Chapter Forty-six
In a small rural town about sixty miles west of Savannah, Rick stands at the window of a first floor bedroom, gazing out at a landscape that he is too numb to actually see. The rolling fields before him belong to one of the many farms that make up Adabelle, a rustic town with modest standards and no stoplights. The beauty of the scenery is lost on him. He doesn't see the gentle slopes of the terrain as dusk paints a golden hue on the green fields. He can only envision the boy lying in another room under the scalpel of a white-haired stranger.
The blood stains of today's events are invisible against the dark fabric of his black jeans, but his light gray tee shirt reveals the heartbreaking trauma of the afternoon like a badge of dishonor. He can't get the sound of screeching brakes and screaming metal out of his head, or the sight of the big man racing out of the woods with a rifle in his hands and regret in his eyes. The smell of the tires burning into the asphalt still clings to his nostrils, and he can still feel the grip of the steering wheel as he'd clutched it with his elbows locked and his foot to the floor, skidding to a bumpy stop as he'd watched the jeep roll again and again before coming to land on its side. He can still picture the rear tire spinning in the sun as time stood still, his paralyzed mind unable to focus on anything but the wheel's dirty black rubber going round and round, like the hands of a clock ticking away the seconds of a life in an incredibly swift race to a final breath. And he can still feel the weight of the axe handle as he'd furiously driven it into the thick branches of the sycamore tree that had dared to block his path from some desperately needed medical treatment.
He can still hear T-Dog's soft but exuberant voice around the crackle of the campfire as he'd told a funny story about a mission trip with the kids in his church. He can still see the proud smile on his friend's face when Carl had shown him a drawing of the quarry. And he can still see the gracious light in his eyes when he'd more recently said 'Sure, you guys can ride with me.'
Standing in the bedroom of the big farmhouse, Rick gazes unseeing out the window as he weeps internally for the loss of another dear friend, a good man who certainly did not deserve to die today, and the fate of an injured young boy in the hands of a retired veterinarian.
Although he couldn't comprehend it at the time it was happening, he can see it clearly now, reliving it over and over and still trying to make sense of it all. He knows what happened, but he still can't make sense of it. Since it doesn't make sense, he can't give meaning to it. And if it was a meaningless act, he has to take responsibility for it since he was the one who put them on that road, at that moment, in harm's way.
Of course he didn't do it deliberately to hurt anyone, but he did it all the same. It may not make sense, but he understands what happened. He knows, now, that a local farmhand named Otis missed the deer he was aiming to shoot and struck T-Dog in the head, killing him instantly. He knows that the two boys were thrown about and badly injured. He knows that Otis led them to this farm to get help from an elderly man named Hershel Greene. And he knows that Hershel is a doctor who treats animals, not people.
He knows that they are all way in over their heads and he can't make sense of any of it.
Standing in Hershel's home now, his hands are empty, his mind is numb, his heart is heavy and his eyes are moist as he waits for word from the operating room; another small bedroom in the back of the big farmhouse. The veterinarian and his family seem like good people, but are they good enough to save a boy's life? And with limited supplies?
The boy in the bed behind him snores softly, his left arm elevated on a pillow and encased in a splint from his palm to his elbow, protecting the badly sprained wrist inside. Carl had been terribly shaken and pretty banged up, but Otis's wife Patricia had put him at ease, telling a funny story of how Hershel's daughter, Beth, had sprained her own wrist a few years back. The story effectively took his mind off his suffering while she'd treated his hand, iced his bruised ribs and cleaned his few scrapes. Thank God that was all he had needed.
If only Duane had been so lucky.
Standing at the window, Rick can't see anything through the glass except Morgan's son lying motionless on the ground after being thrown from the jeep, the lower part of his right leg bent at a severe angle and blood oozing from a deep cut above his right ear.
