Because I'm Okay Too Chapter 6: The Prison, Pt 6, a walking dead fanfic

Part One

It rampaged through the prison.

That was the only way to describe the sickness.

Explosive. Devastating.

He should have known it was coming.

Not the details of it all, per se. He couldn't know a thing like that. But he should have know that something ruinous was on its way.

First, the woman. Dirty and grieving and hungry, leading him into the woods as a meal for her reanimated child. Then, the accident at the surplus store. Zach. The poor fucking kid. And Violet, weakened with a mysterious illness. Violet, who Carl and Michonne nicknamed "Vi." They're not-so-secret. He also happened to know that Josephine was Michonne's favorite.

Life had been too quiet.

Rick should have known something was coming.

It started with a single gunshot.

Everything in the yard halted. Including his breath. Ice radiated down his spine.

Another gunshot.

A pause. Less than two seconds.

Several more shots in quick succession. They thundered through the prison, so loud that it sent the walkers at the fence into a frenzy.

He moved on instinct, ordering Carl to the tower with Maggie. He didn't slow to see if his son had listened. Rick yanked the gate to the yard open.

"Walkers in D!" Glenn yelled.

"What about C?" Rick asked.

"Clear! We closed the gates to the tomb," Sasha said sprinting down the stairs.

The sliding door to D slammed open as they approached. Mika and Lizzie rushed out, screaming for help, their faces white.

Rick didn't stop.

It was chaos inside.

Blood. Running. Screaming. Barking coughs.

Rick and the council sprung into action, directing the uninjured outside, dispatching walkers.

He hated how easy it all was. How familiar.

The burn in his thighs as he mounted the stairs two at a time. The strain in his shoulders as he cut down the people who used to be his neighbors. Janet. Rob. Michaela. Levi.

It was all so fucking easy.

Rick paused outside of a cell. The man inside—Steve—was still. But they had to make sure. They always had to make sure.

Daryl eyed him and the folding knife he pulled out of his pocket, the one Rick carried now instead of his gun. Rick steeled himself, glancing at Daryl. Daryl nodded.

Steve's brain gave way under the blade.

Heavier weapons were better. Axes. Machetes. Swords. It took greater effort to penetrate the skull with a smaller blade. About 122 pounds of effort. With his folding knife—the one Daryl loathed—he had to lean his entire body into the push, until the skull gave way with a wet crack. He wasn't so much as piercing the skull as he was shattering it by creating a stress point. Then the knife could dig deep into the brain.

Even that felt easy. Rote.

A few cells down, they hovered over a body. Glenn, Hershel, and Caleb joined them.

Caleb was a godsend. A former emergency physician who'd found his way to the prison with a small group of survivors. Unlike that spineless bastard—Hart—Caleb didn't introduce himself as a doctor. He simply said: I know a little about medicine, if that helps.

Yeah. It helped.

Rick crouched down to inspect the body. His brow furrowed.

"No bites. No wounds. I think he just died."

Caleb knelt next to the head.

"Painfully too. Pleurisy aspiration."

Rick waited. Hershel clarified.

"He choked to death on his own blood." Hershel pointed at the blood trailing from the eyes to the neck. "Caused those tracks down his face."

"I've seen that before," Rick said. "On a walker outside the fence."

It was distinctive. Walkers were often covered in blood. But the tracks were different. Rick had dismissed the foreboding he felt looking at it, blaming it on his encounter with the woman in the woods.

"Saw 'em on Patrick too," Daryl said.

"They're from the internal lung pressure building up. Like if you shake a soda can and pop the top," Caleb said.

He grimaced.

"Only your eyes, ears, nose, and throat are the top. It's an extraordinarily painful way to die."

Rick examined the dead man's face. The eyes bulged from the sockets.

Shit. What was his name? Jacob? Jeremiah? Jonathan? Something biblical.

Rick remembered that because sometimes he saw the man and Hershel together, heads bent over the Bible in deep discussion. Rick would nod in greeting and keep on his way. He admired conviction but had never bothered with piety.

Did God comfort this man as his lungs burst?

Rick frowned, startled by his own callous thoughts. He stood.

"So what, this came from walkers?" Daryl asked.

Caleb stood too and dusted off his pants. It was no use. They were blood-splattered.

"No. Illnesses like this precede the Wildfire virus. The Swine Flu killed over 200,000 people. And that was with modern medicine."

Rick remembered.

The Swine Flu spread only a year before the Wildfire virus.

Panic had possessed King County in a way Rick had never seen. Grocery stores cleared out at alarming rates. Parents rushed their children to the hospital for what mostly turned out to be the common cold. Preachers prophesied that the end was nigh.

Little did they all know.

"So what do we do?" Glenn asked.

"Quarantine," Caleb said. "Anyone presenting symptoms, anyone who's had contact with the infected. We want to limit the spread as much as possible."

Hershel massaged the muscles just above his amputation. He could still feel his leg sometimes.

"We're in close quarters. I don't take any pleasure in the irony, but this will spread like wildfire if we aren't careful."

"It may spread like wildfire even if we are careful," Caleb said, voice grave.

Rick locked eyes with the dead man on the ground.

Jonah.

That was his name. His protruding eyes and bloodied face lent him a demonic quality. Rick wasn't a believer but he offered up something prayer-like to whomever or whatever was listening.

Please. For fuck's sake. Please.

Outside, Carl rushed to him.

Despite Rick's protests, Carl barreled into him anyway. Rick pulled him close, anchoring his hand on Carl's neck. Then he gently pushed him away.

"You should probably stay back. We think Patrick got sick last night and attacked the cell block. It's some kind of flu. It's fast."

Carl's face warped. Rick knelt, saddened for his son.

"I'm sorry. I know he was your friend."

Carl looked at the ground before meeting Rick's eyes.

"I had to, Dad. I didn't want to."

Rick frowned, confused.

"I used my gun. I had to."

Carl looked back at Michonne as she and Maggie approached. Rick's eyes sharpened, registering Michonne's limp. He surveyed the field. Flame nibbled at the grass, placid despite the day's events. Walkers clawed at the fence in greater numbers than when he'd rushed into the prison.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Michonne nodded. Not that she would say otherwise. But there were no other injuries as far as he could tell. Her eyes lingered on the blood smeared across his shirt and jeans. He tugged at his collar under her stare.

"It's ain't mine."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, but said nothing.

Maggie looked behind him.

"They're okay," Rick said.

Her eyes held his until hers cleared of worry. She tightened her grip on Michonne, promising to return as soon as she got her settled. Michonne looked ready to object. But Carl rushed to her side, wrapping his arm around her waist. Her eyes softened as she gazed at the top of his head.

"We should stay away from Judith. Just to be safe."

Always attuned to Judith's safety, Carl nodded. Rick watched them lead Michonne into Block C. He felt a split-second urge to help. But he resisted. It wasn't needed and likely wouldn't be welcome. And he didn't want to further expose them to the virus.

Michonne turned to give him a final look. It was thoughtful but indiscernible.

After all these months, he still couldn't read her. But the way she looked at him increased the churning in his stomach. The door clanged behind them and he stood there, alone.

He meant to move. He did.

He had planting to do. The fences needed clearing. There were so many walkers nowadays. Where the hell where they coming from?

There was plenty of work to do and now less people to do it.

But he stood there. Listening to walkers pulling at the fence. The metal, creaking under their weight. Flame, neighing softly as she roamed the yard. His own heartbeat, thudding-thudding-thudding in his ears.

In the relative quiet, he thought of King County, pulsing with the beginnings of hysteria during the Swine Flu.

