Chapter Forty-two

A cardboard box tumbles clumsily but swift across the two lane span of Cannonville Road, a nineteen mile stretch cutting through the farmland and forests of Wilcox County. Rick grips the wheel tight, startled at the sudden appearance of the object that had seemed to come out of nowhere.

"The wind's picking up," Erin says from her seat next to him. "We're in for a good storm tonight, aren't we?"

"Oh yeah." Rick looks up toward the sky, still a pallid, featureless gray but getting darker with every mile. "And we're heading right toward it. Hopefully it'll hold off until we can get to the coast, but we still have a lot of ground to cover."

"Dad?"

Rick glances up at the rearview mirror. "Yeah, bud?"

"I have to go."

"Already? We've haven't even been on the road for an hour."

"I know, but I have to go again. Can we stop?"

"Alright, just hang on."

Rick taps twice on the horn to alert the motorcycle driver ahead of him and eases the van to a stop. He gets out of the vehicle and raises a hand to Daryl with one finger pointed upward. Four cars back, he sees Michonne step out of Morgan's Honda and arch her back with her arms stretched high above her head. "Come on, Carl."

Rick follows his son up a grassy slope toward a long white fence surrounding a wheat field on the cusp of Abbeville. The tips of the tan stalks sway this way and that, forced to dance with the wind in a sea of shimmering gold.

When Carl stops at the top where the ground levels out before the fence, Rick's boots are still angled upward. With all of his weight on his back leg now, he shifts his foot slightly to secure a better hold against the earth as he stands at eye level with his son. He watches Carl stare up at the sky where a pair of bluebirds race above the field spread out before them.

"Is it really up there, Dad?"

"What?"

"Heaven."

"Sure it is."

"How do you know?"

"Well, I guess I don't know for sure. I just believe that it's up there."

"I used to believe in Santa Claus. He turned out to be a lie."

"Uh, yeah." Rick chuckles uncomfortably for a moment as Carl spears him with a slim glare of accusation. A fissure of guilt tickles the edge of his heart. "Well that's more of a game than a lie, Carl. It's just a tradition that parents do to make the little kids happy. It's innocent fun."

"So how do you know that heaven isn't a lie too? Maybe it's just a bigger joke on everyone. How do you know it's real?"

Rick runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily, thinking that they probably should've taken him to church more. They had gone pretty regularly when Carl was an infant, a small Presbyterian church that Lori had found. She'd thought it was important and he was just so thankful for his healthy boy that he didn't mind spending a couple of hours with the Lord on the Sunday mornings he wasn't working.

They went for a while, week after week, month after month, singing the hymns and standing in honor of the gospel. Until their little bundle of joy found his own voice and legs, and then it just became too much of a hassle to keep him quietly entertained while listening to the minister drone on. As the years passed, they'd slept in on lazy Sunday's and congregated only twice a year at the First Presbyterian church on Cherokee Avenue; dusting off their Sunday best for the obligatory Christmas Eve and Easter services. If only they had spent a little more time there. Then maybe his son wouldn't be eyeing him now with such skepticism. "I don't know if it's real, Carl. But it is comforting to believe that there's a special place for us to go when we leave this world."

"But what if it turns out that there isn't? Maybe this is it and when you die you just stop… being."

When did my boy get so philosophical? "Well, maybe that's true. But either way, we have to make the most of our time here. Never give up living, no matter how hard you have to fight for it."

Carl glances from Rick to the sky and then back to his Dad again. "I know mom isn't… she isn't going to find me," he says after seeming to form his thoughts with some difficulty. "She's with other people now." He nods his head with forced confidence and Rick knows that his son is fighting hard to keep the truth from creeping in.

It's one thing to accept that Santa isn't real. It's another to acknowledge the fact that you will never see your mother again. So if Carl wants to think that his mom is still chipping away at life in a distant town, what's so bad about letting him be comforted by that illusion? Rick can't crush his boy's dream any more than he can give him false hope. He says nothing at all.

He looks at his son as several heartbeats stretch between them. Carl moves his head slightly, following the path of the birds as they soar and sink and soar again. Rick watches his son blink at the sky with a thoughtful expression, a pensive look that means he's got more on his mind. But the silence continues to stretch, filled with uncertainty. Inhaling a curious breath, Rick opens his mouth to ask and then closes it quickly when Carl's voice echoes off the wooden rails.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Carl."

