CHAPTER 27

Glenn, with Shane's Mossberg 590 shotgun slung over his back, watched as Carol stomped downhill with her AKMS assault rifle slung over her shoulder and a scowl on her face. Carol walked past the gates and stopped at Glenn's left side.

"Is Daryl okay?" Glenn asked.

Carol huffed and curtly answered, "He's fine."

"That's good," Glenn smiled.

Carol glared at Glenn, and the smile fell from his face. "Uh, I meant that, seriously," he said.

Carol looked down the dark, empty road, and shook her head.

Glenn waited a minute and then asked, "Did something happen to Daryl?"

"I told you, he's fine," Carol answered curtly as she kept looking straight ahead.

Glenn held up his hands to signal a stop and took a few steps away from Carol, "Okay, okay," he said nervously.

A loud silence fell over Carol and Glenn for the next few minutes, finally Glenn looked over his shoulder at the prison, then looked at Carol and asked, "Uh, Carol?"

"Yes?" Carol answered, still looking forward.

"Is it okay if I go back to the cell block?"

Carol adjusted the assault rifle's weight on her shoulder and said. "Go ahead."

Glenn smiled, walked past the gate, and began to walk uphill.

"Glenn," Carol called out.

Glenn turned around and saw Carol was still looking ahead. "Thanks for covering for me, and I'm sorry that I was rude to you," she said.

"Uh, no problem, Carol," Glenn said.

Glenn turned around and continued to walk uphill. "I'll never understand women," he muttered.

When Glenn stepped onto the courtyard, he saw the Woodburians were unloading the cardboard boxes filled with supplies off the convoy. Glenn walked past the convoy, nodded to John (who was directing the Woodburians) and walked through the open side door to Cell Block C that was being used to bring in the supplies.

Glenn stood inside the crowded common room, and saw Michonne, wearing her hooded cape and her katana slung over her back, directing the Woodburians carrying the supplies to stack them against the far wall. Glen spotted Maggie, sitting at a table with Beth, and Daryl (with his poncho still on, and with his back to the Greene sisters). Maggie smiled at Glenn and waved him over.

"Where's your dad?" Glenn asked Maggie as he made his way carefully through the crowd.

Before Maggie could speak, Beth answered, "He's taking care of Carl; he had some bruises on his face."

Glenn's eyes widened with surprise. "Really?" he asked.

Beth nodded earnestly.

Glenn looked over at Daryl and shook the redneck's shoulder. "What happened at that casino, Daryl?"

Daryl turned slightly in his chair to look up at Glenn. "Who am I? That four-eyed geek with the pen and notebook who followed the Governor around?" he asked curtly.

"Uh…who?" Glenn retorted in confusion

Maggie glared at Daryl for a moment, but then she reached up and tugged on Glenn's left arm; when her fiancé looked down at her, she smiled.

"Come on, I saved you a seat," Maggie said as she took her right foot off the empty chair.

"Thanks," Glenn said as he slung the shotgun off his back and leaned it against the table beside Daryl's Stryker Strykezone 380 crossbow. Glenn then sat on the chair and Maggie slipped her right hand into his left hand. Glenn blushed and Beth giggled at his embarrassment.

"It looks like the run was a success," Maggie said cheerfully as she watched the Woodburians stack the supplies against the far wall.

"Yeah," Glenn muttered.

Maggie looked worriedly at Glenn and asked, "What's wrong? Are you still upset that Rick didn't take you along?"

Glenn nodded and whispered in reply, "A little."

Maggie squeezed Glenn's hand gently and whispered into his ear, "You shouldn't be. You kept this prison safe for three days. I'm proud of you."

Glenn's blush returned to his face, but he looked at Maggie, smiled, and kissed her.

Beth giggled at the second romantic gesture, and Glenn's blush grew redder. Daryl grumbled as he threw the hem of his Navajo pattern poncho over his shoulder, reached into a vest pocket, and took out his pack of Marlboro cigarettes; Daryl placed one cigarette between his lips, returned the pack to his vest's pocket, and lit the cigarette with his chrome plated Zippo lighter.

•••

The last of the supplies had been brought into the common room, and now everyone waited eagerly as Alonso prepared tonight's dinner: spaghetti with marinara sauce.

"My chef at culinary school taught me that cooking is an art," Alonso said proudly while he stirred the wooden spoon in the pot. "The spoon, ladle, and tong are your brushes. The food and ingredients are your paints. The pot and the oven are your canvas."

"Hey man, I don't give a damn if you're Pablo Picasso or Wolfgang Puck, long as the food's good and on time," Eddie quipped as he stood nearby with an empty plate in his hand.

