Chapter Twenty-three
The strong smell of gasoline fills his nostrils as Rick fits the nozzle of the red container into the side of Jacqui's white Honda CRV. Looking around at his gloomy surroundings, a bitter seed begins to bloom deep inside his gut. Then again, the bitterness could also stem from the passenger eyeing him through the window from the backseat of the car.
After striking out with Daryl yesterday, Merle is accompanying them today as they head out to Greenville, a good-sized picturesque town about ninety minutes southwest of Atlanta - if taking the highways with normal driving conditions. Traveling on backstreets and maneuvering through roadblocks and traffic snarls, Rick figures it'll take at least double that.
Now, sitting in the middle of a decrepit little town called Haralson, he wishes they had made it a little further along before running out of gas. With the noxious fumes adding to the depressing state of the buildings surrounding him, he just wants to finish the task and get the hell out of there. As the tank continues to fill, he surveys the area and notices a thin metal pole tilting wearily on the street corner holding a sign that says Main Street. Looking around at the ramshackle offices and homes lining the avenue, he can't help but think that 'Maim Street' would be more fitting. This remote hole-in-the-wall probably didn't look much different six weeks ago, before the outbreak.
The trees stand silent, brooding with the absence of birds to create a single song. Even the wind itself seems to be bypassing this seedy little town to save its energy for distant neighborhoods, for the strong breeze blowing through Georgia when they'd left the quarry two hours ago is completely nonexistent on this eerily still patch of earth. It's like this town had died long before the virus had come along to wipe out the rest of the world.
All the broken shingles, peeling paint and rusty tin roofs weigh heavily on the disenchanted buildings. Even the stronger brick structures seem too tired to stand much longer. The scattering of cars left to rest and rust in the overgrown grass of nearby homes would already have been unusable six weeks ago with their dented fenders curved above missing tires.
On the next block up, an old feed mill stands forlorn and forgotten, seven silos waiting to be called into service with the sleepy rectangular brick structure that housed the inner workings of the mill. The weather-worn and battle-weary building displays an array of warped and battered boards that cover a selection of windows, while an intrusive ivy climbs the eastern end of the housing to heavily encase the dingy gray brick with leaves of hunter green tentacles.
A small white church sits atop a lonely hill across from the city hall, overlooking the town with a sadness for all the friends that it had lost. With its pretty stain-glass windows and proud steeple, it looks like it had held out the longest, holding its arms outstretched in a vain attempt to gather His congregation before finally giving in to slip quietly away with the rest of Haralson's denizens.
After placing the container back in the trunk with its mates, Rick slips behind the steering wheel and tries to ignore the almost tangible despair that he feels seeping into his pores.
"What's the matter, sheriff?" Merle drawls as Rick turns the ignition key. "I haven't seen you looking this unhappy since before you started dipping your nightstick into that pretty little nurse."
"Shut up, Merle!" Daryl hisses over his shoulder into the backseat where his brother is lounging with his elbow resting in the frame of the opened window.
"Give me a break, little brother," the elder Dixon replies, "I haven't said a word in over an hour."
"And I suggest you choose your words more carefully next time," Rick says as he presses the switch on his door for the child safety locks and then raises both of the back seat windows.
"What the fuck, man!" Merle shouts as he quickly pulls his arm away from the rising glass. "Leave my damn window alone! I ain't no kid back here!"
Rick feels his seat shake as Merle grips its sides and shoves a knee into the back like a petulant child. "You sure about that?" He can't help the smile as he hears the man tapping futilely on the window switch on the back door.
"Aw c'mon, man. Fine, I'll be good," Merle promises with a whining groan. "Just lower my fuckin' window! I'm like a damn mountain lion – I need my fresh air."
When Rick looks at Daryl, his friend gives him a short nod. Rick tilts his head with a frown as if stubbornly asking, do I have to? "Tell you what, Dixon, I'll open it for the next walker we see."
"Well open it now then, 'cause there's two right over there." Merle stretches an arm between the two front seats with a grimy finger pointing up the road past the feed mill.
Rick shifts the car into drive and lightly presses down on the gas to advance slowly up the desolate street. With his eyes on the walkers about thirty yards ahead, he rolls past the set of large silos on his left and glances at the brick building with the severely faded letters reading Esco Feed Mill. To the right of the mill stands a small shed, ivy snaking up its walls as nearly a dozen walkers scratch at the vines in an effort to reach the woman perched precariously on top of the slightly pitched roof.
Rick steps on the brake pedal abruptly causing Daryl to throw a hand against the dashboard as he is propelled forward. "Shit."
"Well, don't it suck to be her," Merle says sardonically.
"Come on." Rick throws the car into park and exits the vehicle, then turns to open the back door for Merle.
"She don't need our help. Let's just get the fuck outta here," the querulous man says as he relaxes into the cushion of the back seat. "This place gives me the creeps."
