Tonight the World Dies

It’s a dull ache in the front of my skull that wakes me up the next morning. I groan, remembering that wine never was kind to me in terms of a hangover. The sun is streaming between my closed curtains, and I shift in the bed. I glance down at myself, vaguely remembering getting out of the shower and plopping face-first into the mattress still wet and nude. The sheets are cold on my bare skin as I roll onto my back, my stomach roiling with the movement. I curse when I remember the events of the night before—dinner with Aaron, Eric, and Daryl, the CD Eric gave me, having too much wine, Daryl walking me home, inviting Daryl inside...

I groan again and close my eyes, pressing the heels of my hands into them. The girlish side of me is overthinking Daryl’s declination of coming inside, wondering if it was because he isn’t into me or because I was far from sober. Leave it to me to suddenly have boy issues at the end of the world. Stupid.

I force myself to sit up and push the nagging thoughts away. Swinging my bare legs over the side of the bed, I keep myself covered with the sheet as I stand and make my way to my dresser to get dressed. I replace the sheet on the bed, tucking in the ends, and make my way downstairs. Maggie and Glenn are awake with cups of instant coffee in their hands at the island. They greet me with good mornings and knowing smiles as I make my way to the coffee pot. The instant coffee is bitter, especially without the luxury of cream and sugar, but it keeps my hangover at bay.

“What?” I finally ask, risking a look at both of them. Glenn averts his eyes while Maggie leans over and balances her chin in her hand.

“Did you have fun?” she asks teasingly, a knowing glint in her eyes. I sip heavily from my coffee and hesitate in answering, wondering just how much they know about the previous night.

So I ask, “How much do you know?”

“Well,” Maggie starts, smirking, “we know you attended a dinner with Aaron and his boyfriend and a certain hunter. We also know that you were less than sober and that said certain hunter walked you home, hand-in-hand might I add.”

I lay my head on the island with a groan. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Sounds like you have a crush on our resident hunter,” Maggie teases with a smirk. I lift my head.

“I’ve hardly spoken a paragraph to the man,” I deadpan. “I need to go.”

I can’t focus on inventory when I get to the pantry. Between my hangover and my mind replaying the events of the previous night, I’m recounting everything at least twice. Stupid inventory, stupid hangover, stupid wine, stupid Daryl… Stupid, stupid, stupid. I can’t even pinpoint when my stupid mind betrayed me and started thinking of Daryl in other ways. We hadn’t spent all that much time together, much less spoken to one another. He keeps himself on the outskirts of the group, totally belonging but still keeping his distance. In the former world, I can’t say I’d look twice at a man like Daryl, but now I can’t keep my mind from wandering back to him.

Perhaps it isn’t all that crazy to have this…attraction to him. Daryl has his own gravity field, and I’ve been caught up in its current, even though I’m trying hard to fight the pull. Pieces of me know it’s useless, but the more stubborn side of me won’t give up. Caring for people in this new world makes us vulnerable, and vulnerability makes us weak. I can’t afford to be weak.

But I’m tired, exhausted to my limit from keeping myself closed off to anyone except myself. Maybe Daryl is feeling this way, too. Maybe he’s feeling so fed up with staying on the outside just like I am. It’s terrifying to come to this conclusion, but I’m not in the least as put off by it as I imagined I’d be.

It isn’t just Daryl whom I care for—it’s his entire group, no matter how much I try and deny it. Rick and his band of survivors have accepted me without knowing fully where I came from or what I’d done—everyone has had to cross lines to survive now—and within their group I’d found something I wasn’t sure I’d find again: a home. I am at peace with these people, talking and joking like we’re all old friends and weren’t brought together by death and destruction, and just the idea of peace has me balking at the hand that feeds me. It is unnerving how quickly I have settled within this group, how I’ve evolved from a shell of a woman to a survivor with a conscience, with the ability to care for other people, with the desire to keep them safe at all costs. Is this what a family feels like?

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t hear Olivia until she shakes me. I jump a mile, the clipboard in my hands clattering to the floor. She’s looking at me like she’s looking at a stray dog, unsure if I’m going to snap at her if she reaches out.

“There’s been a situation,” she tells me, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Rick went on a rampage. He’s been locked up for now but there’s going to be a meeting tonight. Deanna wants his group there.”

“Rampage? Meeting? What happened? What’s the meeting for?” I ask hurriedly, feeling the confusion rising.

“I don’t know the full story, but Rick and Pete, our doctor, were fighting in the street until Rick pulled a gun on Pete. I don’t know where he got one since you’ve been taking inventory.” I ignore her accusing tone. “Michonne ended up knocking him out and they took him to a cell. The meeting is to decide whether to let Rick stay or exile him.”

My anger flares to the surface. “Exile him? Rick wouldn’t go off like that without a good goddamn reason. If they need me there to back him up, I will be. I’m done here.” I brush aggressively by her, once again tucking away into my mind. What was that I said about protecting people at all costs?

