After driving for a few more hours, we stop along a barren stretch of road, still within the State of Illinois. We park, forming a protective barrier against the ever-present threat of walkers. The landscape is dotted with withered trees and the occasional rusted-out car. Michonne and Daryl keep an eye out for any dead. Patrick's body lies wrapped in a tattered blanket. We gather around, eyes red-rimmed and shoulders slumped. There's no time for a proper burial, no cemetery or funeral home to offer solace.
Rick stands at the head of the group, his hat held in his hands, his gaze heavy, shadows darkening the corners of his eyes. "We've lost another one of our own. Patrick is young, and he has a lot of fight in him. He is one of us, and we won't forget him."
Maggie, Hershel, Beth, and Amy stand close by, their faces drawn and weary. But they stand together, a united front against the harshness of their world. Maggie wipes away a tear, her father's arm around her and Beth's shoulders offering what little comfort he can. Amy is huddled into Beth's side, finding solace in their shared grief.
"We don't have the luxury of time," Rick continues, "but we owe it to Patrick to say goodbye properly. We owe it to each other to remember him, to keep his spirit alive as we move forward."
Daryl, Michonne, D, and T-Dog stand with their heads bowed. Even Merle, usually so gruff and abrasive, seems subdued. I stand beside Carol, Lori, and the kids. Sophia cuddles her mother, and Carl curls into me. I catch Lori staring at Carl a hand on her slightly protruding stomach.
Amy and Beth place a small wooden cross at Patrick's feet, a humble marker for his final resting place. The cross is unadorned, fashioned from two sticks bound together using a strip of cloth. It's all they have.
Hershel, his voice gentle and steady, recites a short prayer. "Lord, we ask you to watch over Patrick's soul. Give him peace in your arms, away from the pain and fear of this world. And give us the strength to carry on in his memory. Amen."
The prayer ends, leaving us in quiet reflection as we bid farewell to our fallen family. The wind rustles through the trees, the only sound in the otherwise stillness of the moment.
Finally, Rick speaks again. "We must keep moving, but we'll carry Patrick in our hearts."
As we return to our cars, the silence weighs heavily, our footsteps slow and deliberate. The small cross remains behind, a solitary marker in a world turned upside down. Rick takes his place behind the wheel, T-Dog in the passenger seat. I sit behind them at the table, Carol and Lori taking the other side. Beth and Amy are in the back of the RV on the bed, tucked away and curled into one another. I can see Merle in the driver's seat in the truck, with Hershel beside him and Maggie and Glenn in the back. Unsurprisingly, Daryl has taken his motorcycle while Michonne drives the Cherokee, D in the passenger and the two kids in the back.
As the convoy rolls down the deserted highway, the RV is filled with an oppressed stillness. Amy stares out the window, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape. Beside her, Beth clenches her fists, knuckles white.
Beth finally breaks the silence. "I can't believe he's gone."
"I know. It's just..."
Beth hesitates, biting her lip. "He shouldn't have said anything to those people. He provoked them. They could have avoided a fight."
I watch as Amy turns to face Beth, her eyes wide. "I know," she whispers, her voice catching in her throat. She drops her gaze, and I see her fingers start to pick at her nails as she trembles. "But it feels wrong to say it out loud. He's dead, Beth. Blaming him... it feels like a betrayal." The raw emotion in her voice is palpable, each word quivering.
Beth closes her eyes briefly, leaning her head back against the seat. Her voice remains soft, but there's a sharp edge to it. "I get that. I do. But how can we learn from it if we don't acknowledge what happened? How can we avoid making the same mistake?" Her jaw tightens as she fights to keep her emotions in check.
The desolate landscape bathes in twilight, casting long shadows as the sun dips below the horizon and our convoy rolls into Albia, Iowa. The Fast Stop Express gas station emerges ahead, appearing abandoned and weather-beaten.
"Rick, look!" I point out the window, my voice urgent.
Rick immediately slows the RV, eyes narrowing. He grabs the radio: "Daryl, Merle." He looks at T-Dog and mutters under his breath, "You too," then louder, "Gear up. We're going in."
The vehicles stop, and the four of them quickly arm themselves. Rick and Merle charge forward, slicing through the walkers with grim efficiency. T-Dog covers their flanks, taking down any that approach too closely. The sound of gunshots and the thud of bodies hitting the ground fill the air.
"Over here!" Rick shouts to the trapped couple, motioning for them to run towards us.
The man stumbles forward, dragging the woman behind him. She looks like she can barely stand, her face pale and streaked with dirt. As they reach our group, a walker lunges at the woman. Rick steps in, driving his knife into its skull and yanking her to safety.
"We've got you," Rick says, his voice firm. "Keep moving."
Carol is at the door and ushers them inside. The last walkers fall to Daryl's arrows and Merle's relentless blows. We returned to the RV and the truck. The couple collapses onto the seats, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.
"Thank you," the man gasps, his voice strained and tears in his eyes. He clasps Rick's hand tightly, his fingers trembling. "We didn't think we were going to make it."
Rick nods. "What's your name?"
"Steven," the man replies. "And this is Olivia."
"I'm Rick. You're safe now, but we need to keep moving. Can you travel?"
Steven nods, helping Olivia to sit upright. "Yeah, we can. Thank you. Thank you all."
As the RV lurches forward and T-Dog navigates back onto the road, my adrenaline slowly ebbs away. Steven and Olivia exchange glances, their relief palpable as Steven speaks, still shaky. "There's a safe place we can take you called Indian Hills Inn. About ten others are already there
Rick glances at me, then at T-Dog. "What do you think?"
T-Dog shrugs. "Could be worth it. A safe place to rest sounds good."
Rick nods, turning back to Steven. "Alright, show us the way."
Steven gives T-Dog directions, and we follow their guidance through the darkening roads. The tension in the RV is palpable, but there's a glimmer of hope in the air. After what feels like an eternity, we pull into the parking lot of the Indian Hills Inn. The glow of warm light spills from the inn's windows, casting a comforting aura in the gathering dusk.
The inn, nestled among rolling hills and framed by patches of cornfields swaying in the breeze, stands as a modest yet inviting refuge against Iowa's serene countryside. Its weathered wooden exterior, adorned with a faded sign proclaiming "Indian Hills Inn," blends harmoniously with the rustic charm of its surroundings.
Stepping out of our vehicles, we're greeted by a small but eager group of people emerging from the inn's entrance. Their weary faces bore deep lines, but as they glanced our way, a flicker of relief sparked in their eyes. Each one's posture softened, tension easing as they realized help had arrived.
They approach us cautiously, their expressions a mix of curiosity and cautious optimism, as if daring to hope that perhaps, finally, they are not alone in this unforgiving world.
The group's leader, a weathered man with kind eyes and a firm handshake, expresses his gratitude. As introductions are shared around, the inn's interior, glimpsed through open doorways, offers glimpses of modest furnishings and flickering lanterns, a humble sanctuary promising warmth and safety.
"Steven! Olivia!" a woman calls out, rushing forward to embrace them. "We thought we'd lost you."
"We're okay, thanks to them," Steven replies, gesturing to our group. "They saved us."
The woman turns to us, her eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you. Please stay for a while. It's the least we can do."
Rick looks at me, his expression softening. "Sounds like a good idea. Let's get everyone inside."