Carl blinks away the emotion in his eyes but Rick still sees the slight quiver in his lip when he looks back to meet his gaze. "Is Erin going to divorce you?"

"What? No! Why are you asking that?"

"I heard her yell at you last night. And she was mad this morning too," Carl says with a face full of misery. "Mom used to yell at you and then you got divorced."

Rick's heart twists into a tight braid of regret. "Oh, buddy. I know you love Erin. Right?"

Carl nods, clearly fighting a tide of tears.

"Well I love her too. Very, very much. We had an argument, that was all. We worked it out and she isn't mad at me anymore. Everything is fine with us, I promise."

"I want to live with both of you."

Ah jeez. "Of course, Carl." He realizes now how torn his son must have felt after he'd moved out of the house when he and Lori had split up. And now, with the whole world balancing so precariously in its cradle, the thought of his family breaking up again must be absolutely terrifying. "We are both here for you. That's not gonna change."

When his marriage had crumbled beyond repair and they'd finally decided to call it quits, he thought they had handled it well, but maybe not. They had taken him to Dairy Queen one Saturday afternoon at the beginning of summer, figuring an ice cream sundae would soften the blow. Yeah, like that would make it so much better. He can still picture the untouched strawberries drowning in the bowl of vanilla soup like all of the tender promises made and forgotten over ten years of a complicated marriage.

Carl was upset, naturally, but he'd seemed to understand, to the best that a nine year old can anyway. They had assured him that it wasn't his fault and neither one would ever stop loving him, and they did their best to prove it. Lori was always good about letting him see his son whenever he'd wanted, so as far as divorces went it was extremely amicable, thank God. Carl had adjusted quickly and enjoyed his Wednesday nights and every other weekend with Dad without qualm or complaint. Come to think of it, Rick remembers Carl being extraordinarily well-behaved actually. Maybe he didn't want to disappoint or anger his parents for fear that they would divorce him too, abandoning him completely. Jesus. That's why he was so helpful loading up the cars this morning!

Rick swallows the lump forming in his throat and grips his boy's shoulders. "Carl, no matter what happens, I will always be here for you. If nothing else, you have to believe that. Okay?"

Carl nods his head hard and a couple of tears spill over to course gently down his cheeks. Rick pulls him into a tight embrace, praying once again for the power to keep that promise. After an earnest hug from his son's spindly arms, so deeply given that it forces tears to build behind his own eyes, Rick sucks in a steadying breath and turns to lead Carl back to the car. He drapes his arm across the boy's shoulders, comforting them both. "Alright, Bud, let's go."

"Wait, Dad."

Oh no. "What is it?"

A smirk of a smile tugs the corner of Carl's mouth, easing the grip of anxiety surrounding Rick's heart.

"I still have to pee."

Driving through a windy drizzle, Rick steers the van into the driveway of a small white church sitting in a large clearing on the side of Golden Isles Parkway, a few miles before the road continues into the central hub of Baxley, Georgia. He wasn't surprised to see the flash of Daryl's blinker just before the motorcycle turned into the property. Though it isn't raining heavily yet, it's still enough to impair his vision on the slick roads, and especially dangerous when he's fighting the wind along with it.

After passing acres and acres of nothing but flat fields or tall trees, Rick was grateful to see a building that could hopefully offer them a place to ride out the storm. The Southern Baptist church is a fairly small house of worship, with a single ground floor beneath a very high pitched roof that reaches into the sky despite its lack of a steeple. The two-story manse, containing the working and living space for the pastor and his family, is attached through a covered breezeway on the left side of the sanctuary. Without the traditional rooftop spire, the whole structure looks more like a large house than a church, except for the long windows that are partially decorated in stained-glass and look out to a large cemetery in the backyard.

Rick stops the van at the base of the walkway leading up to the front door, its red surface dripping with moisture like the flowing blood of Christ. He watches Daryl rest the bike on its kickstand and shake the water from his hair and eyes. Turning in his seat, he lays a hand on Erin's thigh and peers over his shoulder toward the passengers in the back. "Alright guys, just stay here 'til we give you the signal."