He'd expected some bluster from that crowd—the ones who met twice weekly at Dan's bar to grouse about government conspiracies and the Mayan Calendar. For years they had predicted an impending catastrophe. Easy enough to dismiss. They were the kind to mourn the anticlimax of Y2K.

King County was generally lethargic, slow to respond to damn near everything. Town gossip incensed most more than national news.

They believed themselves to be possessed by true Southern grit, able to withstand anything, isolated from an ever-evolving world, impervious to the folly of it all. Especially all that goddam liberal panic.

Funny then how panic beset the town as news of the flu spread.

His hours nearly doubled back then, which added strain to his already brittle marriage. Call after call. Their small department couldn't catch their breaths—especially not with the Sheriff down with the flu.

Kate Bowman insisted: It's an omen, Grimes!

Formerly amicable neighbors traded punches. Thefts skyrocketed.

The two bars in town—always busy because what else was there to do—were flooded. It was there that Rick and Shane were called the most often. Liquor had a way of intensifying fear. People got rowdy when they were scared.

Now, standing alone in the prison yard, listening to the sounds of the walkers and Flame, Rick recalled a moment after a particularly raucous bar fight.

Leon and few other deputies had carted off a group of bruised, disgruntled men. Rick and Shane stayed behind to help Dan clean up. Rick should have been heading home by then, but he couldn't bring himself to.

It's fuckin' crazy, Rick, Dan raved, righting an overturned stool so hard that it clacked loudly, echoing across the bar. People actin' like goddamn lunatics.

Rick agreed but didn't say so. He only helped to set other chairs back in place.

Outside, he and Shane paused, taking in the cool night. It was quiet. Just the occasional rumble of a passing car. The friendly beep of a horn. Rick watched Shane out of the corner of his eye, curious about his friend's uncharacteristic silence. Shane turned to him.

Somethin' in the air, he said. You feel it?

This was a far cry from Shane's normal levity. Rick was the intense one, the one who took things too seriously, the one who cared too much.

Looking at his friend then, Rick got the sense that Shane sensed something that had escaped Rick altogether. It made Rick shiver.

He felt that now. The chill. The disquiet. "The willies" Leon would say. (Rick never much liked the man.)

He rolled his shoulders and headed to fence.

Part Two

She felt her heartbeat in her ankle.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The ache sharpened. Her ankle would swell, she knew, before the pain dulled in a few days. She'd sprained it enough times running track in high school.

At least it wasn't broken.

Broken bones sucked before. They were devastating now.

Beth flitted in and out of the cell, a bit like a hummingbird. She attended to Michonne's ankle and kept watch over Judith, who sat placidly in her crib. Beth sung to herself in a low voice. It wasn't any of the soft, worshipful melodies that Hershel requested. Michonne recognized the song. Gritting her teeth, she sat up, keeping her ankle elevated against the bed.

"I went to their concert once," she said.

Beth stopped in the doorway.

"You did?" Beth asked.

"Does that surprise you?"

Beth sat on the edge of the bed and smiled wide.

"Yeah. I don't know. I guess it doesn't seem like your style."

"What's my style?"

Blushing, Beth shrugged.

"Somethin' not as young, I guess."

Michonne scoffed.

"I'm not that old."

"No. Not like Daddy or Carol. Or Rick."

Michonne nearly laughed. Rick couldn't have been more than five years her senior, but he'd developed a bit of a reputation. Not a curmudgeon, per se, but sedate and withdrawn. A bit like an old man who never left his porch. Or a war veteran.

"But still old," Michonne said.

"Not boring old."

"I'll take it."

"What was it like? The concert? I've never been to one. Except for worship nights. They had them once a month at the big baptist church. I used to make out with a boy named Ephraim there. He was a bad kisser."

"It's kind of similar," Michonne said.

Beth took her ankle in hand and began to wrap it. Tightly. Michonne winced.

"Really? How?"

"Lots of singing. And kissing." Michonne smiled. "No preacher though."

Well, depending on the artist. Some of her favorites liked to do a line and start pontificating mid-set, offering limp sermons on world peace and the like.

"Did you go to a lot of concerts?" Beth asked.

"When I was in college."

She was too busy after that. With grad school. Than with work. Then with Mike and Ellie.

Beth's face turned wistful.

"I always figured I'd go to college someday. Like Maggie did."

But then the world ended.

This was a singular form of grief. Yearning for what you'd never experience. Having an idea of something but no embodied memory of it.

Beth wouldn't go to college. Or concerts.

It was the plight of children. To know of a world they could only possess through stories and books. Films, if they could get their hands on them. There were some parts of the world they could only know through the fragmented memory of adults—recollections tainted with sorrow, altered by loss, and blurred by time.

And there too was another kind of injury. One that persisted, always seeping and festering precisely because it was bound up in living, in the fact of being alive. It was the wound of loving those who'd died and left you behind, the ones who'd been fated such transitory lives.

Dead before living could even begin.

Michonne glanced at Judith to find the girl staring. Judith Grimes had a way of observing the world. Like she knew why it hurt Michonne to look at her face for too long.

She's a baby, Michonne. Not a sorcerer. Fuck's sake.

Michonne stilled, looking around. Her body tensed. Beth murmured an apology, her hands lightening around Michonne's ankle.

Maddie?

Her family never spoke to her. Not like Mike did. And he didn't talk much these days.

You forgot my voice?

Forgot? No. But Michonne had never expected to hear it again. Not this clearly. But if anyone would speak to her, it would be Maddie.

I didn't forget.

You've gotten superstitious, Michonne. Weren't you always the rational one?

"Rational" carries more than a little derision. Skepticism. Michonne would regret responding, but she did anyway.

You always said babies know. That they have the clearest voices because they haven't been trained out of them yet.

Her sister sighed with characteristic exasperation. As if she were sitting right there.

Since when do you listen to me, Michonne?

I always listened to you.

Liar.

Shaking her head, Michonne focused again on the ceiling. Now wasn't the time to start losing her shit. Again.

For a stomach-churning moment, Michonne wondered if she'd spoken to her sister aloud. But Beth seemed to be in her own world. Michonne wondered how often Beth allowed herself to do that.

Sweet. That's the word people used for Beth: she's so sweet; what a sweet girl; that's a sweet one there.

Sweetness was a fine enough trait, maybe even brave in this world. It was what people seemed to appreciate most about Beth. Her helpfulness.

Not Michonne. What Michonne liked most was the steel she saw sometimes. In the gaps between moments of agreeableness.

It was only a flicker. A cluttered, darkened room momentarily brightened, a spectral light flickering on only as people walked away.

After Rick took Judith from her with a gentle smile and a thank you. After Zach pressed a too-long kiss to her lips. (Not that he could do that anymore.) After Hershel touched her chin with affection. After Maggie and Glenn made some excuse to run off and make love.

All that sweetness fell away. Just for a moment.

Maggie's pluck was more plain in a way.

But Beth had plenty.

Most didn't know it yet. They didn't want to know. And Beth was good at hiding those interstitial instances of feeling. The ones that weren't so agreeable.

The melancholy. The indifference. The cynicism.

Feelings withheld from the young and pretty.

Beth weaved the gauze with precision. A strip around Michonne's ankle. Then her heel. Ankle-heel-ankle-heel.

"You're good at this," Michonne said.

Emerging from that private place, Beth blinked. Michonne regretted interrupting her introspection.

"Daddy taught me how. Figured it's a good skill to have."

"Thank you."

"It's what we do for each other."