When Erin walks into the room after assisting with Duane's surgery, Rick doesn't see the bloodied handprints streaked across the thighs of her gray denim jeans, or the neckline of her white tank top soiled with sweat from her labors. He is vaguely aware of her presence but he is too caught up in his own painful guilt to fully commit to her company… until he feels her touch. The arms slipping around his waist anchor him to her soul as the heat of her chest against his back pulls him back to the present – the relentlessly unforgiving present. He covers her hands with his as her cheek warms the tightly knotted spot between his shoulder blades.
Her voice is soft in the quiet room as Carl continues to drowse. "Hershel set his leg and stitched his head. There isn't anything else to do now but wait."
"Did…" His voice scratches through a very dry throat and he swallows hard to find some moisture before continuing. "Did he ever wake up?"
"Not fully, no."
"I hate this."
"I know, babe. Hopefully he'll wake up soon. We couldn't detect any internal injuries so there's no reason that he shouldn't."
"What about that bump on his head?"
"Most likely a concussion. But it shouldn't keep him from waking up. His body just needs time to heal now."
Time. It seems like all they have these days is time; Time to pass, time to kill, time to remember, time to forget. So much and so little all at the same time.
"Patricia said Carl's wrist should heel completely," Erin tells him. "She got the splint on with no problem."
Rick nods his head slowly as a weary grunt rattles his throat, still too numb to form the words he really wants to say; When will this nightmare end?
Her arms tighten around his middle. "Are you okay, honey?"
"Yeah." He turns his chin toward her, speaking quietly over his shoulder. "Will you stay with Carl? I want to go check on Morgan."
"Of course. Maybe you can check on Glenn too. Hershel's daughter Maggie is with him but he's really upset. He and T-Dog were very close."
"Of course." Walking away, he feels the weight of another troubled soul resting soundly on his shoulders.
Carl groans softly in his sleep. Rick shifts his position in the chair next to the daybed, leaning forward as he watches his son's eyes flutter open and closed again. When he'd sat with Morgan an hour ago, Duane had moaned fitfully in his sleep as well, breaking Rick's heart while Morgan stomped on it, glaring at him with thick accusation for ever talking him into leaving the small house in King County. Very few words were spoken, but the message came through loud and clear. He'd left the room after a short visit, a soft somber groan accompanying his exit – from father or son, he did not know.
Now, he watches his own son turn his head on the pillow as his eyes open fully, meeting his own blue gaze in the dim lamplight. "Hey, buddy." He reaches over to place a warm palm against Carl's forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"Fuzzy."
"That's the painkiller that Hershel gave you," Rick tells him, referring to the three tablets of Motrin drifting through his system.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, bud?"
"Do you think T-Dog might see Shane and Mom in heaven, or would he be in a totally different part up there?"
"What? You mean you don't think Mom is still down here looking for you?" Rick asks gently, somewhat shocked at his son's question.
"No. I know she's watching me from up there. And I know you tried to tell me the truth. And I know why you lied."
"You do?"
"Yeah, but you don't have to protect me anymore. Not from the truth anyway."
Rick swallows thickly, repressing a cough that holds a deep sense of pride suffused with profound regret. Carl has grown so much in the last few weeks. He's still so young, but forced to grow up so incredibly fast. Speechless, Rick strokes his son's dark hair and is relieved when Erin walks into the room – until he notices the expression of sadness on her face. "What is it?" he asks, fearing the worst as Hershel walks in behind her. He stands to face them, his body instinctively moving to protect his child from anything that might hurt him.
"Duane is not responding to any outside stimuli now," Hershel says softly, in the gentle way of old country doctors that have asked for very little and seen too much.
"He's dead?" Carl asks, his voice sounding very small and very scared.
Rick shuffles back as Erin rushes to Carl's side, sitting on the edge of the bed at the boy's hip. He watches her place a tender hand on his son's head, echoing the pose he had struck just a few moments before.
"No, sweetheart," she says quickly. "He's still alive, but he's slipped into a coma."
"A coma? Like Dad?"
"Yeah, honey, just like your daddy was. Duane's body needs to rest itself so it can heal."