I storm down the street, catching sight of Eric striding down the sidewalk. He falters when he takes in my purposeful strides and waits for me. He walks by my side, matching my pace, when I catch up with him, wordlessly leading me to where Rick is being imprisoned. The cell is homemade in the basement of one of the houses, complete with jailer bars and a lone mattress, upon which my fearless leader sits despondently. Michonne is there already, her defined arms crossed over her chest as she glares at the sheriff. She barely spares me a glance when I come up beside her. Eric has remained at the top of the stairs, and overhead I hear his footsteps traveling away from the door.

“Where’d you get the gun?” I demand, curling my hands around the bars of the cell. Rick is propped against the wall, numerous butterfly bandages keeping his wounds sealed, his arms resting limply on his knees.

“Had Carol swipe it from the armory,” comes his quiet reply. He digs a hand into his eye tiredly and blinks up at me. “Surprised you didn’t notice.”

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. My mind was so busy this morning that I hadn’t noticed, and that was on me. When I had arrived, two guns had been signed out by Aaron and Daryl before they left for another recruiting run, but I hadn’t thought twice about a missing handgun. At the time, I chalked it up to one of them forgetting to sign it out. Guess I was very wrong.

“They want to kick you out,” Michonne tells him in a hiss. She’s furious with him and barely keeping it together. Rick sighs and nods.

“We aren’t going to let that happen,” I finish for Michonne, sharing a quick nod with her before turning back to him. “But this can’t happen again. What were you even fighting about?”

“Pete’s abusing Jessie,” is Rick’s quiet reply. I feel Michonne stiffen beside me, her anger now bubbling over, and I’m surprised that I am just as angry. Little did I know that Michonne and I are angry for very different reasons. “Deanna knew, I knew she did, and she didn’t do anything about it.”

“So you throw him through a window?” Michonne hisses. Then she throws her arm out, narrowly missing clocking me in the face. “That is not how you show these people how to wake up.”

“I admit my method was less than ideal,” Rick admits, looking down at his lap. “I acted emotionally before I could think it through, and I am sorry for that.”

The way Rick’s eyes shift back and forth puts me on edge; his mind is working overtime, I can see it on his face. But he keeps quiet and finally, I sigh, nod, and take my leave. A niggling feeling in the back of my head warns me to go to the meeting armed, so, after dinner with Glenn and Maggie, before leaving for the meeting, I make sure my hatchet is at my waist.

Glenn and Maggie leave before me; it’s dark by the time I step out of the house and head to Deanna’s. The streets are silent. Some residents have left their porch lights on as beacons for whenever they head home. I shove my hands in my pockets and idly kick a rock down the sidewalk, turning over all the possible outcomes this meeting may hold.

I’m so distracted again that I don’t see a shadow crossing the street, heading towards me at a dead run, until the wind is knocked out of me and I hit the grass in between two houses. I land roughly on my back, expelling air in a whoosh, and I hardly have a chance to recover when a hand circles my throat and hoists me up. I’m thrown violently against the siding of the house, and the hand is swapped for a forearm, pressing down on my windpipe. I claw at the skin and in the dim lighting of the porch lights, Nicholas’s face glares up at me. I gasp for breath and fight harder, my anger resurfacing. I attempt to kick out my legs, but Nicholas pins my body to the side of the house with his, and the feeling sends unpleasant shivers down my spine.

Then I see a flash of metal—a knife, I assume—as it lifts towards my face. I manage to wriggle an arm out from underneath Nicholas and knock the knife away; it glitters as it sails, landing in the grass some feet away. In response, Nicholas’s now-free hand cold-cocks me in the nose so hard I feel the blood vessels popping. Blood drips down into my mouth as I still fight for air, a feeling of lightheadedness beginning to take over. Nicholas hits me again, this time with a backhand that splits open my cheek. The cool night air stings the scrape, and he leans his face closer to mine, hovering just centimeters away.

“You think you can bad-mouth me to Deanna and get away with it? I’m like a son to her,” he hisses lowly. “You left my best friend there to die. You come into my community and try and take over? You and that cop buddy of yours.”

I feel a red-hot rage boiling in my stomach, and without formulating a reply I jerk my head forwards, catching him in the nose with my forehead. He stumbles back, and his arm is gone from my throat. He clutches his nose, which is now gushing blood like mine. While he’s distracted I tackle him like I’m a linebacker for the NFL, arms around his waist. We go flying, and his head makes a satisfying crack as it hits the house behind him. We grapple for control of the situation, rolling in the grass. I claw at his face and he throws punches. He catches me in the chin, jamming my teeth together, and he uses the opportunity to roll us again. His hands are around my throat again and squeezing. I wheeze, my hands coming up in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure on my neck. A scuffing of shoes on pavement distracts Nicholas and he looks up, his grip loosening slightly. Then he grins evilly down at me and reaches towards my hip for my hatchet.