"Carl and Maggie could have gotten hurt," Michonne said, glaring at the ceiling. "They should have left me out there."

"Don't be stupid, Michonne," Beth said.

The words were quick. Delivered with annoyance, testiness. Michonne raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. Beth's skin reddened.

"I just—I'm sorry. I just meant that nobody was gonna leave you out there. And you wouldn't leave us out there either. Hurtin' is part of carin'. That's just how it is."

This was another part of Beth that others ignored. Her pragmatism. Michonne appreciated pragmatism. And she'd always liked bluntness.

Beth finished, keeping her head down, a convenient reason to not meet Michonne's eyes. It amused Michonne.

Both were startled by Judith's sudden shriek. It warbled before turning into a steady stream of sobs. Beth stood, speaking to Judith in soothing tones even before she reached her. But Judith refused comfort. She wailed.

Michonne's parents had tried ultrasonic insect repellent once. Her father had a thing for gadgets. Her mother didn't care as long as the bugs were gone. Michonne stepped one foot in her parents' house and darted out, shivering. She could feel the vibrations across the surface of her skin. It rattled her teeth, shaking them in her gums.

Judith's cries provoked that same skin-shriveling discomfort.

"Does she always cry like that?"

"She's been fussy today. I think she senses when something's wrong."

I told you, Maddie said. Babies know.

You just said she wasn't a sorcerer.

You don't need to be a witch to see sadness, Michonne.

Beth cursed and held Judith at arm's length. The baby gurgled and gave a single shuddering heave.

A slimy circle the size of a palm now decorated Beth's yellow shirt. Judith's cries paused as if her irritation had been purged with her stomach's contents.

Both women moved on instinct. Beth, nose upturned, holding Judith out to Michonne. Michonne, eyes wide, sliding backward across the cell. They spoke simultaneously.

"Can you just—"

"Beth, I can't—"

"…I just need to get a clean shirt."

"Can't someone else—?"

"Just for a second."

"NO."

She didn't yell. But it was a firm command. Desperate.

Beth stopped advancing. Blushing, again, she nodded, holding Judith as best as she could without smushing the girl into her own vomit.

Michonne's pulse accelerated. It walloped in her ears. So hard that she grew faint. Her skin felt slick and cold and tight. Her stomach twisted. With dread. With guilt.

Squirming against Beth's awkward hold, Judith began to cry again.

"I'll just put her down for a second," Beth said.

It was instinct. Muscle memory. Michonne's arms came up even as she turned her head away.

Wallop-wallop-wallop.

"Give her here."

She must have looked ridiculous. Ankle propped on the bed. Head turned to the side as if watching a horror film.

But Beth smiled in gratitude and thrust the baby into her arms.

Only after Beth rushed out did Michonne allow herself to look at Judith. The baby looked around, searching for Beth, discontent but no longer crying. Michonne was content with that. In fact, she hoped Judith stayed just like this, at arms length, looking for a warmer face.

But then Judith looked right at her.

It was that look—curious, assessing—that put hot coal in Michonne's throat.

Ellie used to wear the same look. Not just with people but with things. She was a lot like her mother that way. Needing to know what things were.

There were so many things that Ellie would never know about the world. Concerts. College. Her mother's profound sorrow and regret.

No, Ellie would never know how sorry Michonne was.

Michonne pressed Judith to her chest and wept.

It was a trembling, snotty affair. Michonne muffled her cries in Judith's onesie while the girl simply laid her head in the crook of Michonne's neck. Michonne cried harder when Judith patted her back in a soothing gesture. It was likely to soothe herself but the effect was the same for Michonne. Her silent sobs dissipated after a while. She held Judith tighter.

"Beth's sure taking her time, huh?"

She murmured the words in French as she rubbed circles on Judith's back.

To Ellie, she'd spoken French, Kwéyòl, and English.

Mike never bothered to learn the former two. His brain was too old and stubborn, he said. He would only butcher it.

That was fine with Michonne. French and Kwéyòl would belong to she and Ellie. As it had belonged to her mother, her grandmother, her aunts. Ellie's brain, unlike her father's, was soft and spacious.

But Mike complained about it after a while.

He didn't understand. He felt left out. When Michonne failed to muster the requisite sympathy, he grew indignant.

How's she supposed to connect with her peers, Michonne? They won't understand her.

And Michonne had watched him in return, ignoring that growing feeling inside of her. She'd begun to do that a lot even before the virus. Ignore that feeling that sprung up when she looked at Mike too long.

Judith's breathing softened.

Michonne thought of college and concerts and Ellie, and her heart strained. In French, she murmured:

Everyone wants to know

how it was in the old days

She repeats it like a song. Judith's limp weight was familiar, recalling the days Before, when Ellie would lie heavy against her breasts, snuffling and cooing as she fought sleep.

A killing summer heat wraps up the city

emptied of all who are not bound to stay

She whispered that in Kwéyòl like a prayer, remembering the moment she realized her daughter was gone from the world, remembering the anger that had so consumed her, like the stifling heat of summer.

"I knew she'd like you."

Beth stood in the doorway wearing a clean shirt.

Michonne sighed, emptied.

"She likes everyone."

"No," Beth said. "She doesn't."

Michonne rubbed a final circle on Judith's back and handed her to Beth, who in turn placed the baby back in her crib. Beth kept her head bent low, turning Judith's face to the side so she could breathe easily.

"It's weird to take care of baby who lost her mama. I lost both of mine. Judith's a baby so maybe she don't know the difference, but I know what it's like to need a woman around. Daddy is great—the best dad ever—but he ain't a woman, you know?"

Michonne did know. She knew very well. Her heart strained again, pulled against its will. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She didn't want to cry anymore today.

"Lori wanted Judith to make it. I think she knew that Rick would love Judith even if it was hard for him at first. She knew we'd all take care of her too. Judith ain't really an orphan since she has her daddy but at least there's a word for it, you know? For kids who've lost their parents."

Beth was quiet for a moment, her head still bent over the crib. She tugged lightly at Judith's foot.

"But there ain't a word for parents who've lost their kids though. There's probably a lotta people like that now. People like Carol. People who lost their reason for livin' but still gotta be alive. I wonder what you call 'em."

And Beth—sweet, sweet Beth—looked right at Michonne and gave her the look. The look she only allowed herself when people turned their backs.

Michonne's breath latched to her ribs.

"I know you were plannin' on leavin' today," Beth said.

Her voice was light, airy.

"But you should stay. Can't be out there on a bad ankle."

She stood there for a beat, looking, seeing. Then the look gave way to her gentle smile and she turned to leave.

"Beth."

Beth stopped and turned.

Breath returning to her at last, Michonne wanted to say:

Empty. That's what you call them, the people who've lost their babies. You call them empty.

But the words crammed in her throat, pressing against it until Michonne feared it would burst. And when she tried to swallow them down she found that she couldn't. The words stuck.

Her grandmother used to say that the only way to clear a jammed throat was to speak. It was hard on the body to leave things sitting inside too long.

You must speak, mon ange. Even if it isn't exactly what you need to say.

Michonne wondered if Ellie would have lived had she not let things sit inside too long.

"Wanna learn how to use a sword?"

Part Three

Human bodies smelled like steak when they burned.

They also smelled of tanned leather. Charcoal on a lit grill. Melted licorice. Pennies left in a hot car.

It was a singular smell. Nauseating. One that lingered in the back of the throat.

There was something about the way burned flesh cracked and bubbled and oozed that made Rick's skin crawl.

David and Karen were a grisly sight.

Smoke curled from their bodies and into the air.

