Okay, with twenty-two lovely reviews from lovely people, some old and some new, I can't reply to all of them in this chapter, but you didn't come here to hear me blather on, did you? Just know that I love and respect each and everyone of you and that I appreciate your support in this silly fanfiction. It makes bad days go a little smoother when you give me review love. ^_^
Anyways, I did my best to be medically accurate (I did a lot of research to be as accurate as I could which is half the reason why this chapter took so long...the other half being Game of Thrones, but you don't want to hear about that adventure), but without taking six years of med school and becoming a doctor, I can't be exactly spot on. However, I did my best, so there you have it.
Chapter Seventy-Six: De'pouille
**Rick**
"The bullet struck his spleen, nicked it, explains all the blood loss," Herschel explained. "We didn't find a bite mark on him, but that don't mean he won't go into cardiac arrest on us."
Milling about Daryl's bedside, Rick, Michonne, Glenn and Merle were plotting their next move based on the hunter's condition.
"Will he survive?"
"Hard to say, he needs a lot more blood then we gave him from Sister Mary Elizabeth."
"Actually," Milton interjected from where he was organizing the medical tools available to them for the surgery. "I read in a medical journal that if he has enough blood, we can supplement more of it with saline solution. Enough to keep his heart pumping at least, as long as there's over seventy percent more blood in his system."
"Okay, we brought back some medical equipment from Logistics, it'll still be in the church, go see what if you have what you'll need, Herschel, you let us know if you need something that isn't there?"
The old man frowned. "Rick…I don't hold much hope for his survival. I can attempt to repair the spleen, but I'm no surgeon and if I get in there and it's bad, I can remove it, but he'll be prone to all kinds of infections without his spleen. That is if he survives the surgery."
Rick scowled. "Yeah, well, you have to try. There's no giving up hope on him, you understand me?"
"Of course, Rick, I'll give it my all, I just want you prepared for the worst." With that Herschel turned and hobbled off as fast as he could.
Turning to the others, Rick eyed them for a moment. "We're going to break up our best men into two teams, one will head for the mall, get it ready in case the Lieutenant actually convinces the Governor to go there, the other will head to Woodbury."
"Why?" Glenn asked.
"If the Lieutenant doesn't convince the Governor to head to the mall, we'll need to go in and get him."
"If he's still alive," Michonne purred.
"We aren't going down that road, yet," Rick stated. "I want you and Merle to head up the team to Woodbury. If things go South," Rick paused, glancing over at Milton who was quietly watching them.
Shifting in a little closer to Michonne, Rick sighed. "If things get bad, you don't hesitate. This ends today."
"Who do you want us to take?" Merle asked. "We don't have a lot of guns for hire to spare, Officer Friendly."
"I'll go," Carol offered from her place by Daryl's bedside.
"Carol—"
"I'm good with a gun, Rick, and you need the fire power," she said. "There's not much I can do here, but sit and drive myself insane waiting."
"Carol, this isn't going to be walkers you'll be killing if you have to," Rick objected.
"I know," she said, eyes watery. "But you said it yourself, it ends today."
Glancing from Carol to Daryl's pale body lying prone in the infirmary bed, Rick scuffed his boot against the floor, hands on his hips, before he nodded. "Okay, Merle, you and Michonne take Carol and head to Woodbury. Try to be inconspicuous, if that fails—"
"End it," Michonne growled, pushing past him, heading for the door.
..-~-..
..-~-..
"Glenn, you gather the others, anyone who's willing to fight, we're heading for the mall as soon as we can," Rick commanded as they strolled across the lawns. "We need as much firepower as we can get. We need to load as much ammo as possible, but make sure Merle and Michonne and Carol have enough as well."
"Sure."
Pausing, Rick clamped a hand on Glenn's shoulder and looked him in the eye. "This'll end," he said.
Glenn blinked up at him. "I don't really care anymore."
One fire at a time, Rick reminded himself, offering Glenn a quiet, studious look, before allowing the younger man to continue on to gather weapons.
Heading for the church, he tasted the rain in the air. The day started off so hot and humid, he knew it was just readying itself for a cool spring rain.
Quietly he stepped into the church, weaving around supplies that had been stacked there, moving through the narrow rows of boxes and pews, reaching the front where a single figure sat alone.
As he passed by Herschel who was going through the medical supplies, the old man stopped him with a hand on his forearm.
