad."
Three meals a day and always having utilities? Hell yeah, it wasn't too bad. She even came out of juvie with straight As in all her classes for once. It's something she has avoided remembering for years, though. No one in King County wanted a deputy's wife with a juvenile record for drugs.
Daryl can make that connection, obviously, so he finishes the improvised pain management and yawns. "Wouldn't mind more soup," he says at last.
Smiling, Lori goes to fetch it. The rain is gone, Daryl will recover with the right medication, and now she's proven to herself that she can scavenge for them if they do leave this place while he's still recovering. It's about time she pulled her own weight in something that isn't laundry or cooking. The idea of shedding the false skin she's worn for so many years feels good. Thirty-two isn't too old to finally grow up, after all.
A/N: Well, that chapter kind of grew legs and ran...in a lot of different directions.
As you can see, I finally settled on a background for Lori for my stories. She's such a contradictory character that there had to be something fishy in her past to make her that way. Voila.