Rick tilted his head. A bone deep weariness came over him then.

He was looking at a fucking crime scene.

Part Four

Years ago, a girl was murdered in King County.

The case was never solved.

Katie Lewis. Nineteen. Enrolled at The University of Tennessee. Visiting home for the summer. A lifeguard at the king County Country Club (the only one they had).

When the first call came in, Rick and Shane were already in the area. It was their first year with the Sheriff''s department.

Rookies did patrol duty. The country club and its surrounded area were frequent areas of concern.

For member safety and comfort, the Sheriff would say, voice pinched and derisive. He despised them. But they were rich and the Sheriff needed their vote.

Rick never understood their fear. King County was a lifeless place. Those rich enough to be members at the club had plenty of money for alarms and fences. But it wasn't Rick's job to understand their fear. He only needed to mitigate it.

The first call came in at 5:04am.

There was a smoking car in the country club parking lot.

No, not smoking, Bethanne from dispatch corrected. Steaming. A burning car that had been snuffed out by the recent rain.

A small crowd had gathered by the time they arrived on scene. Nothing remained a secret in King County. Someone called a friend. They called someone else. On and on.

Bethanne was right. The car was steaming.

They'd barely got a look at it when the second call came in.

"You boys better get over here."

"Here" was Grant Park. One-hundred acres of trails, ponds, gardens, and a single lake in the dead center.

Grant Park backed up to the edge of Grant Farm. All that land was owned by the Grants—the family of King County. The Grant Farm ended with a dense line of Beech and Maple trees, where it gave way to the park, opening up into a wide field. It was used for the usual. Weddings, picnics, kids fooling around at night. (Adults too, particularly the married kind.)

That's where they found Katie. Under one of the Bradford pear trees.

Rick smelled her before he saw her.

Steak. Copper. Twizzlers.

A combination so nauseating that he and Shane covered their noses as they approached.

It was his first time seeing a burned body.

The killer had started the fire by lighting up her clothes. What remained of them at least. No accelerant.

Thing was, it took a lot of heat and time and attention for a body to burn down good. A lot of killers never accounted for that when trying to destroy evidence.

This killer didn't account for the rain either.

The first thing Rick noticed was her eyes.

Wide open. Staring up at the sky in torment.

Torment from the burns. From the sexual assault, the extent of which would only be revealed in the postmortem. From the thirty-eight stab wounds, most inflicted so as not to kill her straight away.

That was another thing people didn't account for.

The eyes.

They didn't always close after death. And despite what the movies said, the body had to stiffen before they could be manually shut.

Looking was the only kind of justice Katie ever got.

Rick thought of this meagre justice years later. When he wasn't a rookie anymore. When he'd seen a few things.

Long after Katie's file was placed in the cold case cabinet where it languished. Long after the Lewis family moved to Tennessee because it hurt too much to stay. Long after the nightmare started—the ones about bodies that smelled like meat.

Rick thought of Katie's eyes often. Staring and accusing.

He visited the field sometimes. Where'd they found her.

Good, he would think, as he pictured her staring up at him. The way she must have stared at her killer as she died. He hoped her killer was as haunted by her face as he was.

It was the only justice Katie would get.

Cursing her killer with her stare. Condemning him even after she'd left the world behind.

Part Five

The fire had burned away their eyelids.

Their scleras were still white and gleaming against their charred skin.

Rick could smell the accelerant. Gas. The gas they were judicious about.

That was an offense all on its own.

His head pounded. If he had other symptoms, he'd worry it was the flu. But he didn't have the flu. He was just fucking tired.

"You found 'em like this?" Rick asked.

Tyrese said nothing at first. His body spoke for him, shuddering and swelling.

Carol and Daryl flanked Rick. One on either side of him. Daryl shook his head and murmured low enough that Rick didn't think anyone was supposed to hear.

"Fuck."

Fuck indeed.

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose. His palm still stung from his encounter with that woman in the woods. Blood beaded underneath the gauze Hershel had wrapped his hand with. He would need to change it soon.

But they needed to deal with this first.

There were things you avoided at crime scenes.

Cross-contamination. Reporters. Loved ones.

Unless they were witnesses. And even then it was best to question them away from the scene.

Katie's parents had fought their way onto that field, pushing and screaming and demanding. Rick did his best to dissuade them, to promise them that they'd take care of Katie, to assure them that they didn't want to see.

Even that haunted him years later, keeping parents away from their child. That was before Carl and Judith. He knew now that nothing would stop him, no matter what he'd have to see.

As a father, he understood.

As a former cop, he needed the scene clear.

The way Tyrese was standing, rooted to the spot, storm brewing in his eyes, Rick knew to tread carefully. Tyrese shook his head, as if Rick's question had just reached his ears.

"I was coming to see Karen," he said.

He still had flowers in his hand. The stems were crushed.

"I saw the blood. Followed it out here. Found them."

He whipped his head around, glaring at them. Rick kept still.

"Somebody killed them and dragged them out here."

Rick understood the rage. He did. Tyrese's face bore the magnitude of his grief. His eyelids fluttered as if he was computing what he'd just said. Rick understood that too.

Things like this weren't supposed to happen here. They had enough to worry about. Walkers. Governors.

But then again, hadn't there been a murderer in their midst at the farm? Someone they trusted? Someone he trusted?

Rick shifted to get a look at the bodies from a different angle, but Tyrese intercepted him, moving with great speed.

"You're a cop, right?"

Tyrese crowded him. Again, Rick kept still. He knew the man was wired. Being in such close proximity to his lover's body didn't help.

"I was a cop."

He was a farmer now. A father.

Tyrese advanced, again stopping just short of Rick.

"You find out who did this and you bring them to me."

The words were angry, demanding. Rick nodded. Just to calm him down.

He understood Tyrese's rage. He did. He told him as much. Tried to catch Tyrese's eyes which had fallen to Karen's charred body again. With each look, his wrath swelled.

They needed to get Tyrese away from the bodies.

Daryl approached with measured steps, touching Tyrese's shoulder.

"Well, find out who—"

Tyrese had him pressed against the wall before he could finish. Carol and Rick rushed forward but stopped at Daryl's raised hand. He signaled for them to fall back. Then Daryl held his hands as a gesture to Tyrese.

"We on the same side, man," Daryl said.

Tyrese's shoulders heaved with each breath he took.

Somehow Rick hadn't learned from Daryl's mistake because he stepped forward. He approached with quiet words, but that only incensed the grieving man.

The punch to Rick's cheek was swift and severe. Then another to his temple, bringing him to his knee. His vision swam. His ears didn't ring; they screeched.

Rick knew. He knew that Tyrese was hurting something awful. He knew they needed to stay calm, that he needed to stay calm. He knew they didn't have time for this.

Something possessed him all the same.

It happened fast after that.

Rick lunged. The men crashed together, falling to the ground in an angry mass of flying fists. Rick was faster. Tyrese hit harder. Carol screamed from somewhere. Rick couldn't tell from where. His ears were still ringing. His sense of direction was fucked.

Then Daryl was in between them. He shoved each of them back in opposite directions. Carol placed her body in front of Rick, knowing neither he nor Tyrese would push past or around her. She primarily kept her body facing him. Her face was stricken.

Rick, heaving, stared at her. Not for any particular reason. He just needed somewhere to put his eyes while he caught his breath.

"You good?" she asked.

She was asking if he would keep it together. Wordlessly, Rick nodded. His ribs shrieked as he inhaled. He focused on the ache, hoping it would bring him back from that watery, hazy place he'd disappeared to.

