Disclaimer: The Walking Dead, its characters, and its plots belong to their respective creators. I just have a computer and too much time on my hands.

PART I: FEAR

(n) an unpleasant, often strong, emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger

Exhaustion tugged at the weary sheriff's very bones. His steps felt heavy as he trudged from the watch tower back into his sleepy cell block. The prison itself, usually quite quiet at such a late hour of the pitch black night, was eerily silent as Rick wandered towards his cell. The events of the day weighed heavily on their minds, he was sure of it. Their whole world had shaken beneath their feet. New losses carved new holes in hearts. The sad remains of freshly shattered families curled together in the dark, faces red and marked with tears, eyes red and unblinking as they clung to all they had left.

Perhaps, Rick thought, he should consider himself lucky. The sickness that was now so sure to snake its way through the once-safe halls of his beloved prison had yet to touch his own. His children slept soundly: Carl draped across his thin mattress, one arm hanging off the side of his bed, and Judith sprawled out in the playpen that had become her makeshift crib. It had been moved into a private area with other young children. Beth had put herself in charge of looking after them. Their dreams went undisturbed by fever. Their breaths were deep and full.

Still, Rick found but little comfort in the safety of his blood. He'd let down a lot of people today. Already, innocents were wrapped in whatever sheets could be spared and graves had begun to be dug. Already, the quarantined Cell Block D was filling with new patients who feared their imminent fates. A thousand questions built in his head and he hadn't a single answer to give. His throat felt tight as he moved deeper into the prison. He listened to the somber chorus of sleep that sang through the halls. It was not as lively as usual. A few of the cells he passed were now empty.

Rick was just rounding the corner, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands as he let his leaden legs carry him towards his own cell, when he was sure he heard a horrible, hacking cough. He stilled, listening closely. He heard nothing at first and then, he was sure, the sound of someone clearing their throat.

His heart hammered in his chest. Immediately, he redirected himself, forgetting entirely about his own bunk and about the sleep he so desperately needed and instead hurrying towards the sound of a friend in despair. Dread twisted in his gut—again, that painful, wet coughing. It punctured the still and silent air, echoed off the thick walls, and as Rick moved closer it become quite clear whose cell the sound was coming from.

He paused by the door with bated breath, listening. At first there was nothing and Rick toyed with the idea that maybe he was simply being paranoid. He was just so tired, so worn out, so bogged down by the events of the day. It wouldn't be the first time his muddled mind played tricks on him.

Then he heard a groan within the cell. Another harsh cough.

He fought to keep from trembling as he reached out to grasp the moth-eaten privacy curtain, swallowing thickly and steeling himself for what he might find inside.

When Rick pushed aside the curtain, his heart absolutely sank. He could feel it thudding dully in the pit of his stomach, his lips turning down in a frown as he took in the sight of Shane. His friend was lying on his side, his bare back, sleek with sweat, to the door. His broad shoulders shook as another bought of coughing wracked his body. His prison-issue blanket was in a tangled heap at his feet—Rick thought Shane must have kicked it off.

Shane only rolled onto his back when he stopped coughing. In the thin slivers of moonlight filtering through the barred windows Rick could see the dark purple smudges under his closed eyes. He was breathing heavily, chapped lips parted to suck in air, and he kept grunting like he was trying to clear his throat.

"Shane?" Rick called his name cautiously, moving further into the cell, and Shane's dark eyes opened to slits to peer up him.

"Shit," he moaned.

"Jesus Christ, Shane." Rick closed the distance between them, dropping down on his knee in front of the bed. He reached out, intent to check his friend's temperature, but Shane shook his head and pushed him away. Rick didn't need to touch to him to feel the heat rolling off his skin. "You're burnin' up."

"S'okay," Shane insisted, pushing himself onto his elbows. Rick wanted to push him back down, to urge him to rest, but Shane was upright before he had the chance. Rick settled instead for placing a hand on his partner's shoulder as Shane leaned over the side of the bed, panting. He spat at the floor. Rick looked down in time to see a glob of red splash the concrete beneath them.

"Shane," Rick said; one single syllable that was both a plea and a prayer, a warning and a worry. Rick squeezed his friend's shoulder. They lingered that way for quite some time, Shane leaning over the bed and breathing very harshly and Rick holding onto him like he might disappear otherwise. Bright blue eyes never trained from his friend's rugged face. Was it only a year ago that this very man had raised a gun to Rick's head, and that Rick had grasped his knife and thought he might drive it through his friend's gut? Was it only a year ago that he'd thrown that knife into the grass and coaxed Shane's sidearm from his hand? So many days and months had gone towards rebuilding what had been broken since the world turned inside out. Only now were things, at least between the two former King County cops, beginning to feel normal again.

Had they restructured their friendship from the bottom up only for Rick to see Shane wither before his eyes?

Rick had to move back as Shane sat up fully and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Every inch of him was beaded with sweat. He gripped the edge of his mattress so hard his knuckles turned white and Rick squeezed his shoulder again. "Can you stand?"