Erin gives his arm a light squeeze. "Be careful, honey."

"Always." He steps out of the van to meet Daryl under a sky so dark it feels more like the coming of night than the center of the afternoon in its two o'clock hour. With the fast moving clouds obliterating the sun so completely, he wonders what the local weathermen would be saying if the daily news shows were still broadcasting. It certainly feels like something strong is stirring up. But just how strong exactly?

Daryl waits for him on the steps at the foot of the walkway. "Sorry Rick, but this wind is gonna knock me on my ass before we get to the coast. There's a helluva storm brewin' up there."

"I know, don't worry. You made the right call," Rick says with a hand shielding his eyes from the blowing rain as T-Dog and Glenn join them. "Alright, let's clear this place and get everyone inside."

An hour later, Rick walks into the upstairs bathroom where Erin is shining her flashlight across the contents of the medicine cabinet. After investigating every holy nook and sacred cranny of the buildings, they'd found some decent supplies and less than a handful of walkers – an elderly trio sitting solemnly in death after seeking comfort within the house of the Lord.

"Hey, Red, do you need help with anything up here?"

She looks up from the white pill bottle in her hand as the rain beats belligerently against the shingles above them. "No, I'm good."

"Okay. I'm gonna go over to the sanctuary for a bit."

She tilts her chin as her brows go up. "You okay?"

Damn, she knows me too well. "Yeah. I, uh..." He looks down toward the circle of white on the floor shining from his own flashlight. "I'm just gonna sit for a few minutes."

"Do you want company?"

"No, honey. You finish your thing here, I'll be fine." He steps forward to place a gentle kiss on her cheek. "But thank you for offering," he says softly before turning back into the hallway.

Retracing his steps down the stairs and past the den where his friends are settling in, he dips his chin with a smile to Carl as the boy searches through a closet with Duane. He walks by the candlelit kitchen where Sophia is helping Carol and Michonne clean out what little is left in the cupboards, then passes another bathroom and a small office before opening the door to the breezeway, and almost losing it in a gust of vicious wind.

He forcefully closes the door on a few female shrieks and quickly walks the few feet to the side entrance of the sanctuary, gripping the door handle tightly to keep it attached to its frame. With the wind blowing the rain in from both sides, he is soaked in the three seconds it takes him to get into the church, the overhang giving minimal protection against the storm.

He shakes the rain from his hair and sweeps the beam of his flashlight over the empty pews, sitting in silent vigil before the son of God behind the altar. The statue of the crucified Jesus hangs on a large wooden cross against the wall. And though his eyes are closed and his chin downcast, it is easy to feel judged in his presence. If He actually is present, Rick thinks as he looks at the face of his savior and gets sadder and madder with every step that brings him closer to the altar.

Standing at the railing, he runs his hand through his hair, scraping his nails against his scalp where he can almost feel the pricks of his own thorny crown. He catches himself and lowers his hand quickly with a gentle smirk to Jesus, full of sincere empathy and humble apology. Taking a lighter from his pocket he steps around the railing and holds it to the tips of the two altar candles until their flames are stretching up toward heaven. He switches off the flashlight and returns to his spot on the other side of the rail.

A full minute goes by as he stands alone in the sanctuary, silently regarding the man on the cross as the storm rages outside and a bitter squall of contempt begins to brew in his belly once again.

He glares at the statue.

"Shane? Jacqui? Jim? Andrea?" Each name is spoken with a heavy heart and rich with accusation. His jaw tightens. "Lori? Three quarters of the entire world! Who's next?" he asks, feeling like a condemned general leading his troops into a deadly battle of a losing war. He feels the anger surging stronger and fights to control that part of him that is itching to lash out at the unfairness of it all.

He inhales deeply, a soul cleansing breath that bows his head as the anger subsides. "Look, I know I should be grateful for waking up from that coma and for finding my boy and my sister. And I am grateful. For them and for Erin too. God knows I don't deserve her." He catches himself and shakes his head at his words. "Uh, I mean… well, yeah you know.

"And I guess you already know I'm no altar boy. This is the first church I've stepped into in a long time. But don't hold that against my son. Maybe I don't deserve your mercy, but Carl does. He deserves a life. A decent life full of baseball and video games. Not living with a vicious killer around every turn." His heart picks up as his blood pressure rises in anger again.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

"Okay, I know maybe that isn't possible right now. But maybe you can just help me keep him away from the killers until he grows up. Give him a chance to grow up. Please."