Tyrese backed against the wall. His anger gave way, crumbling at the image of Karen lying there and smoldering. He wept. His tears cleared a track through his bloodied face.

Rick listened to Tyrese's desperate sobs, he looked at Karen and David's blackened flesh, and then he looked at Carol because she was in front of him. Her attention was on the bodies, her distress giving way to an odd blankness.

Why odd, Rick didn't know. Carol was often impenetrable. She was good in a pinch because she kept her shit together.

Pay attention.

To what?

Rick immediately regretted the question. He couldn't start talking to Shane again. He'd stopped dreaming of him months ago. Figured he'd burst back into Rick's life at the worse possible moment.

That was always your problem, man. Trusting too much.

Funny, coming from him.

My point exactly. Pay attention.

Fuck off, Rick wanted to tell Shane. His ghost? Rick's subconscious?

Instead Rick found himself observing Carol, not thinking anything in particular other than that his headache was worse. Fuck. Tyrese had bricks for hands.

Rick stood on weak legs. His knee gave a sharp jolt and he almost went back down. Carol steadied him.

"Okay?" she asked.

A flicker. A snag in his stomach. A twitch in his brain.

"I'm alright."

She let go of him. Her eyes drifted back to the bodies. Rick watched her. Not for any discernible reason. He just did.

Rick thought of Katie Lewis. Of her open eyes.

Of the last thing she might have seen.

Part Six

The council called an emergency meeting.

At Caleb's urging, they met outside. To slow the spread, he said.

It was odd how quickly the mundane could kill. Infections. Flus. The common cold might have killed Andrea had they not run into The Governor. But The Governor would be her undoing anyway.

Michonne kept to the periphery, standing on her still healing ankle. Sitting might have been wiser, but she was wary of being there at all. She was decidedly not on the council.

Neither was Rick.

He kept to the edge too. Arms folded across his chest, lip split, cheekbone swollen and purple. He looked as reluctant to be there as Michonne felt.

Karen and David. Dead.

Murdered.

More sinister than the flu but, in a way, still one of those old world things one tended to forget. Things that weren't supposed to happen inside the fence. Things that were only supposed to happen OUT THERE. At least, that was the case in soft, self-indulgent imaginations.

Michonne knew what happened to people behind fences.

Terry. Mike. Elodie.

She knew too what happened in people behind fences.

Mike. The look in his eyes. The one he stopped bothering to hide after a while.

This world distorted and warped the soul.

Or it breathed life into it.

That was more frightening, the way formerly subdued impulses stirred awake.

That look in Mike's eyes. She had seen it. Before.

"You all found them like that?" Hershel was asking.

Michonne slipped back to the present.

"Tyrese did," Daryl said.

He leaned the backs of his thighs against one of the picnic tables, his hands gripping the strap of his bow.

Glenn sighed, shaking his head.

"They were sick. We sent them to quarantine."

"Whoever offed 'em prob'ly thought it would slow the spread," Daryl said.

Glenn's face contorted. Daryl raised his hands in defense.

"Killed. Offed. Don't matter."

He was right. Language made little difference at this stage. Someone murdered Karen and David. Someone among them. Someone they trusted.

"We don't have protocol for this," Sasha said.

Her face was haggard, a little pale. She rubbed her temples.

"We ain't think we needed it," Daryl said.

They lapsed into silence. Michonne wondered again why she had been called to this meeting.

"Rick," Hershel said. "Your expertise might be useful. What do you think?"

Rick shifted his weight to his right leg. He tended to do that sometimes. First gazing at the fence and then at Hershel, he put his hands on his hips.

"It's like Daryl said. The killer—"

Rick paused.

"Whoever did this thought killin' em might save the rest of us."

Hershel looked thoughtful.

"Are you suggesting we have a vigilante on our hands?"

A quiet ripple went though the group. It was a collective acknowledgement of what they were dealing with. Rick rolled his shoulders. His weight shifted to his left leg.

In the silence, Michonne found herself staring at Carol. Perhaps because she'd said little during the meeting. Or perhaps Michonne was drawn to the delicate movement of Carols fingers, playing with the tassels of her scarf.

It was pretty—a swirl of red and orange paisley, hanging across her shoulder like a curtain of hair. The pixie cut framed Carol's soft, pretty features well. But Michonne could see her with longer hair too.

Michonne continued to watch, her eyes glazing. Carol wrapped and unwrapped a tassel around her finger. Each time, the skin reddened and paled as the pressure released.

On our hands.

Michonne stared at Carol's hands. For no particular reason. It was the scarf, really, that drew her attention.

"I think whoever did it thought they were doin' what needed to be done," Rick said.

There was…something…in his voice.

Nobody else seemed to notice.

Hands.

Except Carol.

She stopped twirling the tassel. Suddenly, she was still. So still. She placed her hands flat on the table and Michonne saw it.

On our hands.

Hands.

There was was a long thin cut on the inside of Carol's ring finger. Not ostentatious but there.

On its own, it didn't mean anything to Michonne. Their work was grueling. Nicks and cuts were common. Unremarkable. God knows Daryl constantly had his fingers in his mouth, sucking blood from some new scrape.

And yet Hershel's phrasing looped in Michonne's mind.

Vigilante.

On our hands.

Carol held still. Rigid in a way that piqued Michonne's interest yet didn't seem to register to anyone else.

"It didn't stop the spread," Glenn said.

"It wouldn't matter if it had." Sasha cleared her throat. "We don't kill our own. What's the line after this? What if the person decides it's worth it to kill someone else?"

Hershel sighed and rubbed his leg. Above where he'd been bitten. He was a placid man, calm even in the most dire circumstances. But that was his tick. Kneading the space just above his knee.

Michonne shifted the weight off her bad ankle.

A flutter in her belly. One that made her straighten and watch.

Daryl picking at this nails with the tip of a knife.

Glenn, pushing a hand through his hair, staring at Maggie who'd skipped the meeting to clear the walkers from the fence.

Sasha, who Michonne was now sure was developing the first symptoms of the flu, rubbing her temples again.

Hershel, pressing his thumbs into his aching muscle.

Carol, still, looking down at the table.

And Rick.

Rick who didn't get involved anymore.

Rick, who fixed his gaze on Carol.

And Carol, as if she could feel it, grew taught. And her gaze, not focused on anything in particular, emptied. It was a momentary departure, as if her very being vanished.

Vigilante. Hands.

"So what do we do?" Carol asked.

She tucked the hand with her injured finger out of sight.

Daryl popped off the table.

"I'm gon' make a run. Got a list of supplies to get from the doc. It's fucked in there. Gotta go soon."

Glenn nodded.

"I'll stay with Hershel. I've already been exposed."

"I'll help too," Sasha said.

Michonne hoped that Sasha wouldn't be the one needing help.

"We can't all be in there," Carol said. "Still a lot to take care of out here."

She nudged her head towards Maggie who'd skipped the meeting to clear the fence.

Hershel nodded. He looked at Rick.

"Like I said, we'll need ya."

Hershel didn't say what for. He didn't need to. He meant all of it. Including finding who'd killed Karen and David.

Michonne's eyes drifted to where Carol's hands were folded in her lap.

Rick said nothing, his silence his agreement.

"Michonne."

She slid her eyes to Hershel.

"We could use your expertise too."

She tilted her head.

"I know you'd be heading out about now," Hershel continued. "But we could use you here. If you're willing."

She'd been planning to head to Macon despite Rick and Daryl's thinly veiled skepticism. Or Daryl's subtle digs about all the things she didn't know about the people at the prison.

