[ viii. please do what i couldn't ]

june 22nd, 2012

➸➸➸

THE WORLD HAD BEEN ripped out from beneath Astrid Lancaster's feet.

Her home was now a mere memory. Her circle of loved ones all but wiped out. With every struggling step that she took, the pain within her deepened. Each breath was agonizing. The grip of mortality held precariously onto her. Astrid was dying. That much she knew.

"Stay with me, Astrid," Rick Grimes ushered, his voice rattling in the Lancaster woman's ear. His arm, battered and bloodied, wrapped tighter around her torso, a thinning tether to reality.

Astrid barely heard him. Barely felt him. She should have been left to die within that prison courtyard, but, by some miracle—or perhaps a curse—she had been spared. Carl had her damning—and saving grace. Without the young boy's intervention, she would have surely bled out right on the asphalt. Part of her still felt like she might.

But she could not think too deeply about that right now.

Astrid needed to keep moving. She and Rick trudged along a desolate country road, following Carl, who led the way into the unknown. The two adults often struggled to keep up with him, their progress hindered by their injuries. They leaned heavily on each other now, their arms entwined, their hips pressed together for support. Both bore the weight of wounded legs.

Blood continued to trickle from Astrid's side and down her calf. She and Rick had both managed to make do with patching up their injuries as they walked. Their makeshift bandages, fashioned from their torn shirt sleeves, clung stubbornly to their wounds, adhesive with their own dried, sticky blood.

"I'm doing my best," Astrid eventually murmured back. It could have been ten minutes between conversations for all she knew.

Her head rested fully on Rick's shoulder. Each supported step she took sent waves of pain coursing through her, and she clenched her lip, suppressing the urge to cry out. She cast an anxious gaze at Carl, who seemed to drift farther ahead with every stride. A furrow etched itself on her forehead.

"Carl," She called, speaking as loudly as she dared risk. "Slow down, please."

Carl Grimes pressed on, obstinately ignoring her.

Rick's frustration simmered. "Carl, stop," He all but growled at his son.

The boy halted briefly but did not turn back to look at them. Rick pulled Astrid forward as they hurried to catch up. "We need to stay together," Rick reminded. "We need to place a place with food . . . supplies . . ." As he trailed off, Carl's attention remained anchored to the ground. Rick extended a tentative hand, reaching for his shoulder. "Hey," He murmured. "We're going to be . . ."

Yet, before Rick could finish his reassurance, Carl's glare silenced him. The boy's eyes blazed with resentment, a smoldering rebellion. Without another word, Carl took off back down the road, picking up his pace.

Astrid considered calling after him again but then thought better of it. Carl's blistering rage was born from the abrupt loss of their home and of their family—an emotion she herself shared. Yet, their priority, even if he did not recognize it, was staying together. In their state, they could not afford to lose each other.

The two adults began to trudge onward again. Astrid released a tired breath. "We're going to be okay?" She said softly.

Rick swallowed. "What?" He croaked. His throat was congested with blood.

"We're going to be okay," She reiterated, glancing at the man walking beside her. "That's what you were going to say, right?" She questioned. Rick's reluctant nod only deepened her frown. "Why didn't you say it to him?" She pressed.

Rick's parched lips grazed his words like they were bitter medicine. "Because I can't promise that," He confessed. "I can't tell him any more lies. I can't tell you any more lies."

Astrid fixed him with a searching look. "When have you been lying to me?"

"When I promised you that the Governor was dead, and we'd get to live safely in the prison. Look at us now. No shelter. No supplies. All three of us could be dead by—"

"That's not going to happen. We're going to find a place, like you said. We're going to find supplies. We're going to be okay."

Rick responded with a gruff, noncommittal sound as they continued walking. Each step they took hurt more than the last. The Lancaster woman's thoughts soon drifted back to the final moments at the prison, where she had watched Daryl vanish behind a horde of walkers. She had not seen him again. Doubt gnawed at her, but she had to cling to the belief that he was out there, that he was navigating the wilderness in search of her, just as she searched for him.

Astrid's thoughts shifted to little Bailey Stratton next, and more guilt settled upon her. She knew she should not have let the girl out of her sight. Bailey had not been seen on the getaway bus—so where else could she have possibly gone? Another cruel notion suddenly struck Astrid. Had Bailey, in her innocence, set out to find her, even as Astrid failed to reciprocate the search?

She shook her head. She could not dare to think like that right now.

After another grueling hour of their trek, the trio reached an interstate. In the distance, a run-down restaurant beckoned. Abandoned vehicles and discarded, scavenged remnants littered its narrow parking lot.

As they approached the decaying building, Astrid watched Rick and Carl draw their guns. Her face fell as she recognized her own sudden vulnerability. She lacked even a rudimentary weapon, not a knife to her name. She was utterly defenseless.

As they reached the entrance, Rick first steadied Astrid against the outside wall, then joined his son. The father and son cautiously swung the door open, their firearms at the ready, poised to fire at a moment's notice.