His shoulders drop, letting his head fall back with his eyes closed, the fight draining out of him. Opening his eyes, he sees the candlelight flickering on the pale ceiling above him. Recalling his earlier conversation with Carl, he looks back at Jesus with renewed vigor.

"I don't know if there's a heaven up there or not. But I'm kind of counting on it and maybe one day I'll have earned a place in it. But you're not making it easy when we have to fight and kill to scratch out a decent life down here. And by decent, I mean barely tolerable.

"The line between what is right and what is wrong is so incredibly blurred right now. I mean, is it a mortal sin to take a life if that is the only way to defend your family? Does that make me a ruthless killer damned to spend eternity in hell? Or does that make me a loving father because I won't hesitate to protect my child at any cost? The child you gave me to look after." Rick scowls, demanding an answer that will never come. "When does absolute devotion become a wicked transgression?"

He brushes a hand across his face and is surprised when it comes away wet. Unaware of the tears that had begun to trickle down his cheeks, he stares at the salty moisture glistening on his finger, a tiny teardrop that holds all the remorse he stores close to his heart.

Releasing a deep breath, he inhales through his nose, sniffling against the wetness caught inside his nostrils. He gazes back up to the statue.

"Listen, it can't be a crime to protect your loved ones. It can't be. And if it is, then I'll gladly burn in hell, because I will never stop fighting for my family. I won't fail them." He lowers his head and rubs a wrist beneath his nose. "Please, I can't fail them," he mutters softly.

"I'm trying so hard and I think I'm making the right decisions… I really believe that I am, but you don't know how hard that is to know." He returns his gaze to Jesus and the corner of his mouth lifts in a wry smirk. "Yeah, I guess maybe you do." He glances around the sanctuary as thoughts tumble around his brain, whirling like the branches being tossed in the wind on the other side of the stained-glass.

"What if Savannah ends up being a death trap? What if the dream meant something else entirely? If you could just give me a sign, you know? Like a clap of thunder to tell me we're on the right track." The wind continues to howl as the rain pounds mercilessly against the roof of the small church. "Well, then again, that won't really tell me anything with this storm you've given us. Thanks for that, by the way," he says with a sarcastic sneer. "It's not like we have enough to deal with already. Why don't you just throw a little hurricane in our path, no worries!"

He clasps his hands on top of his head and turns to face the back of the church, looking for salvation in the shadows as his jaw clenches tight. He lowers his arms when a dull ache throbs in his left shoulder, reminding him of the bullet that had nearly killed him - another treat that God had sent his way.

The urge to shout - and the freedom to do so in the privacy of the church, builds in his chest like a tidal wave rolling toward the shore. "What do you want from me?!" he screams at the ceiling, bringing his argument straight to the big man Himself. "Come on, give me a sign dammit!" His anger carries his voice above the sound of the tempest battering the east coast. "Make something move! How about one of your precious bibles, huh?" He spits the word like it is bitter on his tongue as he swings a hand toward the six rows of long wooden benches, stoic in the shimmering candlelight.

After a few moments of scanning the room and finding no sudden flurry of verses and psalms, no movement of any kind other than the pounding of his own heart inside his chest, he can't help but glower at the ceiling. Though he knows his request may be unreasonable, his fingers still curl into fists at the futility of it all. "Yeah, that's what I thought. We're in this alone down here. Aren't we?

"What? You got so fed up with our reckless behavior and irresponsibility for the land and seas that you left in our care, our disrespect for basic human decency, so you decided to take it all away? Well we aren't giving it up that easily, you hear me!" His chest heaves with all the fury in his soul. "Maybe you've given up on us, but we're not giving up on ourselves!"

Completely spent, he walks away to find solace in his family. He gets halfway down the aisle and stops, releasing a long, indignant breath. Feeling somewhat steadier, he turns back to the statue of Jesus.

Before he can change his mind, he quickly steps to the railing and drops to his knees. Bowing his head, he folds his hands and lifts his knuckles to his forehead. "Please keep me alive so I can keep my family alive," he whispers reverently. "Amen."