Amazing what you can pick up when you stick around for more than a few days.

Yes, Michonne thought, considering the cut on Carol's finger, that brief emptying, Rick's assessing gaze.

"What do you need?"

"I need ya on the run," Daryl said. "Need somebody who knows what the fuck they're doin'."

"Okay."

"Be advised. He's been exposed to the virus," Hershel said, appreciative.

"He's already given me fleas."

Hershel grinned. Michonne winked. Unfazed, Daryl clapped his hands, a rallying of the troops. Assignments given, the meeting disbanded.

Daryl wanted to leave in the next thirty minutes so Michonne stayed out outside. Rick stayed as well.

"Your ankle," he said, watching her sit. "It's alright?"

"It's okay. How's your face?"

"I've had worse."

She hummed.

"I bet."

There was a beat of silence. Rick opened his mouth, stretching his lower mandible, and she heard a soft pop.

"He hits hard. I'll give 'im that."

"He was a former NFL player."

Another beat of silence. Rick rubbed his jaw. From pain or thoughtfulness Michonne didn't know.

"Shit. Knew he looked familiar first time I saw 'im."

She smiled.

"Mhm."

He shuffled to the table. His left leg had a slight limp. He sat on the bench next to her, resting his elbows on his knees. Michonne took her ankle in hand and rolled it. She didn't want it to grow stiff and lock up on her. Rick looked down at the movement but didn't comment.

"I shoulda just walked away."

Michonne raised her eyebrow, holding back a wince at the slight pain radiating to her heel.

"Tyrese. He was grievin'. Angry. Wasn't himself."

Michonne knew that feeling. The blistering anger. Anger so forceful that it ripped away any sense of time, meaning, or self. Rick shrugged.

"I know what that's like."

"We all do," Michonne said.

He glanced at her.

She had the sudden urge to tell him that she thought Judith liked poetry. She wanted to tell him that babies liked rhythm and that there were poetry books in their rinky-dink library. Not Audre Lorde but Shel Silverstein would do.

But then she would have to explain that she'd held Judith, that she'd spoken her mother's language to her, a language she hadn't spoken since Ellie's last heaving breaths.

"Might have to ask Carl for your Sheriff's hat back."

He stared at her a moment longer. Then he shook his head.

"I was a deputy, remember."

"And now you're a detective."

"I prefer to be a farmer."

And she'd prefer to be out on her way to Macon.

Would you?

Michonne ignored her sister's voice.

"Well, they need a Sheriff."

Rick leaned more of his weight onto his knees.

"Tell you what. I'll be the Sheriff—"

Liar.

"—If you stick around."

She leaned her head back, blinking at him in surprise. He twisted his torso a bit so he could meet her stare.

"Is that right?"

"Ain't nothin' to find in Macon, Michonne."

"I wouldn't know. I haven't looked yet."

"You ain't gotta look at all."

"I'll take that into consideration, Sheriff."

He shook his head, smiling.

"Definitely a lawyer."

"Was."

He eyed her.

"Naw. Still."

She shrugged. Maybe. But that didn't bode well for him and his agricultural aspirations. They sat quietly for a few minutes.

Flame neighed from the field. She liked to roam it, getting in the way as Rick and Carl worked, nuzzling Rick until he gave her a treat. She ate damn near anything, but she preferred carrots and cucumbers. It would have been easier confining her to the makeshift stable, but Rick didn't like to keep her locked up, especially since they'd found her roaming a large stretch of land. He'd lamented to Michonne once that he wished they had more room for her.

"There was this case, back when I was a rookie," Rick said.

Michonne lowered her foot to the ground. She listened.

"She was just a kid. Nineteen. I wasn't that much older than her at the time. She was raped and murdered. The killer—he set her on fire after."

God. Michonne knew how cases could stick with you long after. She had a few of her own.

"What was her name?"

"Katie."

"Did you find him?"

Rick shook his head.

"Officially, it's a cold case."

"Unofficially?"

The breath he took was deep. His chest swelled with it.

"Her boss. We didn't have enough evidence to put 'im away. And he never confessed. But I knew it, Michonne. Soon as I saw 'im after we found her."

She recognized that bone-deep certainty. Knew it well.

But juries needed more than intuition.

"What happened to him?"

Rick scoffed.

"Nothin'. He kept on livin' in town with his wife and kids. Katie's family moved. They couldn't bear to see him at the grocery store. At church. I was green back then and it wasn't my case but every time I saw her parents I wanted to tell 'em I was sorry we couldn't do more. That I couldn't do more."

Michonne pushed her hair behind her shoulders. It was cool out, despite the sun.

"Can't convict on a gut feeling."

"Naw. You can't."

His shoulders sagged like the words had taken something out of him. They probably had. He rarely said this much to anyone except Carl. The only other time he had talked to her this much, he'd seemed to regret it after.

But that's how Rick was. Accumulating words, letting them out, and then wishing he hadn't. He'd confessed as much. When he talked about his wife. The wife who wanted him to speak more, perhaps resenting just how prone to quiet observation he was.

Mike had leveled similar she was hard to read. That she hid things from him. That she didn't say enough. That he didn't know where her head was at sometimes.

Michonne always thought that people said too much. They just talked and talked and talked without listening or paying attention. It had been her refrain to her clients.

Talk less. Observe more.

"It's not Before," Michonne said.

She stood and put weight on her ankle, testing it. It felt okay. It would have to be.

"All we have are our instincts. No forensics unit. No CCTV footage."

She looked at him, holding his gaze, pressing him to understand. He stood too. This close, his bruise looked more blue-black than purple.

"Your instinct tellin' you to go to Macon?"

She laughed, surprising herself. His persistence was atypical. No matter the pointed looks he shared with Daryl, he rarely verbalized his concern. It was their tacit agreement. She didn't mention his inability to leave; he didn't mention her refusal to stay.

"I'm not going to Macon right now," she said. "I'm going on a run. And you're solving a murder."

"And after that?"

You gonna stay awhile?

"Be careful, Deputy."

"Thought it was Sheriff?"

"I thought you wanted to be a farmer."

He grinned. Like his deluge of words, like his revelation of his former life, it was a rare thing.

"Definitely a lawyer," he said, the way someone might say touché.

His grin faded as he surveyed the yard and field, the walkers at the fence, all the work to be done. Seeing the tender way he held himself, she felt equal parts sympathy and amusement. She might have felt more sympathy if he seemed more sour about the fight.

"The boss. You said you knew he killed Katie as soon as you saw him."

Rick rubbed the knuckle of his thumb along his forehead.

"Yeah."

"How?"

Rick considered. He made a gesture with his head.

"I knew 'im. Had since I was a kid. What I saw when I looked at him, after we found her—somethin' in his eyes was different."

Flame had made her way to the gate. She neighed at them, demanding their attention.

"And your friend," she said. "How did you know he'd changed?"

Rick stiffened. He'd only spoken to her about his friend once. Shane. And only in sparse detail. Michonne knew more about Shane and the tangled mess of betrayal from Andrea than she did Rick, a fact that discomforted her. She supposed they were both pushing the boundaries today.

"Same thing," Rick said.

She wondered if it was for Rick how it had been for her. With Mike. Knowing him until she didn't. And yet, somehow, recognizing who he'd become.

Daryl marched out of block C with Tyrese and Bob in tow.

As a former medic, Bob could help them identify the right supplies. Michonne wasn't sure she would have chosen Tyrese. He was angry, as he had a right to be. But anger was dangerous out there. It made one clumsy and distracted. Brash. Michonne glanced at Rick.