A laugh rose up amongst most of the survivors; the notable exceptions were the tired and hungry members of the prison group, and the Woodbury group Rick had taken along on the supply run. Rick himself was leaning against the open doorway that led to the cells, he was holding his baby daughter Judith, and waiting for Hershel to finish treating Carl's injuries.

Alonso smiled good naturedly at Eddie's joke as he continued stirring the pot. When the laughter died down he asked, "I'd cook a lot faster if I had an oven instead of a hot plate. Doesn't this prison have a kitchen?"

"It does," Rick answered as he looked at Alonso, "but you'd have to go through the tombs to reach it."

Alonso blinked in confusion. "The tombs?"

"The hallways that connect all the cellblocks," Rick answered as he nodded at the locked door across the common room. "All the walkers that didn't get outside roam them."

Alonso stopped stirring the pot and looked at the door. "Madre de Dios," he whispered.

Rick looked at all the survivors sulking at a future of eating small, undercooked meals. An idea suddenly came to his mind and he said, "But we can always build a new kitchen."

The survivors looked in confusion at Rick.

"There's plenty of space on the courtyard," Rick explained as he gently bounced Judith in his arms. "We can build a new kitchen, an open air kitchen! We have the people who can build it; all we need are the materials."

The survivors were quiet as they thought over Rick's plan, but then Henry smiled and said enthusiastically, "Yeah! An open air kitchen! We can build that!"

As if on cue, Eddie's stomach growled. The survivors laughed at the noise, and Eddie blushed. "How long do you think it'll take?" he asked.

"There's lumber outside the wood shop; there's nails, hammers and handsaws, so…two or three weeks," Henry answered.

"Sorry, but that lumber is going to the "cheval de frise" Hershel talked about," Rick said. "You can see for yourselves that the gaps between the gate and the fence line are big enough for the walkers to step through; we've got to plug those gaps as quickly as possible."

The survivors grumbled; one or two curses muttered curses floated in the air.

"Maybe we can multitask, Rick," Glenn suggested eagerly.

Everyone in the common room looked at Glenn, and he blushed for the third time.

"Uh, what I mean is we can split into groups again: one group can work on the spikes while the other group can go on a run."

Rick thought over Glenn's idea as Judith cooed in his arms. "It's a good idea, Glenn, but another run will have to wait awhile. This run to the El Dorado, it…it didn't work out like I thought it would."

"What happened, Rick?" Glenn asked.

The events of the last twenty-four hours flashed before Rick's eyes, and when he got to the moment when he and Carl reunited in the casino's lobby, he nearly broke down crying.

"I made a mistake," Rick finally answered.

A snapping sound caught Rick's attention, and he looked to his right to see Hershel, on his crutches, hobbling towards him.

"Carl?" Rick asked hopefully.

Hershel hobbled into the common room and smiled warmly. "I cleaned the cut under his chin and bandaged it. I also gave him an ice pack for the bruises. He's going to be fine."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Certainly."

Rick almost stepped into the hallway, but then he remembered Judith was in his arms. He offered the baby to Hershel, but then realized the old farmer's hands were holding the grips of his crutches.

"I'm sorry, I forgot that…"

"It's all right," Hershel interrupted with another smile. "Carl was asking about Judith, so I'm certain that he'll be happy to see his sister."

Rick nodded in understanding and Hershel hobbled to the side so the sheriff's deputy could make his way to Carl's cell.

•••

When the last box of supplies was brought into Cell Block C, John walked towards the open door of Cell Block D. He walked through the vestibule, stepped inside the common room, and found himself in the midst of a wake.

The few Woodburians that hadn't helped unload the supplies or had slipped into Cell Block C for the spaghetti dinner, sat at the round tables, crying or staring at their cups of coffee.

John looked to his right and saw his wife Donna sitting beside Marianna on a bench set against the wall. John walked down the vestibule's steps, and stood in front of the two women. Donna had her arm around Marianna's shoulders and both of them were looking down at the floor. When Donna saw her husband's feet, she looked up.

"Hi, Honey," John said quietly.

Donna's eyes were red from crying, but she smiled.

John looked to his left at the widow Marianna, she was sobbing, and every few seconds she'd raise a wet handkerchief to her eyes and wiped away the tears. John removed his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, knelt down in front of Marianna, and gently took hold of her left hand.

"Marianna," John said quietly.

The widow slowly raised her head and looked at the Vietnam veteran.

"I'm sorry," John said.

Marianna nodded in appreciation.

"Did...did he suffer?" Marianna asked.

John closed his eyes and the images of Juan dying on the highway flashed through his mind.

