The worst part about his patched together collarbone is that Shane's not used to being idle. There's only so much reading he can do or how long puzzle books keep his attention, and the fact that it's his right arm makes things worse. Even feeding himself is complicated. At least that frustration keeps his mind off the breathing exercises to keep his healing lung on track, though.
"C'mon. We're going for a walk, and we promised to take an adult along." It's Carl, grinning over the edge of the porch at Shane.
Since his and Rick's conversation with Hershel and Maggie led to them staying for Shane's full convalescent period, Shane's people have been helping make reinforcements to the farm. Their group really is wary of getting back on the road, but the sheer openness of the farm is worrisome to those with tactical sense. It's apparently contagious, once Shane brings it up at supper after they decide to stay, and everyone falls in to help.
Leaving his book on the swing, Shane gets to his feet. Carl's not alone, because Sophia, Jimmy, and Beth are all with him. "Where are we walking to?" he asks.
He's armed, part of the negotiation to stay he and Rick led. Duty weapons for the two deputies, a single rifle for whoever is on watch. It's a good thing as a firearms instructor he's spent plenty of time training his non-dominant hand, but it still feels weird to have the holster shifted for left-handed draw.
"Just around. Like a patrol," Carl informs him. The boy's white cast on his left forearm is covered in colorful drawings and doesn't seem to slow him down one bit.
"Uh huh." Shane knows there's a plot afoot here, but he'll wait it out. The areas the kids are confined to don't really need an adult escort. He knows all the kids like to cluster around him now, so it could just be they think he needs some distraction. But that just doesn't quite fit their expressions.
It takes almost an entire circuit before Beth speaks, after some poorly hidden nudging that is obviously trying to decide between Carl and Beth as spokesperson. "We want to learn to fight," she says. "We don't like feeling helpless."
When he stops and scans all their expressions, he sees mostly the same thing. Resolute determination overlaying fear and uncertainty. He can't argue with the request, but he suspects the others will. They still think the children are to be protected.
"I'll talk to your parents," Shane tells them. "But I can only give permission for Jimmy." Of the remaining three, he thinks Carol will be the easiest to convince, because he's going to insist she learns, too. After feeling so impotent when Sophia was missing, the older woman will agree, he thinks.
The three younger kids all look at Jimmy, who nods. "Well, if I learn, they can."
"Ah." There's the plot then. If the others aren't allowed, Jimmy's going to teach them on the sly. Shane decides to keep that to himself for now, and just oversee their little rebellion the best he can if it comes to that. "I'll talk to the others today, and let y'all know by bedtime."
The little quartet keeps up the subterfuge by making another circuit of their safe zone, before going off to help Patricia weed the garden before lunch. With most of the adults gathered for the midday meal at the small camp, Shane goes to tackle the hardest set of parents: Rick and Lori.
As he predicts, even with her softened demeanor towards him after the shooting, Lori balks instantly. She clutches at Rick's arm. "He's a little boy. We'll protect him. I don't want him with a knife or a gun!"
Shane sighs and turns his attention on Carol instead. "I'm not saying hand the kids a gun, not without a lot of training. I'm not even saying give them knives right away. All of them need to learn basic self-defense and situational awareness." Reaching for her hand with his, Shane squeezes lightly. "So do you."
The glimmer of tears in her blue eyes makes him feel a surge of guilt, but he suppresses it, especially once she nods. "I know I do." Glancing to Rick and Lori, Carol squares her shoulders, but she doesn't let go of Shane's hand. "Sophia and I will be learning all that we can. Not just self-defense. All that we can."
Carol's focus moves from Lori and Rick to Daryl, and Shane isn't surprised to see the redneck give a single, jerky nod. When he catches the man's eye, Daryl just shrugs. His drawl is added to the conversation. "Wouldn't be a bad thing, for the kids to learn to hunt and track. Know how to survive in the woods if they get lost. What's safe to eat and what's not."
"World ain't going back to the land of supermarkets and being able to call 911," Shane adds, looking around the whole group. "Carol's right that it's not just the kids that need to learn. More of us know things outside our comfort zone, the less pressure on an individual to help us get by."
The point sinks in, because they're all nodding. When he returns his attention to Lori and Rick, he can see that Rick agrees. That's not a surprise, because his brother's been a cop too long not to. This world's still too new to him to truly comprehend the scope of it, but he's trying.
Lori? The woman is fiddling with her wedding band, shoulders slumped as she stares at either her feet or hands. Finally, she takes a deep breath. "I'm not comfortable with weapons, and I don't want him off the farm, not yet. But the rest? I agree he needs to learn." Swallowing hard, she straightens and looks at Shane, gaze flicking to his shoulder and then his adjusted holster. "No guns until that cast is off his arm."
It's actually a logical request. An adult who is already familiar with weapons can work around an injury, just like Shane is doing. But a kid doesn't have muscle memory to fall back on, and teaching Carl to work around it now may make it harder later.