Then again, maybe it would do Tyrese good to leave the prison for a bit.

He stopped in front of Rick. Daryl watched warily, close enough to intervene if needed. But Rick held still.

"Find whoever did it," Tyrese said.

Rick nodded, his hands on his hips, looking very much like the town Sheriff. Tyrese said a gruff thank you and went on his way. And that was that.

Daryl trailed behind Tyrese. He glanced back, his eyes bouncing between her and Rick. She signaled that she was ready and moved to follow after them. Rick shifted on his feet.

"You be careful out there. Counselor."

The impulse to flip him off was strong. She resisted. He could tease, sometimes, but he was the staid, mannerly sort. She settled for rolling her eyes.

"You too, Sherrif-Deputy-Farmer."

He grunted and maybe it was as close to a laugh as Rick Grimes got these days. Maybe he'd never been one to laugh with abandon. It was hard to say what anyone used to do. Did the old versions of them even matter anymore?

She was a few feet down the slope when she stopped. She considered, with mild bewilderment, that this was a habit she was forming with Rick. Lingering longer than she wanted or meant to. It was an impulse, really. More corporeal than cognitive.

He stopped too, having been making his way slowly behind her. She turned and examined him, deciding how much she should say.

She considered the last time she'd known something, known it deep, and ignored it.

Fahari came to mind. Their conversation during the reception had rattled Michonne. She dreaded the resolved look in Fahari's eyes, the dull acceptance in them. The knowing. Mike had given her the same look. Like he knew something she didn't.

"It's not Before, Rick. Sometimes all we have is the moment we look into someone's eyes and know. And that's enough. So do what you have to."

His eyes were sharp, his formerly good humor fading into something somber, searching. Again, she willed him to understand. She knew he did when his eyes moved to focus on something else.

Someone else.

"You be careful out there," he said again.

She left him there with his revelation. A familiar one to him, Michonne knew. It wasn't the first time he'd realized someone he trusted was capable of murder.

Part Seven

The last time Bob went on a run, someone died.

Zach.

A kid. Barely starting his life. Whatever life was now.

It was Bob's fault that he died. No one knew that. But it was.

Now he was out here again. This time for medicine. He knew medicine like the back of hand. He knew the right supplies. Knew what to do with them.

But he would spend every moment thinking about when he could float away again.

The problem with his pharmaceutical knowledge was that it lent itself well to his new addictions. He knew that where there was Zanamivir there would likely be opioids.

Hydromorphone. Oxycodone. Codeine.

His drug of choice was alcohol, but, like a good medic, he worried about his liver. And he kept thinking of Zach and the big store.

Opioids were a fine second choice.

He stayed away from Hydromorphone and Oxycodone. They were strong. Too strong. Back when he was out wandering, he couldn't afford to be that out of it. Plus, they were harder to find. Bob figured raiders had cleared them out early along with morphine and fentanyl. Good way to fall asleep and never wake up.

Codeine was a happy medium.

Weaker but effective.

The syrup was best. It went down easier. He had never been good with pills. But they did the trick.

Aspalgin. Nurofen Plus. Mersyndol.

A little easier on his body than liquor too.

Outside of that blissful, hazy departure from the world, the most common side effect was constipation.

That was hell on the outside. Without regular fiber intake, the medicine left him so backed up he thought his stomach and asshole might rupture.

He wasn't too worried about that now. He was getting regular fruit and vegetable servings again thanks to Rick and Carl. He had taken the most painful shit of his life during his first week at the prison.

He hoped they had the liquid form.

He would have to wait to take it. They would need his help back at the prison administering the antiviral drip.

The question was if he could wait that long. The wedding had triggered him. So much liquor and he hadn't had a drop. He didn't trust himself to stop if he started, and he didn't want Sasha to see him drunk.

Now his skin was itchy and tight with want.

He forced it to the back of his mind.

No, not the back. It was too late for that. The craving was good and present now. But he could distract himself. He had gotten good at that since the prison, not wanting—or not needing—the high like he used to.

When he wasn't working, he contented himself with people watching. It was the premiere hobby of the apocalypse. There wasn't shit else to do.

Watching. Wondering. Wagering.

A packet of sunflower seeds if you can guess what so-and-so did before the fall. That kind of thing.

Bob wasn't a betting man, but he found it all amusing just the same.

His observations were more private. A secret pastime so he didn't think too much about how easy certain liquors felt going down.

His current companions were plenty interesting.

Tyrese.

Bob felt for him. Losing a lover was hard. Losing a lover like that? Harder, perhaps.

Bob had inspected the bodies after they'd been found. He wasn't a medical examiner by any stretch, but he'd seen enough burned bodies during his two tours in Iraq. One in Iran. And Rick had questions. Just so he was sure about what he was looking at.

Bob hadn't been squeamish in a long time. But something about Karen and David shook him. Probably because he had naively thought things like that wouldn't happen among their own.

Tyrese was angry, and Bob understood. Despite his size—or because of it—Tyrese didn't seem the sort to allow himself things like rage. But what else was there after murder?

Rick had gotten caught in that storm, but he seemed alright. And just as well. Bob had never considered himself a radical, but it wasn't often in the old world that a white cop found himself on the losing end of a black man's rage. Sometimes the world leveled itself out in strange ways.

Daryl.

He was there when Zach died.

Daryl was around for everything. That was his way. Being there for the hard shit. Bob got the impression that Daryl hadn't known much else but the hard shit. One of those people that was suited for this world.

Michonne too.

She was the hardest to read which made her prime material for people watching.

Some bet she was a war veteran. Marines or Army.

She was neither. Bob was sure of that. He'd spent plenty of time with military women. Michonne wasn't one. She would make an awful soldier. That was a woman who hated being told what to do.

Bob had never met The Governor, but he'd heard enough about him. He knew men like him. They loved the military and Michonne would never pledge her loyalty to men like that. She didn't seem much interested in pledging herself to men at all. But he couldn't say for sure.

If he had to guess…

(Guessing was good. It took some thinking. And he needed to think about something other than the thirst.)

She was educated, definitely. At least a Master's. He suspected a PhD. She carried herself a bit like his older sister, Anita. Restless. Seeking. Voracious. Distant in a cerebral way. Seeing everything and saying nothing.

Yes, she reminded him of Anita.

Anita, who he hadn't seen or heard from since the phone lines went down. He hoped she was like Michonne—alive, surrounded by good people.

(The Dodge Charger flew down the road. So fast the trees blurred. Daryl liked to drive fast. There were no cops around to stop him. Bob liked the speed. It made him feel like he was flying. Not even close to the high he wanted but it was nice anyway.)

He hadn't pinned down Michonne's career. He just knew it wasn't military. He understood why people guessed that the most often, but it was a testament to how little people paid attention.

He waffled between something corporate, literary, or artistic.

He leaned towards the latter two.

He saw her reading a lot around the prison when she wasn't making herself scarce. He respected her collection.

Toni Morrison. Tananarive Due. Ursula Guin. Marvel and DC comics.

The woman had taste.

Well. There was that garish cat propped on top of a small dresser. It was hideous.

Which led him to believe she was the artsy sort. Maybe an artist herself.

English professor? He could definitely see that.

(Tyrese gripped the handle. It groaned. Daryl was bobbing to an old rock CD. Nothing Bob recognized. Michonne was mostly still. But Bob was sitting right behind her. He could see her pointer finger tapping against her thigh. He wasn't so thirsty anymore. Maybe he wouldn't need the codeine after all.)

Wedding planner?

She'd coordinated Maggie and Glenn's wedding. It was a lovely affair.