•••

"Oh my God!" John shouted as he ran across the highway ahead of the other survivors.

Within seconds, John was standing over Juan; the dying man tried to speak, but he coughed up blood instead. Juan was lying on his back with his hands gripping the bite wound on the left side of his neck; beside Juan was Sam's corpse. Sam had been mortally wounded, then he died, turned, and attacked Juan; Daryl had put the Walker Sam down moments earlier with an arrow to the forehead.

John knelt down and reached out to pull Juan's hands away from his neck, but then he remembered what it meant when a walker bit a person, so he withdrew his hands and tears started to well up in his eyes.

"There's…there's nothing we can do to help him," Tyreese said sadly.

Karen looked at Tyreese and said, "You're wrong, there is one thing we can do for him."

Tyreese lowered his head. "Yeah," he muttered.

The cocktail waitress Julia cried while the cook Alonso held her in his arms. "I…I can't watch this," she pleaded.

"It's okay," Alonso said comfortingly as he led Julia away from the group.

Juan looked up at Rick and tried to speak again, but he only coughed up more blood. Juan shook his head and the last gasp of air left his throat.

"He's gone," John said as tears ran down his face.

Rick stepped over to his left, where Juan had dropped the Beretta M9 pistol; he knelt down, picked the pistol up, and aimed it at Juan's head.

"No," John said as he stood up. "He was my friend. I'll do it."

Rick looked at John for a moment, gave him the pistol, and stepped back. John looked down at Juan's corpse, aimed the pistol at him, and pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

The 9mm bullet struck Juan's corpse in the forehead, and a thin geyser of blood and brain matter shot up and struck John on his face.

•••

The memory was over, but John kept his eyes closed while Marianna anxiously waited for an answer to her question.

I can't tell Marianna that Juan got himself killed, John thought.

John opened his eyes and looked up at Marianna's pleading face.

"It took one minute and he was gone," John answered.

Tears ran down Marianna's face, but she smiled in gratitude. John squeezed Marianna's hand and stood up, while Donna pulled Marianna to her side.

"Juan was a brave man, Marianna," Donna whispered. "Juan was a brave man."

John let go of Marianna's hand, stood up, and put his Atlanta Braves cap on his head.

"Yo, John," a strong voice called out.

John turned around and saw Tyreese, sitting at a table with his sister Sasha. Tyreese waved discretely, and John walked over to the siblings.

"Can we talk?" Tyreese asked.

"Sure," John answered as he started to sit in an empty chair.

"Not here," Tyreese said as he stood up.

Sasha looked up in confusion at her brother. "Tyreese, what—"

"It's okay, Sasha," Tyreese interrupted as he walked towards the cell doorway.

John followed Tyreese into the hallway. The former NFL player looked to his right at the common room to see if Marianna was watching, and when was convinced she wasn't, looked at the Vietnam veteran.

"You shouldn't have done that," Tyreese said.

"What?" John asked as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Lie," Tyreese answered.

"Technically it wasn't a lie."

"Maybe not, but it backs up what Rick told her."

"Oh," John said as he raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his hips. "So you think one little white lie covers the big lie?"

Tyreese was silent for a moment, and then he asked, "Don't you?"

John looked to his left at Marianna: she was still crying on the bench while Donna tried to console her. He looked back at Tyreese and asked, "You think I should've told her the truth? That Rick's story was bullshit and Juan died before he could a bullet between Rick's eyes?"

"It's the truth," Tyreese said firmly.

"The truth would've crushed that poor woman," John retorted.

"You don't know that."

"Did you fucking study psychology in college? No, wait. You were perfecting that holding call you always got penalized for in the NFL!"

Tyreese balled his fists and took an aggressive step forward, but John didn't back down.

"What the fuck's gotten into you?" Tyreese asked. "Ever since we got here, you've been warning us about Rick!"

"Can you blame me? You told all of us he pointed a gun at you," John answered as he jabbed his index finger into Tyreese's chest.

"He went through a lot of shit. His wife just died."

"We've all lost someone, chief. I hate to say it but today was Marianna's turn."

Tyreese shook his head in contempt. "That's cold, man."

"But you think telling Marianna that Juan went batshit is going to warm her up?"

Tyreese glared at John for a moment, and answered, "No. But she deserves the truth."

John glared back at Tyreese, and said, "Fuck the truth, and fuck you for wanting to tell it to her."

John then stomped back into the common room, leaving Tyreese alone with his conscience.

•••

Daryl still wore his poncho, and his crossbow was slung over his back again, as he walked downhill while balancing two plates of spaghetti covered in marinara sauce in his right hand, and two bottles of spring water in his left. At the bottom of the hill was Carol, continuing her sentry duty.