"We have some saline," he said. "But we may need more anti-biotics, especially if someone else comes back injured."
Rick squinted. "For now, Daryl gets everything he needs, the others will just have to hope and wait until we can find more medical supplies."
Herschel nodded.
"You keep him alive at any cost, Herschel," Rick said. "I need him alive."
"We all want him to live, Rick," the man said. "But the options are limited."
"I have faith in you, old man."
Snorting, Herschel nodded. "Keep calling me old and we'll see how you do next time you're under my knife."
Rick nodded. "Let's hope that never comes."
The old man nodded, limping off with his supplies tucked into a khaki bag he must have found among the supplies from the Marine base.
Approaching the woman in the front of the church, Rick cleared his throat.
"We're heading out," he greeted softly.
Grace turned shining blue-green eyes on him, in her arms Judith kicked and squirmed at her feet Annie sat with Boo the dog, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. "May God be with you, Mr. Grimes."
Shifting on his feet, Rick glanced over at Christ on the cross, gazing into the painted plaster eyes of the man, before turning back to the woman. "We'll bring him back."
"Do you have enough people? I suppose you're shorthanded now," she said, ignoring his words.
"We'll do fine," he said. "Always better fighting when the odds are against us." He shifted on his feet again. "We'll bring him back to you, Grace."
"Just don't do anything foolish for him, Rick," the woman returned. "He wouldn't like anyone to sacrifice themselves for his sake."
Taking once last look at Christ, Rick sighed heavily and nodded. "Be careful while we're gone," he said. "You see anyone unfamiliar creeping up, you don't hesitate."
"I understand."
"Bye, Mr. Rick," Annie chirped. "I love you."
Smiling, Rick nodded. "You listen to Grace," he said. "Now more than ever, okay sweetheart?"
The little girl nodded. "Will the Lieutenant be coming home with you?"
"Merle, Michonne and Carol will be bringing him home," Rick said. "Be a good girl."
"I will," the little girl hopped up to her feet and scurried off.
Kneeling Rick pressed a kiss to Judith's forehead, before rising and giving Grace one last goodbye nod, he turned and started walking off.
..-~-..
..-~-..
**Carol**
She was used to feeling powerless.
Her entire life seemed to be comprised of her standing outside herself, watching it go by like someone watching I Love Lucy on the television.
There was a lot of debate over destiny versus choice, but at times there was no choice.
Standing beside the bed where Herschel and Milton were preparing Daryl for his surgery, all she felt she could do was watch.
Nothing she did would bring him back, heal him, make him better, stronger.
So she did what she was good at doing, removing herself from the situation, standing by while things unfolded, idly toying with the wooden rose that rested heavily on her breastbone.
"He was always a tough little shit," Merle grunted from her side. "He'll fight, always does."
Carol eyed the older Dixon brother quietly, unsure how to respond to that.
"Hell, bar fight back home, some fat head from the local mill popped him one in the skull, knocked him out for a week, had him hooked up to all kinds of tubes," Merle chuckled, but somehow didn't crack a grin. "Daryl wakes up, gets out of his hospital bed, goes to take a piss, then checks himself out of the hospital. Quacks there trying to convince him that he literally cracked his skull, but Daryl threatens to knock their nose into their brainpan, gets signed out reluctantly, tracks the little mill pig fucker to his place of work and breaks his jaw." Merle smiled then. "Cops threw him in the county lock up, he curled up and went to sleep for another two days straight, they took him back to the hospital."
"Did he spend a long time in jail for it?" Carol asked.
"Nah, one thing the mill asshole knew was if you start shit, it'll come back around and catch you in the ass." Merle turned from his brother. "You ready to head out, sister?"
She nodded. "Give me a moment, okay?"
"Sure, we'll be waiting."
Walking towards the bed, she tried to keep out of the way of Herschel and Milton as they injected some saline into Daryl.
Stooping over, she pressed a kiss to his temple, reminded of a moment nearly a year ago when he was laid up in a recovery bed, only then he was alert enough to growl at her like the mean dog he liked to think he was.
Grabbing his cool hand in hers, she eyed his face, putting it to memory in case she didn't get a chance to see it tinted with the subtle colours of life again.
Reaching down, she stroked his mole with her thumb and smiled. She always thought it was kind of sexy on him, but never told him, unsure how he'd react to her saying something so odd.