(No, he couldn't think about the wedding because then he would think of the reception. That would make him think of booze.)

Teacher?

Maybe. She was close with Rick's son, Carl. But she didn't spend much time with the other children, despite their clear interest in her. Most people at the prison were curious about her. She seemed to like very few of them.

(The car swerved. Then spun. There was an impact. Then many. Walkers. Flying across the roof. Smacking into the windows. Thwack. Bob had little time to think. The lurched to a halt. The tires spun uselessly, stuck on something. They needed to move.)

She was merciless with that sword. Wielding it with precision. She trained in the mornings. Bob wondered where she learned. Certainly not the military. They didn't train soldiers in that.

(All he saw was walkers, Michonne's blade flying, and green. He didn't mind the fight. He'd been in war zones. It helped keep the yearning at bay.)

She'd lost something. Someone. Everyone had. It was what kept her away from the prison, searching. .

(They left Tyrese behind. Then he was there again, blood-soaked and rippling. They would have to walk to the clinic from here. Tyrese and Daryl led the way. Michonne took up the rear, sword at her side. He didn't mind having her at his back. She was steady and, of the four of them, the best fighter. He hoped she couldn't see his hands shaking.)

She reminded him so much of Anita.

He figured that's why he watched her sometimes. For others, it was the mystery. For Bob, it was the familiarity.

He needed the distraction.

And she was so much like Anita.

Anita would recoil if she saw him now. She'd always been so measured, so regulated. Like Michonne.

But the watching and wondering, the game of it all—it only sidetracked him for so long.

(The clinic had codeine. The syrup kind. He was fucked.)

There were other kinds of distractions.

Sasha.

Beautiful. Strong. Unimpressed.

She was a relief.

(Daryl nearly knocked his head off. He understood now what happened at the big store, what Bob was after, why Zach died. For a moment, Bob thought Daryl might toss him off the canopy. But Michonne put a firm hand on Daryl's arm and held it until he spit more angry words and walked away. Shame rooted Bob to the canopy until a hand appeared in his vision. Michonne. She didn't say a thing. No words of rebuke or comfort. She helped him to his feet and then walked away too.)

For some, talking about their losses came easier.

Some at the prison had established an informal support group. They never called it that, never said much of anything about it, really. It started with a group of folks congregating in the rec room. One person, overcome with emotion, shared, blubbered, confessed. Then another.

It became a thing after that.

Bob never attended. He'd attended enough support groups in his life. Mostly after his last tour. When home didn't feel like home anymore.

But he passed by sometimes. Wondered if he might ever stop and confess that he was a drunk. Sometimes a pill popper. That it was all he had on the outside. That he felt shame for waiting until the world ended to become an addict.

(Bob overheard their conversation. He didn't mean to. But the car was small. Michonne's quiet confession felt private, part of an ongoing conversation between she and Daryl. She was abandoning her search. Daryl, still angry, could only meet her revelation with a curt nod. Michonne didn't seem bothered. She started the car they'd hot-wired, adjusted the mirrors, and sped off. Bob hoped she would drive fast. His shame was stifling and he needed air.)

Part Eight

Rick wasn't sure he did the right thing.

His stomach coiled the entire drive back to the prison. It corkscrewed when he realized he had to tell Maggie why Carol wasn't with him.

She'd confessed easily enough when he confronted her. He believed her when she said she'd done it for the good of the group. He knew that to be true.

Then her insistence had turned cold. It was matter of fact in a way that reminded him of Shane, of how he'd been about Sophia, quoting statistics as if the girl was a stranger.

Rick wasn't sure how the conversation had turned to him and his abdication of leadership.

You can't just be a farmer, Rick.

He'd waited for her to drive away. It seemed the least he could do.

Now he needed to tell Hershel.

As if Hershel needed more piss poor news.

Rick found him already there in the room with the glass wall. He could see Hershel, but Hershel hadn't yet seen him.

There was a body on the cart in front of him and a knife protruding from the eye socket. Hershel removed it, his arms shaking, and Rick knew it was his first time transitioning someone that he knew. Hershel avoided killing as much as he could. He left that to others.

In what Hershel thought was a private moment, he slumped against the cart, his back to Rick.

Afraid that he might see something he wasn't meant to see, Rick tapped the glass.

"Hershel."

Hershel turned. His skin sagged from exhaustion. His limp was pronounced as he met Rick at the glass separating them.

"He and I were just talking about Steinbeck last night," Hershel said of the man on the table.

Rick liked Steinbeck just fine. He never had strong feelings either way. That had tickled his eleven-grade English teacher, Mrs. Roberts—Rick's indifference to one of the greatest American novelists to ever live.

"Are you alright?" Rick asked.

Hershel took a moment to answer.

"I'm tired."

Caleb was dead. Sasha and Glenn were sick. Scarily so.

Rick regretted giving him more bad news.

Hershel was a stalwart man, steady where others faltered. So Rick worried about the way Hershel's body crumpled at what Carol had done, and what Rick had done in return.

"Well," Hershel said righting himself after a moment. "We need you more than ever then."

"I been here."

But he knew what Hershel meant. And Hershel knew that.

You can be a farmer, Rick. You can't just be a farmer.

Rick didn't disclose most of what Carol had said to him. Instead he asked Hershel if he needed anything.

"A drink."

Rick kept a straight face until Hershel laughed. Rick shook his head.

"Not funny?" Hershel asked.

Maggie fixed Rick with worried eyes when he came back outside. Rick assured her that Hershel was okay. As okay as he could be given the circumstances.

Glenn was another matter.

Together, he and Maggie slotted logs against the fence. It was curling in on itself at the bottom.

"If Carl was in there, would you be?" Maggie asked.

"If I thought it would help."

"You don't think I can help?"

If anyone could, it was Maggie. Rick had never met either of her mothers but from Hershel's description, she was a lot like them. Sensible, kind, determined. She had her father's wisdom. But she wasn't tethered to the same ideas of religiosity, to the same sense of black and white. And that, Rick thought privately, would one day make her even wiser than her father.

"I'm just glad you're out here with me," Rick said.

That earned him a smile.

"Think the run team is okay?"

"Outside of Glenn, I don't think anybody's better out there than Daryl and Michonne," he said.

Daryl.

Rick would have to tell Daryl.

Fuck.

Michonne, though. She had already known about Carol.

Sometimes all we have is that moment we just know.

Rick knew about Shane and Lori. He'd only needed to look at them long enough, see their bizarre avoidance of one another, and he understood.

Rick had known about Shane too. In a deep part of himself. That knowing had unfurled slowly, Rick fighting it all the way.

His headache persisted.

He hadn't slept. Neither had Maggie nor Hershel. They were running on empty and had to keep going.

Carol had said the same.

It always comes for us and over and over again we face it so we can live.

She was right. But her words were girded by an icy pragmatism that Rick recoiled from.

Was she right about Shane? Were she and Rick the same in that regard? Killing their own for the greater good?

Maybe.

But it as a question Rick didn't have the time for.

There was a cacophony of noise from the prison. A series of gunshots. Maggie took off toward the prison, leaving Rick alone.

The fence screeched under its own weight.

Rick needed help.

Carl appeared out of the darkness soon after Rick called him.

"I need your help," Rick said.

Carl moved before Rick explained why. He was out of the door fast enough that it was Rick doing the following.

With few instructions, Carl had taken Maggie's place at the fence, moving fast and efficiently.

It occurred to Rick, not for the first time, that his efforts to safeguard Carl from the world were more stifling than protective.