A/N Thank you sooo much for the wonderful reviews! You guys are the best! And yes, Tilly, I have a series of deleted scenes that will keep Erick together for at least a little while. :)
Chapter Fifty-three
"Go back!"
"Over there!"
"Watch 'em!"
"Fuck!" Rick jerks the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid another swell of listless figures stumbling out of Abercorn Street on his right. Flooring the gas pedal, he races toward Drayton Street and the open space of Forsyth Park. With another furious curse at the cluster of walkers blocking the last cobblestoned stretch of Hall Street, he forces the van through them, taking several rotted body parts with him. The windshield wipers wash away the gore splattered against the glass, with help from the rain that is drenching the small city of Savannah.
"Hold on!" Swinging a left onto Drayton, he runs along the park, weaving around a slew of abandoned cars and the trash that was left behind during a hasty evacuation. At Bolton Lane he is stopped once again by a barricade of the dead, their lifeless eyes now focusing their brutal instinct on him and his four passengers.
"That way!" Daryl calls out from the seat next to him and Rick glances in the direction of the finger pointed toward the southeast corner of the park, where a quadrant of tennis courts sits in the spacious field. "It's clear straight through!"
With a screeching turn against the wet asphalt, Rick takes the van over the curb and between a set of oak trees, decorated in webs of sagging Spanish moss that seem to be dripping with tears for the loss of a very special city. He steers around the fenced-in courts and jumps onto the wide walking path that splits the great lawn running a six block stretch from Park Avenue to Gaston Street, where the historic Forsyth Park fountain now sits empty and dry, its famous trumpeting swans and mermen spouting nothing but distant memories.
Exiting the park with a rattle and clang, he squeezes the van through the narrow space between 'The Hiker' statue and a small corner hedge, displacing a trash can in the process. He pulls out onto Bull Street and continues past the oak tunnel of Duffy Street where the shaded lane is swarming with walkers.
Another five hundred feet and he whips a right onto Anderson, ignoring the Wrong Way sign on the one way street. This whole fucking city is the wrong way! I never should've brought Erin here. Now he knows why she didn't share his dream last night. She wasn't supposed to be there! Please God, let me get her out of here. Aiming for an escape at Ogeechee Road, his vision is impeded when the wind picks up and the rain hits harder, pounding against the roof in competition with the heart that is beating wildly inside his chest.
"If we can get across Montgomery we'll be in the clear!" Jesus shouts from his seat behind Daryl.
"We're not gonna make it," Rick replies, braking hard to jump onto Jefferson Street, just one block before an infested stretch of Montgomery. "Shit!"
He maneuvers through two blocks of scattered debris, feeling like an experimental mouse caught in a horrific maze, and turns left onto Henry Street to avoid the herd swarming in the shadows of the oaks on Duffy. Crossing a clear strip of Montgomery, he makes another left to box around, taking Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard back to pick up Anderson once again. "Hold on!" Cutting the corner to get around a burned out Chevrolet, the front end rises and falls with a groaning crunch of metal as he takes the curb hard and the curb takes his rear bumper. With only a hundred and seventy five yards away from freedom, he guns it up Anderson, pressing through a drove of the dead coming out of Burroughs Street on his left and merging with another horde from hell spilling out of an apartment complex on his right, becoming one hot mess of trouble for him.
They line the sidewalks and stumble onto the pavement, their gnarled fingers reaching for the van as it races up the double yellow lines in the center of the street. "Come on," Rick mutters behind clenched teeth, keeping his eye on the quickly closing escape route as his back end fishtails slightly on the slick roadway.
"Rick!" Erin cries as scores of bloodstained fingers try to find a grip on the slippery metal of the vehicle as it whips past them.
"Hang on! Almost there," he adds under his breath, more to himself in an effort to ignore the persistent thudding against the side windows and keep his focus on the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, which in this case is a street sign that says Ogeechee Road. Barreling through the last few snarling figures, he releases a sigh of relief as he looks out upon an empty road.
Shifting his foot to the brake to ease into the turn only a short distance away now, he slows the van down to a respectable speed and then turns the wheels to the left. He grips the steering wheel and slightly twists his body into the turn, dropping his left shoulder and leaning forward as the vehicle skids from Anderson to Ogeechee Road. He feels the tires fighting to grab onto the asphalt as the back end swings in a wide arc. He presses the accelerator to fight the momentum of the skid, but the front tires cannot grasp the wet road in time to keep the rear tires from slipping into a patch of sodden earth. The narrow strip of grass that separates the street from Laurel Grove Cemetery on its right now sits under a shallow stream of rainwater, and captures two wheels in its saturated terrain. "Fuck!" Rick floors the gas pedal but the back tires spin ineffectually within the mire of muck and mud.
Four voices holler in unison around him. "Go go go!"
"I'm trying dammit!" With his foot to the floor, he glances over his left shoulder and his belly drops for the hundredth time in twenty minutes. Despite their clumsy stagger, the throng of walkers is advancing quickly. "Oh God." He looks to the cemetery on his right and sees a scattering of figures that seem to have escaped from their graves, staggering lethargically around the headstones that should have been their final resting place. Coming from the back of the large cemetery they are a good distance away, but behind him only sixty yards stretches between the herd and the fountain of muddy water that is spewing out from beneath the van.
"Son of a bitch!" Jesus roars a moment before Rick sees him open his door and slip out into the rain before anyone can stop him.
"No!"
"Jesus!"
"Oh, God."
"Daryl!" Rick hollers and the hunter is halfway out the door before the sheriff can even give the command.
"I'm on it!"
"Hurry!" Rick nearly chokes on his heart which is lodged high in his throat. He continues to floor the gas and he can feel the van rocking from the efforts of the strong hands pressed determinedly against the back panel. "Come on, come on, come on," he utters, glaring out the window as he constantly measures the distance between his friends and the approaching march of gory madness.
