The old Subaru refused to start, and no amount of scowling at its innards was going to change that. Michonne tilted back Carl's hat as she turned her glare to the Heavens.
She had promised Rick she would be there this time.
Once a week, the Saviors came to Alexandria. They came like locusts, taking more than the community had to spare. Rick was running himself ragged, trying to keep the peace as well as keeping up with the ever-increasing demand. Negan rarely stopped by anymore. Bored, perhaps, of Rick's quiet compliance.
There had been an incident last week, Michonne had heard. Joe, their elderly neighbor, approached Negan's second in command. He sought permission for a new mattress. Joe was old, he had a bad back. And once the Saviors were through with him, he had a black eye and a broken arm as well.
Michonne hadn't been there to see it. She'd only heard about it after, from Rick. It killed her a little on the inside, coming back to a traumatized town and Rick's thousand-yard stare. To sleep on the floor in a house that was too big for just the two of them. It killed her to see Rick's despair every time she came home empty-handed.
The Saviors claimed they didn't take the children. Rick believed them. Michonne had needed a little more convincing. She had captured one, a redheaded woman whose name Michonne never bothered to learn. The woman took Michonne right to their doorstep, a massive compound they called Sanctuary. When Michonne asked about the children, the woman laughed and called her insane.
Michonne had left the Sanctuary in her rearview mirror after that. A fight for another day.
Sighing in frustration, Michonne slammed the car hood shut. It was getting late, and she was no mechanic. If she wanted to keep her promise to Rick, she needed to start walking. Otherwise, she would never make it back to Alexandria by morning.
Leaving the car by the side of the road, Michonne set out to Alexandria. Back to Rick and their wounded community. She'd hold his hand and stand aside while the Saviors ravaged their home, and then she would watch them leave. She'd leave then, too. Those days, Michonne spent most of her time away from Alexandria. Searching. Everyone else had given up, but not her.
She decided to take a shortcut through an open field. Sweat rolled down her back before long. She used her sword as a sickle to make a path through the tall grass. From time to time, walkers would pass her by. She would throw a rock and wait until she could no longer hear their graceless gait and scratchy vocalizations.
Stopping to shake the last few drops from her water bottle, Michonne's gaze fell on a patch of exposed soil. She froze.
Michonne always held a soft spot for horses. Growing up in the city hadn't stopped Michonne from her riding lessons, every Saturday afternoon, from the age of eight to sixteen, until her beautiful chestnut Thoroughbred caught a bad case of Colic and had to be put down.
The fact of the matter was, Michonne recognized horseshit when she saw it.
It was easy enough to find tracks, now that she knew what to look for. It seemed to her that someone else was making a habit of cutting through the field. The tracks led her to a dusty old road, which led her to a town, and finally, to an unfamiliar settlement.
Taking shelter in one of the nearby houses, Michonne steadied her breaths, a form of meditation she'd once practiced before a major exam, and waited for the night to come.
In the cover of darkness, Michonne made her way into the settlement. The young guards standing at the gates wore body armor and carried spears, but they failed to notice her sneaking past their walls.
Keeping to the shadows, she surveyed the settlement. Michonne didn't know what she was looking for, exactly. It was much larger than Alexandria. There were not many people out and about at that hour, but more than a few windows were lit. Even in the moonlight, the settlement seemed green and vibrant. Gardens flourished everywhere she looked, some even growing flowers. The maddening scent of freshly baked bread wafted through an open window.
Her gaze fell on a standing blackboard. It'd been left beneath a great oak tree, with colorful mats and pillows strewn before it. There were children here, Michonne realized, heart in her throat. It didn't have to mean anything. It didn't mean they were hers.
She decided to make her way into the large building near the oak tree. A couple came strolling by, hand in hand. Michonne froze, sure they'd spotted her, but it seemed like they only had eyes for each other.
This place had a school before, she thought, peering into what once might have been an arts classroom. It was still being used, she realized, noticing the half-complete paintings that surrounded the teacher's podium. Some of them weren't even half bad.
Hearing footsteps coming from down the hallway, Michonne swore under her breath and ducked into what she thought was an empty room, only to find it wasn't empty after all.
An ancient Asian woman greeted her with a stare. The woman stood frozen in the middle of a store room, her face was as wrinkled as an old prune.
"Don't," Michonne said quietly, reaching back for her sword in a warning.
That only seemed to anger the old woman. Michonne didn't understand a word of Chinese, but she understood well enough when the old woman picked a can with her gnarled hand and threw it at Michonne's head.
Michonne dodged it easily. "Shut up," she hissed.
Undeterred, and with shocking strength, the woman lobbed another can at Michonne, missing her narrowly. Michonne seriously contemplated knocking her out, hesitating only because the old crone looked as though a stiff breeze would break her in half. It was too late anyway. Already there were footsteps coming from outside.
Gritting her teeth, Michonne made a run for the window instead. She rolled to the ground, losing Carl's hat in all the commotion. There was no time to pick it up. As soon as she got to her feet, Michonne felt the woosh of displaced air. She jumped out of the way, drawing her sword in one fluid movement as she turned to face her attacker.
The man laughed as their swords clashed. The silver of his hair caught the moonlight, framing his face like a halo. He was dressed in a colorful Hawaiian shirt, heavy necklaces around his neck, and rings on his fingers. His long silver hair was adorned with feathers. He beamed at Michonne over his silver sword.
"Magnificent," the man declared joyfully, "long have I yearned for a worthy opponent."
He spoke with all the theatrics of an actor at a Renaissance Fair. His shiny silver sword was attached to a cane. Michonne glared back and all but growled, "You have got to be fucking kidding me."
In response, the swordsman pushed back against her sword. Michonne stumbled, but kept her guard up, keeping her attention focused on the man before her.