Leaning down once more, she kissed him on the lips, rubbing her cheek against the rough stubble of his chin, sliding her lips close to his ear.
"Come back to me," she whispered softly. "You give me strength and I'm no good without strength in this world."
Pulling away, she looked down at him. He looked so young, so vulnerable.
That fierce protective spirit fired up her blood and she felt a tear roll down her cheek as her vision blurred with more tears to follow.
Leaning down again, she whispered, "I need you to fight, for me." She sniffled as her quiet crying caused her nose to run a little. "I've never asked much of you. At least I hope I didn't. But I'm asking you to do this for me, please? Just fight and don't stop fighting."
She eyed his face, looking for a response, but there was nothing.
Sniffling again, she reluctantly pulled away, straightening her spine.
Over Daryl's body, her eyes met Milton Mamet's and she found a startling amount of sympathy in them that she wasn't expecting.
He offered her the faintest of smiles as he hooked up the electronic equipment they had taken from the base to the cords that had been brought in from the generator outside the infirmary door.
Taking one last look at Daryl, she touched her Cherokee rose again, before turning away from him. She wasn't the best fighter, but with Daryl out, she knew she had to do him proud at least. Someone had to be the ass kicker with him down and she wanted to give it her all.
..-~-..
..-~-..
**Noah**
It had been ten minutes since the last of the Governor's men left. An hour and some since the man himself left the clinic wiping blood off his hands and throwing something down the hall.
It had been a set of dog tags that he had thrown.
The young man had gone to retrieve them, curious about why the Governor would take them only to throw them away.
If the man inside the clinic was a terrorist, maybe the Governor didn't want him to be identified.
Still, it seemed odd to him.
Turning the flat, white metal pieces of ID over in his hand, he studied them quietly.
His mother and he had found Woodbury after a month of running, they didn't see a single soldier during all that running, no police, no authority of any kind.
He thought about the man inside the clinic.
The Marine, Shumpert said he was. A Lieutenant, officer, higher up, someone who worked to climb the ladder.
Figuring you didn't get far in the military without being capable of what you did, Noah wondered about how bad the man could have been. He did kill Justin and Clarence, but the man claimed it was self-defence. Well, Clarence and Justin scared him anyways, they seemed like they might have been crackheads or something before the biters. They were both big and mean and his mom told him to never listen to a word they said.
The Governor said there'd be a fair trial for the man.
But the blood was probably from the gunshot wound to the soldier's shoulder.
Jangling the tags, Noah shouldered his rifle and eyed the door to the clinic.
The soldier should at least keep his dog tags, he decided. Dead or alive, the man deserved one last act of respect, even if he was a killer.
Cautiously opening the clinic door, he peeked inside.
On the surgical table the Marine was strapped, still, quiet.
Eyeing the pool of blood that was gathering beneath him, Noah licked his lips, cautiously approaching.
As he drew near he spied a pair of small surgical scissors sticking out of the man's throat and a half sewn bullet wound to his shoulder, the fishing line and needle still dangling from it, both were trickling blood slowly onto the floor, though the neck wound was dripping a little more than the half closed shoulder wound.
Noah grimaced, holding the back of his hand to his mouth. He didn't really like blood much, it always reminded him of his dad.
The scissors didn't look like much of a fair trial or a merciful death. For a moment Noah panicked, what if what his mom had said was right, what if there was something off about the Governor. Hell, she said it herself, he smiled too much for a man in the middle of a sea of biters.
Approaching the still form of the soldier, Noah licked his bottom lip, reaching out slowly, despite the fact that the man was strapped securely to the table, he was still afraid.
It wasn't much of an honourable death for a man who served to protect them and their country. It seemed almost like something from a forensics crime show.
Placing the dog tags on the man's chest, the young man tilted his head as beneath the metal ID tags, the chest of the corpse rose and he took a ragged breath.
Thinking the man had turned already, Noah's eyes tore up to scan the man's face, expecting milky eyes of a biter.
He found hazy grey eyes staring back at him.
"Aidez-moi." The man croaked.
Twisting his upper lip at the scissors that still remained imbedded in the man's neck, Noah took a step away, foot slipping in the blood.
"Jesus!" He exclaimed as he flailed backwards, slamming against the cupboards behind him, head smashing against the edge.
The Cajun Dialect
De'pouille – Something or someone that's a mess.
Aidez-moi - Help me.