"Alright. I still have to talk to Hershel about Beth, and probably Patricia, if she's willing."
"What about Maggie?" Andrea asks, frowning. Considering Shane's clash with Maggie over Jimmy is why he wanted to leave the farm, he supposes it does seem like she's being excluded.
Shane just laughs softly. "I'm not sure if Hershel is willfully ignoring it, but Maggie's been carrying concealed every day we've been on this farm. A holster and gun that's fitted to being hidden that well? She's familiar with firearms and probably self defence after years on a college campus. But I'll ask her."
To be honest, he wishes Lori was more inclined to be an instructor. He can't exactly teach hands-on like he used to for self defence classes, and she's taken every last one possible. For all the strain Rick's job placed on their marriage, Lori never hesitated in doing her part as a cop's wife. Being able to defend herself was one of those things expected of her.
"How about we plan on starting in the morning, after breakfast?" Rick suggests. "Maybe start everyone who needs it off in an exercise routine? Running through those woods damn near broke me."
It's probably as much why Rick tried to hide Sophia as his lack of weaponry. It brings up another point Shane needs to make. "Speaking of the run through the woods, that's another thing that needs to change. We need every adult carrying knives. Multiple knives on each person."
"Backups to the backup," Daryl mumbles, hand resting on the hilt of his big hunting knife. "Drop one, got another."
"We don't have that many blades," T-Dog notes. "I took inventory of what we found before we left the highway. Could maybe get a belt knife on half of us and a pocket knife for everyone, but none of us want to rely on a knife that short, right?"
"Glenn? Pull together a supply run. Start with town first. Ask if there's a pawn shop or something similar. Maybe Otis knows the other hunters around, since men like that often collect knives, too." The younger man nods easily at Shane's request.
"I'll go with him," Rick offers. "I've been to town. Checking out the hunters might yield more ammo and firearms, if the hunters died early of the virus."
"Stock half to the Greenes, half with us, after you find out what they will actually use," Shane instructs, glancing toward the farmhouse. When they leave, the ones left here need more firepower than he expects Hershel will have stockpiled. Otis hunts, and he knows as a country vet Hershel probably has a decent supply of ammo for that shotgun of his. He'll need to find out what caliber of gun Maggie carries. Just because he's seen the hint of it at her back doesn't give away enough. Could be anything from a twenty-two to a nine milimeter.
With things settled better than he can hope for, Shane tackles the second half of parental consent with more optimism. Hershel's been keeping to himself since the funerals for his wife and stepson. He comes out and does the work necessary for the farm, and he's kept up with Shane's recovery.
Shane isn't surprised to find him at the little gravesite, seated on a makeshift stool of an upended bucket. The older man has his Bible in his lap, but he doesn't seem to be reading from what Shane can tell. Just in case, he clears his throat.
That gets Hershel's attention. "Can I help you with something, deputy?" He sounds like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
"We're going to start some training with our people, especially the kids. Starting out with just exercise, hunting, woodcraft, and self defence, but we intend to work our way up to knives and eventually firearms." Before Hershel can renew his objection to guns on his property, Shane holds up a hand. "No shooting ranges on the farm. The noise is too much of a risk to do it here, even if you gave permission."
"I don't see any reason to object to those plans," Hershel replies, but it sinks in. "You want to include my people in that. My girls, and probably Patricia, too."
"While I hope like hell they never need any of it, better safe than sorry, Hershel."
Hershel looks back toward the twin graves and heaves out a deep sigh. "I suppose you're right. If they're willing to do the work, I will make no objections to them learning."
"You're welcome to join in, you and Otis both. It's not just the women and kids that need extra skills among my people."
That gets a wry laugh out of the old man. "I assure you that I've plenty of skill with guns and knives, and there's nothing the roaming dead can throw at me that I haven't dealt with from livestock or pets over the years. But thank you kindly for the offer. Otis might participate, might not. It's up to him."
Nodding, Shane bids the man goodbye, venturing away. Starting tomorrow, he'll have a lot more on his plate than his own recovery, and it feels better than it should. Maybe it's not ideal circumstances, but he's always enjoyed teaching folks to become self-sufficient. It'll be good to see his people bloom instead of stagnate like he allowed them to do at the quarry.
Eugene swabs the woman's arm with the alcohol wipe, trying to smile reassuringly at her. Finding another small group right after they crossed the Georgia border had been both surprising and not. His current patient is a co-leader of the small ragtag band who barricaded themselves in a small walled off apartment complex. Most are survivors who fled the Atlanta Refugee Center when it fell.
"You really think there's a cure?" Michonne asks, wincing as he draws enough blood to fill a vial. She's a slim, athletically built woman, with long dreadlocks past her shoulders.
"I know there's a cure. The problem is finding another person capable of producing the antibodies." Losing Pam still aches on more than one level, especially since it wasn't even the virus or dead who took her from them, but simple human illness. They've lost more of their group since then. Getting to Georgia whittled them down to six.