"Can I see him?"
Carl's misty eyes and quivering lip squeezes Rick's heart as his son looks to him for permission. He turns to the doctor standing just inside the doorway, deferring the question to him with an eyebrow raised over a weary expression. Hershel steps to the foot of the bed, lifting a hand with a white piece of cloth flowing over his fingers.
"Come on, son," the elderly man says. "Let's get this sling on your arm and then I'll take you to him."
Once the sling is in place to support Carl's injured arm, Rick watches his son limp slowly out of the room, stepping gingerly on his left knee while Hershel guides him with a steady hand on his shoulder. Turning back to the window, Rick presses the heels of his fists into his eyes to erase the painful image of his wounded son. "Christ, this fucking nightmare never ends," he mutters, leaning his elbows on the window frame and fighting the urge to put his fist through the glass.
Erin sniffles softly behind him. "We should go check on the others. They must be terrified."
A tempest of exhaustion and anger and fear and frustration collides with a whirlwind of regret. In a blind rage of torment, he reels on her. "Well maybe I'm terrified too!" he hollers. "But I can't show that in front of them!" He swings his arm to the side in an aggravated arc as his heart pounds furiously inside his chest.
Erin scurries to the door and closes it tightly before turning back to face him. The expression on her face is a blend of equal parts shock, hurt and anger, but the main ingredient is a healthy dose of compassion.
He doesn't register any of the emotions staring back at him. His vision is blurred by misery and he can't see beyond his own failures. "Do you know how hard it is to be the strong one ALL the time? To show confidence in my decisions so people won't second guess anything? It's fucking exhausting! But we have to be united in everything we do in order to stay strong. In order to survive! We're all in this together, God help me."
"You don't have to be strong in front of me," she says gently, reaching a hand toward him.
A hard flinch lifts his shoulder as he pulls away from her. "The hell I don't! They follow your lead as much as mine, watch your reaction to gage their own. If you don't trust me, neither would they. I didn't ask for this. You put me here!"
"Maybe you didn't ask for it, Rick, but you were born for it," she replies with just a little bit of heat to her tone. "And I won't apologize for any part I played in putting you there."
"It's too much," he says, feeling completely defeated. "I can't take it anymore."
"None of this is your fault, honey. Nobody is blaming you."
"Of course they are! Morgan especially and rightfully so."
"He's upset and needs someone to direct his frustration at," she replies. "You just happen to be an easy target, especially since he's known you the longest."
"Yeah," he sneers, unable to keep the derision from his voice. "And now he's regretting the day I ever crossed his path."
"I don't believe that for a second," she responds with a fire in her eyes. "And deep down, neither do you."
He watches her turn and cross to the door. When it begins to open, he realizes that she is about to walk out and his heart falters as a new fear takes hold, clearing the painful haze that had been clouding his vision. He rushes over and places one hand firmly on the door and the other on the wall, keeping her from walking away. "I'm sorry, honey." He hangs his head until he is literally breathing down her neck. "Don't leave me. I can't do this without you. Please don't ever leave me."
She leans back into him with the comforting touch of her shoulders against his chest. He feels the warmth of her hands curling around his thighs, bridging the gulf he'd created between them. She lifts her chin at an upward angle and softly says, "You're never getting rid of me."
A long restless breath seeps from his chest as she steadies his world once again. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm just so fucking tired." With his arms still braced on the door and the wall, he lowers his head to rest on her shoulder.
She turns within his arms and he leans back to give her room. Lifting her hands to frame his face, she meets his eyes with the most compassionate expression he's ever seen. "You don't have to apologize, Rick. And you don't have to be strong in front of me. I'll still follow you to the ends of the earth."
"Come here." He pulls her into a deep embrace that both rocks his world and stabilizes his soul all in the same breath. "I love you, Red."
"I love you back," she whispers into his neck before pulling back to meet his gaze again. In a voice filled with a conviction that supports the sheen of fierce loyalty in her eyes, she adds, "Always."