He rocks forward in his seat, an attempt to do something – anything – that feels somewhat productive as the tires continue their fruitless churning. "Come on God dammit!" He pounds a fist into the dashboard and is somewhat startled when the van jumps forward, grabbing onto solid earth for just a moment before slinking back into the mire.
The vehicle dances forward and back several times, to the frightened and frustrated dismay of its passengers. Squinting to get a clearer view through the rain, Rick measures the distance of the closest walkers. About forty yards. Fuck! "Erin, take the wheel!" He shifts into park and jumps from the driver's seat, rushing to the bumperless rear end as Erin takes over on the gas pedal.
He steps between the muddy men at either taillight and throws all of his might against the metal, using his mind as much as his muscles as he wishes and prays and hopes that the earth will release its hold. The van lurches forward again, teasing them with the dream of escape but ultimately keeping them caught in this nightmare as it settles back once more. He loses his footing in the bog that is sucking at his boots and goes down to one knee with a curse. Fighting the furious wave of dirty water that is pounding against his body, he pulls himself up and glances back to see a wall of hungry hands only twenty feet away. Oh Christ. "Now!" He gets a better hold beneath his foot and shakes the water from his eyes as he pushes once more, refusing to let up until they are free from the mud. Screaming with the effort, he coughs on a huge gasp of relief when the tires finally catch onto something solid and the van lurches forward several feet, leaving him and his comrades scrambling face down in the sludge as it continues to roll further out onto the hard pavement of Ogeechee Road.
He sees Jesus move toward the door that Erin had left opened on the driver's side so he follows Daryl around to the right, and falls over his partner when Daryl goes down with a painful groan. "Daryl!"
"Rick!" Erin screams and he knows that the walkers have reached them.
He grabs Daryl beneath the armpits and forcefully throws him into the back seat, hearing a curse about a stupid knee as he slams the door on his friend and dives into the front passenger seat. "Go, go, go!" he shouts, kicking his heel into the chest of a lanky cadaver as she floors the gas. Baring its fetid teeth, the creature stumbles backward. Rick reaches for the door handle, now swinging inward with the momentum of the accelerator, and slams it shut on another hand that is clawing out for his arm. Three fingers, from the bony knuckles to the broken nails with badly chipped pink polish, fall into the car and roll under his seat, a gruesome souvenir from the city he'd foolishly hoped would give them refuge.
Fifteen minutes later he is back behind the wheel after reaching a safe distance from the city to stop and switch positions with Erin. His hands are relaxed upon the steering wheel, the skin on his arms and neck feeling tighter and tighter with every mile as the mud dries into a coat of pasty gray. Driving northwest on Berwick Boulevard, he thinks of the city and how it had looked before The Turn, with its beautiful cathedrals and charming Victorian homes along the oak-lined streets. Disappointment wars with anger over the loss of it all.
As upset as he is about not finding a refugee center waiting for them, he is even more saddened that they'd never gotten the chance to feel the white sands of the beach. He was so sure that he'd be carrying Erin toward the rolling shoreline of their dream that it hadn't occurred to him that they'd never even see the waves.
Who knows if he'll feel any sand between his toes ever again? Maybe all of the beaches on this coast are barricaded by the dead now, considering that most of them are bordering highly populated towns due to the lucrative revenue of tourism. Which means that Daytona is most likely under the twisted thumb of walker law as well. Maybe they should just stay inland like Dale and Morgan were pushing for. They can look for another farm on the outskirts of Adabelle. Maybe find something like Hershel's. He can't be the only one who's been untouched so far. Who am I kidding? There isn't a place on earth that hasn't been affected to some degree. And if they do find another farm that has avoided invasion, chances are it'll still be occupied by its owners, which puts them right back in the position they are in now. Maybe he'll come up with an appeal that will finally convince Hershel to let them stay. Caught tightly between a perilous rock and a desperately hard place, he's got about fifty-five miles to come up with it. Fifty-four… fifty-three…
When he turns into the long dirt drive nearly two hours later, the rain has softened to a moderate drizzle and he has nothing new to offer in the form of an appeal. But he's going to try again anyway.
Following the lane past the windmill, he swings around to park in front of the house. He turns the engine off as a low rumble of thunder rolls across the late afternoon sky. A door opens behind him and Jesus climbs out, followed by Michonne. He watches them head toward the campers and notices a block of lantern light glowing in the doorway of the barn. Hershel. He gazes at the light for several moments and then looks over at his copilot who has yet to open her door.
Erin reaches across the console and takes his hand. "Whatever happens, we'll be okay as long we're together." He nods quietly in agreement, drawing strength from her once again. She lifts his hand to her mouth and presses her lips to his fist. "I'm going to see if Patricia needs help with dinner." She gets out of the van and Rick watches her walk to the porch with her shoulders hunched to the rain.
"You gonna talk to Hershel again, ain't ya?" Daryl asks from the back seat, seeming to be in no rush to exit the vehicle either.
"I have to."
"I'll come with ya."
"How's your knee?"
"Not bad. Just pissed it off a little's all. I can make it to the barn."
"Alright. Just let me do the talking."
The rain taps a light drum roll on the roof of the barn as they near the opened door. Walking slowly to accommodate the temperamental knee of his partner, Rick turns to ask how he is holding up, but swallows the question when he hears a painful grunt within the building and the muttering curse of a deep voice that he does not recognize.
"Daddy!" Beth's terrified voice echoes from the rafters inside the big barn, freezing Rick's blood as he pulls Daryl against the wall just outside the doorway.
"Now, I'm not gonna ask you again, old timer," a strong Philadelphia accent ricochets off the stalls. "How many people you got in that house up there?"