Carol heard footsteps behind her, so she turned around: when she saw the person coming towards her was Daryl, she huffed and adjusted her AKMS assault rifle's weight on her shoulder.

Daryl came to a stop at Carol's ride side and held out his right hand. "Spaghetti," he said cheerfully. "The chef called it 'pasta'. I told him 'Shit, even our food's gone politically correct'."

"Thank you," Carol said curtly as she took one of the plates.

Daryl knelt down, put one of the spring water bottles on the ground, and stood up to offer the second spring water bottle to Carol. "It's been a few months since we've seen one of these."

"Thank you," Carol repeated with the same icy tone as she took the spring water bottle.

Carol took a few steps away from Daryl and used her fork to pick at the spaghetti. Daryl twirled his fork around some spaghetti as he admired how Carol's pale skin shinned in the moonlight.

"Don't wander too far; a walker might be out there," Daryl warned.

"I can take care of myself," Carol retorted.

"No shit," Daryl said with a mouthful of spaghetti, "I just don't want you to drop that plate. We went through hell to get this food."

Carol dropped her spring water bottle, turned towards Daryl, and threw her plate at him with all her might. The plate struck Daryl on his chest, covering his poncho with strings of spaghetti and marinara sauce.

"What the fuck?!" Daryl shouted in surprise as he dropped his own plate and stepped backwards.

"You blew up a Humvee?!" Carol asked with her fists clenched.

"So what?" Daryl asked with his arms out like he had been caught in a harmless lie.

"Are you crazy?!" Carol asked.

"I thought you'd say that when you heard about my MacGyver bomb," Daryl quipped as he wiped off the spaghetti and marinara sauce with his hands.

Carol unslung her assault rifle from her shoulder, dropped it to the ground, and charged Daryl. "Are you crazy?!" she asked again as she struck him wildly about his head with her fists.

"Good Lord, woman, calm the fuck down!" Daryl shouted as he covered his head with his arms.

Carol ignored Daryl's plea and kept striking him until her arms got tired and they fell to her sides. "Are you crazy?" she asked for the third time as she panted for breath.

Daryl looked down at Carol's blue eyes, and heard himself answer her question: "No."

"Then why did you do it?"

"We were out of ammo and the herd was still comin'. I saw the Humvee on the left side of the parkin' lot, ran over to it, and stuck an arrow with a gas-soaked rag into its tank; then I lit the rag and ran like hell before it blew up," Daryl explained honestly. "The explosion distracted the herd, but I had to fight my way through a few walkers to reach the others. That's when we got into the trucks and drove the hell out of there."

Carol glared at Daryl for a few moments, and then she crossed her arms across her chest and muttered, "You are crazy."

Daryl shook his head in aggravation and replied, "Shit. Thanks for the free psych evaluation, Dr. Harleen Quinzel."

"Daryl! You could've been caught in that explosion!" Carol cried. "You could've been bitten by those walkers! You could've been kill—"

Carol covered her mouth with her hand, as if she was afraid to finish her sentence. Daryl's expression softened; he glanced down at the marinara sauce on his hands, and wiped his them across his jeans like the marinara sauce was dirt.

A minute later Daryl asked, "You good?"

Carol took her hand away from her mouth, and stared up at Daryl.

Tell him how you feel, Carol thought.

"I can't lose you too," Carol answered quickly.

Daryl and Carol blushed as they remembered her saying those words a year ago on Hershel's farm. Daryl had recovered from his injury during his first search for Carol's daughter Sophia, and was preparing to go out again, but Carol was worried that he'd die this time.

Shit! I've been thinking about Daryl since he left on that run, and I say that when he comes back? Carol thought angrily.

Daryl folded his arms across his chest and said, "Well, you're in luck, 'cause here I am."

"Shut up," Carol smiled as she waved her hand dismissively.

Carol turned around and walked away to pick up her AKMS assault rifle and spring water bottle. Daryl knelt down, picked up the two plates and forks, and tossed them aside; then he picked up his own spring water bottle and stood up just as Carol returned.

"I'm sorry that I ruined your dinner," Carol apologized as she slung her assault rifle over her shoulder.

"I'll tell the chef to cook up a new pot," Daryl said as he twisted the cap off his spring water bottle.

"Won't he be upset that all of this spaghetti went to waste?" Carol asked as she looked at the spaghetti on the ground.

Daryl took a swig from his spring water bottle, wiped his mouth with his wrist, and answered, "Are you kiddin'? He's so happy to be out of that casino, he'll probably throw in some meatballs!"