The scuffing turns to muffled thuds as the shoes meet the grass and suddenly Nicholas is off me, my hatchet in his hand. He’s still grinning as he retrieves his knife and takes off around the back of one of the houses, disappearing. I cough and splutter, but I hardly have a moment to recover because the unmistakable groaning of the dead sends ice through my veins. I flip onto my stomach; the walker is closing in, its sight set on me. Its jaws are snapping and I shoot to my feet.

“Shit!” I cry. I’m left without a weapon and the walker is lessening the distance. Its arms reach out towards me and I manage to duck away from them, and the walker’s momentum carries it past me. It turns and charges me again. I know I simply cannot run; if someone gets bitten because I didn’t put it down, I know I’ll never forgive myself. In the dark I search frantically for a weapon, but it seems the residents of Alexandria have a habit of cleaning up their garden tools.

I step backwards, leading the walker out into the light shining from the houses. The walker and I are in some kind of sick dance; I twirl away from it, keeping it in my sights always, and it follows me, groaning, snarling, reaching. It reaches for me once more, and I jump back again. The walker stumbles on its own feet, swaying uneasily, and I use that to my advantage. In an act deemed insane, I rush the walker, tackling it to the ground. I shove off its decaying torso and bring my boot down on its skull as its arms lift to reach for me. The decrepit skull is soft under my heel and crushes easily. The body twitches as I continue my booted assault until the walker is completely limp, oozing dark blood and brain matter all over the street. The sound of approaching footsteps causes me to whirl, prepared to defend myself again. It’s unnecessary, though, when I see who the source of the sound is.

“Rick?” The sheriff is panting, staring down at the newly-minced walker at my feet. His eyes shoot back up to me. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the meeting?”

“The gate was open. What happened to you?” he asks. I shake my head briefly, spurring on another short bout of dizziness, and then Rick, to my surprise, stoops to heft the body of the walker onto his shoulder. “Come on.”

He leads the way to Deanna’s, the body of the walker making his breathing heavy and ragged. Ahead, the glow of a large fire lets us know where exactly the meeting is taking place. With no other words between us, Rick storms through the open backyard gate, walker and all, and dumps the body in front of the fire. There are gasps and one shriek of surprise from the Alexandrians, looks of horror on every one of their faces.

“I didn’t bring this. It got in,” Rick tells them firmly. Deanna’s remaining son, Spencer, steps forward, his face pinched.

“I told Gabriel to shut the gate.” Deanna orders him away, and Spencer brushes by me as I stand just inside the doorway.

Rick is speaking again, addressing the Alexandrians again. He tells them that the dead always get in, and so do the living, that they’ll find us, use us, try to kill us unless we kill them.

“We’ll survive,” he says. “I’ll show you how. You know, I was thinking, I was thinking how many of you do I have to kill to save your lives? But I'm not gonna do that. You're gonna change. I'm not sorry for what I said last night. I'm sorry for not saying it sooner. You're not ready, but you have to be. Right now, you have to be. Luck runs out.”

Then, for the second time that night, I am roughly shoved to the side. I crash into a flower pot on a plant stand, and it and I go toppling to the ground. The broken terra cotta cuts into my palms as I land on it, but I’m too focused on the second unlucky person who’s shoved me tonight. It takes me a minute to recognize Pete. The smell of alcohol is pungently noticeable, and I feel a small prick of fear when I notice he has Michonne’s katana in his hands. The Alexandrians are panicking, and our group is ready for a fight should it come down to it.

“You’re not one of us!” Pete slurs, waving the sword around. He’s pointing and glaring menacingly at Rick, who’s holding up his hands. “You’re not one of us!”

Deanna’s husband, whose name escapes me, rushes forward to amend the situation. He put his hands on Pete in an attempt to push him away, but Pete has none of it. He lifts his arms to shove the man away, and the katana crosses over the man’s front. As Pete pushes him, the sword slices into the man’s throat, and ruby red blood sprays from his neck. Deanna screams, as do a few other Alexandrian women, and her husband grasps at his neck. Blood splatters my clothing as the man turns in a circle before hitting the ground. Deanna rushes to his side, murmuring in grief.

“Oh Reg, no.” Huh, so that’s his name. Reg goes limp in Deanna’s arms, setting off another wail from the new widow.

“This is him!” Pete cries, the bloody katana throwing blood as he gestures at Rick with it. He paces wildly. “This is him!”

Deanna sobs and then turns to Rick, who’s watching Jessie’s husband fall apart in a drunken rage. She utters two words to the constable, and with barely any hesitation, Rick pulls his revolver, aims it at the fallen Pete, and pulls the trigger. More women scream, and I am so overwhelmed by everything that has just played out that I don’t notice the arrival of three people.