"We're here, we're helping her. Let's go." Taking the knife from his belt, Rick follows Daryl's lead with the crossbow as they move toward the shed.
Nearing the swarm, Rick takes in the image of the helpless woman. Wearing a purple tank top beneath a form-fitting brown leather vest, the ebony skin of her well-toned bare arms seems to glisten in the sun as she hugs her knees to her chest. Beneath long thick dreadlocks her dark eyes regard him suspiciously, sizing the three of them up and weighing her chances against them as opposed to her odds with the walkers. Her bottom lip quivers as she turns her head to look behind her, searching for an escape route from all of them, the living as well as the dead.
As Daryl takes out three walkers with his bow, Rick meets the woman's eyes and holds his hands out in a show of reassurance, treating her like a caged animal and trying to put her at ease.
When the walkers take notice of their presence, the two men move quickly. As Rick sinks his knife into the milky cataract of an elderly gentlemen with a soiled tee shirt boasting World's Best Grandpa, Daryl thrusts his blade into what may have been a male teenager or a middle-aged female, the clothes and body so badly ravaged that it was impossible to tell age or gender.
Rick turns to finish off a younger man sporting a tattered fishing vest and sees Daryl retracting his knife from the forehead of a decaying female. As the fisherman falls to the ground, Rick spots a tall, hulking corpse in a ragged football jersey reaching for his partner's shoulder. "Daryl!"
The hunter spins, twisting his body away from the threat as his brother buries a sharp knife into the large walker's ear. It falls at Daryl's feet, dead for the second and final time. "'Bout time ya got here, Merle."
By the time the three men take care of the tenth cadaver, the two original walkers from up the road have joined the party. As the Dixon brothers dispatch these two, Rick watches the woman crabwalk toward the side of the roof where a red tractor - which shows more rust than paint - sits in the grass at the base of the shed. Moving toward the tractor to help her down from the roof, he steps on something hard and looks down at his boot.
Shuffling backward, he sees the hilt of a katana nestled in the long grass, its white rayskin twisting to form a diamond pattern along the grip. The twelve inch handle leads to a sheath of brown leather that stretches out another twenty-seven inches. "What the…"
He bends to pick up the sword and hears a surprisingly deep cough resounding from the slender woman as she steps onto the hood of the tractor. Rising with the weapon in his left hand, he returns his own - now seemingly insignificant - knife to his belt. He raises his free right hand to the woman to assist her descent.
She eyes the katana as he slips the strap over his shoulder, then looks at him warily for a moment before finally taking his hand.
Rick notices the sheen of perspiration coating her dark skin before he feels the heat of her body against his palm, and realizes that she wasn't trembling in fear on the roof - she was shivering with fever. "Were you bit?" he asks gently as he guides her down to sit on the thick tire of the old tractor.
She shakes her head to say no and doubles over with a cough bubbling up from deep in her chest, her breath rattling badly like there is too much fluid where there ought to be air.
"Are you okay?" Rick asks when she finally lifts her head and breathes evenly again. "I mean you're just sick, not hurt, right?"
She clears her throat gently and meets his eyes to convey the truth. "Just sick," she says softly, her voice sounding hoarse from a sore throat and dry from lack of use. "Please," she adds with slightly more power as she holds her palm out and nods to the sword on Rick's back.
"This is yours?" Rick asks, somewhat stunned.
She nods her head with narrow eyes, challenging him to deny her.
With a hand on the long leather case, Rick drops his shoulder then suddenly feels another force pulling against the sword, preventing it from slipping forward as he had intended. He looks to the left to see Merle standing at his side.
"Where were you bit?!" Merle asks brusquely.
The dark woman tilts her head back as if too weak to hold it up any longer.
"She said she wasn't bit," Rick says, stepping squarely between Merle and the woman.
"And you believe her?"
"No reason not to," Rick replies shortly. "It's obviously just a flu."
"Nothin's obvious anymore, sheriff. This damn crazy virus has only been around a month. It's still in its baby stages," Merle argues as Daryl moves next to Rick, ready to jump between the two men if necessary. "Who knows, it could be mutating in this nigger bitch and turnin' into a flu-like thing now."
The woman begins to stand only to slump back to the tire, too weak for her legs to support her.
"She's obviously got a fever!" Merle hollers, thrusting his chin toward the figure just beyond Rick.
She swivels her head no and coughs into her shoulder. "It's just a flu, I swear. Not that crazy virus." She sneezes twice and looks up at Rick with watery eyes.
Rick looks back to Merle and spots a thin male walker coming from around the curve of a silo. "I'll handle the woman," he says, stressing the last two words in response to the derogatory term the other man had used. "You take care of him," he orders, waving a frustrated hand toward the approaching walker.