A crowd was beginning to form around them. Men and women spilled from the surrounding buildings, many of them in their nightwear and carrying old-fashioned oil lanterns. More kevlar-wearing guards appeared as well, brandishing knives, guns, and spears. Michonne braced herself for a fight she couldn't win.
The swordsman raised his hand, stopping the guards in their tracks. "It is but a friendly duel," he announced.
A man broke through the crowd then. He was on the large side, with shoulder-length hair and a beard. His pajama pants had a pattern of avocados. He paused to look at Michonne. Smiling, he said, "Yo."
Michonne glared back, unimpressed.
The man then turned to the swordsman. He held up a kevlar chest piece. "My king."
"You are a faithful armor-bearer, Jerry." The swordsman, the king, smiled benevolently. "But that won't be necessary."
With that, the king charged. The spectators watched, enthralled, as their swords clashed together time and time again, sounds of clanking metal and grunts of efforts filling the air. The king launched a relentless offensive attack, with less flourish than Michonne anticipated, and with far more skill than she would have given him credit for.
It'd been years since Michonne had faced another swordsman, and the king's fighting style had nothing to do with the fencing lessons Michonne had taken back in college. She was caught on the defensive, the king leaving no room for her to launch an attack of her own.
Finally, Michonne was knocked down to the ground. She lost her grip on her sword. Swearing inwardly, Michonne braced herself for a killing blow. It never came.
The king stopped and stooped down, offering his hand. Michonne responded by throwing dirt in his eyes. He recoiled, giving her the opening she'd needed to slam her forehead into his nose.
The king stumbled back with a shout, hand flying to his face. Michonne picked up her sword and rolled to her feet. The guards rushed to stand between them, ready to defend their so-called king.
"Halt!" The king cried, holding his hand out in warning. His nose didn't seem broken, but it was bleeding freely down to his chin. Taking a sickening long snort, he spat a glob of blood on the ground. He chuckled and sheathed his sword.
The man in the avocado pajamas, Jerry, came and handed the king a handkerchief, which the king gladly accepted. He dabbed at his nose, winced, and said, "Well played, my lady. We shall do this again someday."
"Like hell," Michonne spat out. "What is this?"
The old woman from the storeroom pushed her way past the crowd. She stood hunched over a walking cane, yelling at the king. He listened to her attentively, waiting patiently for her to say her piece. When she was satisfied, the king chuckled.
"Mrs. Zhao tells me she has caught you trespassing in the storeroom." The king said, turning to Michonne. "If food is all you seek, we will gladly share it. But know this, if you've come to do us harm, you will not leave this place alive." His smile never wavered. "My name is King Ezekiel. Welcome to the Kingdom."
Michonne looked around. As odd as it all seemed, no one in the crowd seemed hurt or afraid. Finally, she sighed and sheathed her sword. "I'm looking for my children."
She hadn't meant to say they were hers. It had slipped out.
"Your children," Ezekiel repeated, cocking his head. Realization dawned on his face. "Ah, I see. You are a friend of Lady Carol, then?"
"Lady Carol?" Michonne scoffed. She didn't have anything to say to Carol. The woman had taken off without a word a few days after the children had disappeared. "She's here?"
"As am I," said a familiar voice. Michonne turned to see Morgan, dressed in the same body armor as the rest of the guards. He was flanked by a boy with blond hair who seemed to be around Carl's age. Morgan looked at her with sympathy. "They're not here. I'm sorry."
The blond boy held Carl's hat. He had a guarded look on his face, but he held out the hat for Michonne to take.
Michonne didn't trust her voice to speak. She gave a quick nod. Another dead end, then. Giving a quick shake of her head, Michonne turned to walk away. This had been a complete waste of time, she thought, and Rick was waiting for her.
"It is late," said Ezekiel suddenly, stepping in front of her. He offered her a soft smile. "If you wish to stay the night, we will gladly-" The king suddenly fell silent, an expression of bewildered surprise crossing his face. He turned to stare into the distance, his head turned just so.
The crowd murmured, alerted by Ezekiel's strange behavior. Michonne followed his gaze and strained her ears, but found nothing out of place. Suspicious, her fingers itched for the hilt of her sword, wondering if the king was playing some kind of game.
It started as static electricity. The hair in the back of her hands rose. Then came a flickering light from above them, a spotlight coming back to life. The hanging speakers likewise crackled and hissed.
"What are you doing?" Michonne demanded. She lifted a hand to her ear, wincing at the screeching coming from the speakers. The noise was going to bring out every walker within five miles.
King Ezekiel ignored her, still staring into the distance. Jerry answered for him, looking as bewildered as Michonne felt. "That's not us!"
It wasn't just the spotlight overhead that was lighting up. The air was crackling with electricity, and every light in the Kingdom seemed to flicker on and off, bright as if the power grid hadn't shut down a long time ago.
A ringing was building in Michonne's ears. Like someone dragging furniture on a hardwood floor, or nails on a chalkboard. The others felt it too. It built and built, intensifying, becoming a shriek, becoming unbreakable.
Michonne fell to her knees, her hands clasped over her ears. She cried out when glass rained down on her from the building's shattered windows. It was hard to tell if the ground was really shaking, but it felt like it was about to open wide and swallow them all.
Fighting to open her eyes, hands shuttering her ears, Michonne saw most of the people had also collapsed to the ground. Morgan was shielding the blond-haired boy, covering his body with his own. The oil lanterns had exploded into shattered glass, but the flames had been snuffed out by the bodies rolling around in the dirt. They were screaming, crying out, but Michonne couldn't hear them over the deafening shrieking in her ears.
King Ezekiel stood motionless among his people. He kept staring into the distance.