"Course I can," Shane scoffed, but even his voice was weak. It didn't sound right, that tone coming from Shane Walsh's mouth. Shane was not weak. He was anything but. Rick stood to his full height as Shane forced himself to his feet. His legs trembled and he swayed. Rick reached out, ready to catch him, but Shane simply waved him away. "S'okay," he repeated, even though it was not.

"You gotta see Dr. S," Rick said. Shane gave him a brief sideways glance, the 'please-stop-pointing-out-the-obvious' look he'd patented over the years, and Rick gave a heavy sigh. He swiped Shane's black t-shirt off the floor where it lay forgotten. Shane turned the fabric over in his hands before shrugging into it. "You can walk?"

"I can stand. I can walk." His steps were slow and shaky, but Shane wasn't lying. He groped at the wall for support a few times and Rick followed cautiously behind him as he moved painstakingly slowly through the halls. He had to pause a few times to cough. Each time he stilled, then doubled over with his hand over his mouth, then stayed there bent and panting before he finally swiped the sweat from his brow and carried on.

Each time Rick reached out to support him his hands were swatted away. Despite his frazzled nerves, Rick couldn't help the way his lips turned up in a smile. Even in his weakest moments his friend was stubborn as ever. It was almost admirable, if not a little stupid.

Once on their journey Shane's coughing drew attention. He was hacking, his whole side pressed against the cool concrete wall to keep him upright, and Rick saw the rustle of a purple privacy curtain. He raised his eyes to see Carol there. Her brow was creased with confusion. When she spotted Shane her eyes widened with worry. She started to move into the hall but Rick shook his head and she stopped in her tracks. Rick rested a hand on Shane's back, rubbing in small, soothing circles as his friend fought to catch his breath. Carol lingered in her doorway for a moment, and then she disappeared behind the curtain. Shane hadn't even noticed, and Rick did not see her for the rest of the night.

The sheriff found himself thankful that no one else noticed them through the night. He knew Shane's hatred of vulnerability and felt fiercely protective of his friend. Of course, he would also have felt terrible to rob his people of their sleep after such a hectic and tearful day. The chaos of the afternoon had buzzed around the grounds all day, and Rick knew that everybody needed rest. They needed time to settle; time to grieve and to mourn and to gather up the broken pieces of their lives yet again.

They hesitated outside D Block. "You alright?" Rick asked, and Shane nodded stiffly.

"You shouldn't go in," he said suddenly.

"Shane, I—"

"You shouldn't go in," Shane repeated firmly. His tired eyes were very series as he turned them to Rick. His jaw was set. He'd made up his mind.

"I've already been exposed," Rick explained. Shane merely shook his head.

"You ain't goin' in." It was not a suggestion but a command. Before Rick could argue further, Shane stepped away from him. His hand rested on the heavy door but he made no move to go inside. Briefly, he glanced over his shoulder. "Go. Go back to Carl. I'll be okay."

Rick forced himself to hold his friend's gaze. His voice quivered when he said, "I'm holdin' you to that." Shane smiled his lopsided smile and turned away. Rick watched him retreat into the quarantined block, straining to see through the small window in the door until he couldn't make out Shane's figure anymore.

Rick Grimes awoke thinking last night must have been a dream. Warm rays of sunlight warmed his face and he blinked and stretched and stood to meet the day. Carl had yet to stir. He was slumbering peacefully in the bed beside Rick's, stretched out on his stomach with his face turned towards his father.

Rick stooped to rouse his son, then thought better of it. After everything, Carl deserved a few hours more for his dreams. Rick hoped things were better there, beyond this nightmarish world. He hoped that his boy might find comfort in dreaming and left him to slumber on.

The sleepy prison was slowly coming alive. It was not like usual bustle of before. The previous day's heartache would not be so quickly forgotten. The sheriff nodded to Glenn as they emerged from their cells together. The once-delivery-boy had a black bandana hanging loosely about his neck. Dirt clung to the lines of his hands and darkened his knuckles and Rick knew it was from the grave digging he had taken on the day before. Rick suspected Glenn would be right back to work this morning. He thought he should offer to join him, but he wanted to check on Shane. He wanted to stop by his friend's cell, his heart fluttering with the hope that the whole debacle was just some trick of his cruel subconscious.

Glenn was gone before Rick had a chance to say anything, anyway. When the sheriff glanced back up he saw the younger man's back far down the hallway. Rick sighed, dug the heels of his hands into his heads, shook his head, and then set off for Shane's cell—which was, as he should have suspected, empty. The blanket was still a mess at the foot of the bed. The sheets looked slightly damp, probably from perspiration. There was a dot of blood staining the floor.

Rick's heart sank. Of course it had been real.

With yet another heavy sigh—he seemed to have no shortage of those lately—Rick resolved to check in with Beth, to make sure that Judith was alright, and then planned a trip to D Block. He needed to know that Shane was okay.

And then an anguished scream tore through the prison.