As Daryl joins his brother to slaughter three walkers that have shuffled out from between the silos, Rick turns back to the woman and kneels in front of her. "I'm Rick. What's your name?" When she doesn't answer right away, he adds, "We're not going to hurt you." He watches her glance at Merle and then she meets his own eyes again, swimming with skepticism. "He won't hurt you either, I promise."
With her chin raised and shoulders squared for a brief moment in which she musters enough strength to reveal a touch of tenacity, she softly says, "Michonne."
"Alright, Michonne." He gives her a kind smile before continuing. "Now, I do believe you, but we're gonna check you out anyway, okay? Just so we can be sure." Straightening his legs to stand up, he turns to catch Daryl's eye but finds the elder Dixon moving in.
"I'll handle the inspection," Merle says gruffly, leering at the woman as he reaches for her arm.
"Back the fuck off!" Rick roars, shoving his fists into Merle's chest to send the man stumbling backward. "Daryl," he calls in a forceful but calmer tone. "Look her over," he tells the hunter without taking his eyes off of his asshole brother.
"Get in there good, little brother," Merle goads lecherously as Daryl lifts Michonne's wrist to examine her arm.
After finding both arms not necessarily clean but free of walker wounds, Daryl asks the woman to stand up so he can check her back. Rick takes her hand to help her to her feet, then nearly goes down with her when she staggers to the wall of the shed and passes out cold on the cement slab in front of the slightly unhinged door.
"Shit," Rick mutters as he regains his footing in the grass. "Finish looking her over, Daryl, and then we'll carry her to the car."
"The fuck?!" Merle explodes, advancing toward the woman with loathing in his racist sneer.
"You heard me!" Rick counters, blocking the woman as Daryl finishes his inspection. "We're checking her out and then bringing her back with us!"
"The hell we are!" Merle steps towards Rick with fire in his eyes and a knife gripped firmly in his hand. "We already got one black whore at camp, we don't need another one. Or are you lookin' to trade your sexy redhead for those kinky dreadlocks?"
"Enough, Merle!" Daryl yells, stepping between the two men and pushing against his brother's chest.
"Get outta my way, Darlina!" Merle shoves Daryl to the side and raises his knife to the inert form of the dark woman.
As Merle reaches down to the woman, Rick reaches back over his shoulder for her sword. He grasps the handle of the katana and slides it quickly from the case lying solid against his back. Without hesitation, he takes two steps forward and brings the blunt end of the handle down hard against the side of Merle Dixon's thick-headed skull. The redneck lands hard on the ground, the angles of his face softer in his current state of unconsciousness as his left hand rests amiably against the forearm of the woman whose dark skin he is too narrow-minded to see beyond.
Turning to Daryl, Rick lets the point of the sword rest in the dirt. "I'm telling you right now, I don't care how much muscle you think we need out here, I'll bring Sophia before I bring your brother out again."
Looking from Merle's prone body to Rick's frustrated expression, Daryl inhales with an apologetic grimace and nods his head in acceptance. "So yer gonna let him come back with us?" the hunter asks lightly.
"You gonna give me a choice?" The sheriff replies as he steps to the corner of the shed to watch a pair of walkers cross the street toward them.
"No."
"Then I guess he's coming back with us. Come on, let's get these two and then get your brother and Michonne into the car," Rick says, squinting in the sun as he waits for the walkers to get closer. "Won't he just love riding home in the back with a black woman." He grins widely, enjoying the irony.
"Maybe you should sit in the back with her while I drive," Daryl replies as he moves forward to drive his knife into a snarling mouth.
After slicing the katana through the second straggler, Rick turns back toward the shed and his heart plummets.
"Nooo!" Daryl screams, racing past Rick to destroy the walker gnawing on his brother's right hand.
Rick runs to Merle's side as Daryl stabs his knife into the head of the walker again and again and again, fury and heartache fueling his blind rage. "Daryl!" Rick yells, holding the katana like a samurai with knees bent, shoulders squared and both hands gripping the handle while the exceptionally sharp blade rests lightly against the pale skin of Merle's inner wrist. He raises his brows in question when his friend meets his eyes.
"Do it!" Daryl hollers, tears spilling down his cheeks.
Rick raises the sword and brings it down hard, slicing through flesh and muscle and tendon and bone as the sun slips behind a low gray cloud and the caw of a raven echoes off the corroded steel of the Esco Feed Mill.
Ten minutes later, Rick speeds down the unnerving road, a barely conscious woman riding shotgun while a bare-chested hunter sits in back with his unconscious brother, a leather belt secured tightly around his forearm as a dirty tee shirt soaks up the blood flowing from its stump.
In the rearview mirror, Rick sees a single black bird perched on the withering Main Street sign, its beak aimed toward the shed where a severed hand lies in the dirt with its fingers spread open… now as empty and lifeless as the town that had claimed it.