"So you're just going to test everyone you come across?"
"Everyone that consents to it, yes." Eugene checks the EldonCards on the counter, taking note of her blood type with a sigh. "Your blood type is A positive, for your own knowledge."
"And my son's?" she asks. The boy is playing with a stethoscope Eugene gave him to distract him, happily content in the way that only toddlers can manage. "I know it's something I should have known already."
"Also A positive. The number of people who are not first responders or military that do not know their own blood types is rather extensive," he remarks. "I'll need to run further tests, but it's doubtful that you have the antibodies, so I probably won't draw any blood from your son."
"How can you be so sure?" Michonne looks relieved that Andre's only testing is the finger stick to determine his blood type, however.
"The research center that I was brought into in Houston was able to test over a thousand people before the infrastructure began collapsing. The only blood taken that even attempted to fight the virus was O negative, and that's not across the board. There's some other factor at play."
"Like what?" She's watching him prepare his samples from the vial with intense curiosity. Unlike most survivors they've encountered, she's educated and curious. Since Pam died, he hasn't really had anyone to discuss the science of this disaster, so he smiles at her.
"The general public operates under the misunderstanding that blood typing consists of two factors, your blood group and the Rh factor protein or lack thereof. Blood group is the presence or absence of two antigens, A or B, on the surface of your red blood cells. The Rh factor is also well known to the average person, so most consider there to be only eight blood types."
"And there are more, correct? I remember reading an article once about a little girl who had a blood type so rare they couldn't find a match."
"That is correct. There are more than six hundred other known antigens involved in human blood, the presence or absence of which results in rare blood types. I suspect that the ability to be immune to the virus when instigated by the teeth of the roaming dead is an as yet unidentified or completely unknown antigen or combination of antigens."
"Jesus," she breathes. "You're headed for the CDC, right?"
"Yes, ma'am, we most certainly are. We determined that logistically the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta had the highest likelihood of remaining standing in this disastrous FUBAR the world has descended into. Should that venerable institution fail to survive, it places us halfway to Washington, DC, and there were several governmental facilities in that area capable of the research analysis needed. This mobile laboratory, while high technology for the rural countryside, is a poor imitation of an actual research facility's capabilities."
It truly is. Abraham had commandeered a Humvee turned ambulance, and they'd stocked the back with everything they could scrounge for Eugene to attempt to research while they traveled. But it is laughable. Even if he finds another of the preciously rare immune survivors, he can't even begin to sort things out without a real laboratory.
"You need more people. Traveling with four adults and two children cannot be safe."
Eugene suppresses the wave of grief and frustration that nearly smothers him with the reminder of how many people they've lost. "We know that. And Abraham will speechify with all his oratory power to convince the able bodied of your people to travel along with us."
"You disagree with that?" Michonne tilts her head, studying him closely. He wonders what her profession was, back when the world made more sense.
"Far be it for me to criticize the esteemed sergeant in matters of security, ma'am, but logic dictates to me that if well-trained soldiers fell by the wayside in our travels, half-trained civilians will be even more at risk." Like Eugene himself, who can barely manage a blunt weapon against the dead, and only that much because getting separated in New Orleans proved to Abraham that some training was desperately needed. "I cannot in good conscience condone more people dying fruitlessly in the endeavor to deliver my person to Atlanta."
"And if the civilian isn't half-trained?" she asks with a sly smile.
Eugene blinks at her, remembering the katana she wore on her back when Rosita encountered her while rummaging for supplies. A lot of survivors pick up weaponry, even unique ones like Michonne's. But he suspects that her possession of said weapon isn't foolish posturing like most. "You are volunteering to escort us to Atlanta?"
When he turns to look at Andre, who is still fascinated with the stethoscope, she laughs softly. "Sitting behind a wall praying for a government rescue will not benefit my son's long-term survival, Eugene. Helping you and your people get to Atlanta, a city I have lived in all my life? Well, that just might increase his chances of surviving to see his next birthday."
It doesn't surprise Eugene one bit that when their small convoy pulls out, leaving the Georgia/Alabama border behind, their group has grown from six to ten, increasing their total children to protect to three. The majority of Michonne's group stays behind, a community of twenty-seven hopefully safe behind walls and their remaining leader's guidance.
Rosita looks resolute as she drives the medical Humvee, positioned behind Abraham's huge truck as always. "It is their choice to come along, Eugene."
Staring out the window, Eugene wishes he had half her confidence. They've lost so many on the way here, people he wishes he never got attached to. How many more will fall by the wayside before they find out a way to stop this disease?
A/N: I didn't detail them in the chapter, but remember this is a story where Abe's kids lived, but his wife didn't. They still have one member of the traveling group (Josiah). Michonne, Andre, and two adults join at the border town. If those two need names later, I'll use random folks from the Georgia seasons, probably Zach and Haley.