Once the threshold was deemed safe, Rick turned his attention to Carl. "Stay out here with Astrid, okay?" He instructed. "Keep watch."

"You stay with Astrid," Carl retorted defiantly. "You can barely stand. I'm not letting you go in there alone."

"Excuse me?" Rick demanded. His fatherly protectiveness emerged fiercely, determined to safeguard the only family he had left. He had already lost Judith and Lori, leaving him with only his son. Astrid understood the depth of his commitment to preventing Carl from meeting the same fate.

"We've done this before," The boy persisted, his tone icy. "I'm going to help you clear it. I could handle it myself."

Rick's stern stare held on Carl for an extended moment before turning to Astrid, his question weighted with challenge. "You coming or staying?"

Recognizing Rick's test, Astrid merely responded with an eye roll. "I'm coming," She decided, seizing a nearby crowbar that lay on the ground. "Let's not waste any more time. We're running out of daylight."

Rick sighed in reluctant acceptance and led the way into the shadowy building, Carl following closely. Astrid trailed furthest behind, exhaustion creeping back into her limbs. They entered a small bar, and beyond that, a sitting area and kitchen unfolded before them. Astrid surveyed the surroundings before closing the main door behind her. She settled onto a bar stool and began scouring for alcohol, in hopes of disinfecting their wounds, while Rick and Carl pushed deeper in pursuit of food and water.

"Kitchen's clear," The former announced.

Astrid's attention perked up as she suddenly heard growls from the next room. She retrieved the crowbar, limping with all the haste she could muster, and nearly collided with Carl in the process. Looking over his shoulder, she eyed a lone walker confined behind a formidable barricade of furniture.

Behind the creature hell-bent on reaching them, Rick pointed toward a shelf adorned with condiments. "That might be all that's left," He commented.

"Then we need it," Astrid declared. She never took her eyes off the walker straining against its wooden prison.

Carl automatically raised his gun. "I can get it from here," He volunteered.

"No." Rick shook his head. "It's weak," He observed as he collected a small ax from the counter. "I'll draw it out."

"You want me to get it?" Astrid offered, holding up her crowbar as an alternative.

Rick refused. "You're barely standing as it is," He protested. "I've got this."

Astrid huffed in frustration, but her attention soon shifted as Carl's eyes fell upon a hastily written note that lay on a nearby table. She peered over his shoulder once more, her heart sinking at the message it bore:

PLEASE DO WHAT I COULDN'T
- JOE JR.

Astrid glanced back to the abandoned walker from a past life, and with Carl at her side, they stood protectively behind Rick, ready to engage should the need arise. The shift in demeanor made the Lancaster woman clench her teeth as fresh pain tore through her abdomen, threatening to buckle her legs. Inwardly, she felt on the brink of collapse—but outwardly, she refused to display any sign of weakness.

She was fine. Or so she would keep telling herself.

Rick maneuvered a chair from the makeshift barrier, toppling it in the process, and the walker lunged forward. Her leader's strike with the ax made contact—but ultimately fell short of penetrating the creature's actual rotten brain. The walker pushed against him, hungering for their flesh. Rick's strength seemed dangerously close to giving out.

Carl lifted his gun once more, and before Astrid could protest, a gunshot echoed through the room. The walker crumpled lifeless to the ground. Rick abruptly spun around, his chest heaving, fury etched across his face as he berated his son. "I told you not to shoot!" His voice cut through the air like a whip.

"You couldn't do it with the ax!" Carl screamed back.

"I had it!" Rick rasped sternly. "Every bullet counts now. What if you needed that one later?"

Carl began to respond, but Astrid intervened, her arm encircling the boy's shoulder. "Don't," She urged him gently. "You saved your father. That's what matters. Who cares if we needed that bullet later? We're going to need a lot of bullets later that we just won't have." She turned her attention back to Rick. "And you," She said, chastising him, "stop taking unnecessary risks. You're just not strong enough right now." Both Grimes men fixated on her, their expressions a mix of frustration and contemplation. She only gritted her teeth beneath their scrutiny. "Both of you, split up. See what you can find—and then let's move on," She decided. "Okay?"

With silence as her answer from both of her companions, Astrid scoffed. Carl withdrew sharply from her hold, and she gasped in pain as his forceful departure nearly sent her sprawling. She steadied herself against a nearby table, wide eyes locked on the retreating figure of the embittered teenager. Tears of hurt welled and stung, but she blinked them back, her gaze shifting to Rick, who appeared on the verge of offering an apology that remained unspoken.

Without a word, Astrid walked out of the room and returned to the bar to resume her search for alcohol.

And this time, the booze would be for more than just her physical injuries.

➸➸➸

HAVING LEFT THE RESTAURANT behind, Astrid, Rick, and Carl pressed on down the open road. The environment had drastically changed since their departure from the interstate a few miles back. They now found themselves in what appeared to be a once-quaint suburban town. A haunting silence now engulfed it, however, devoid of any signs of walkers, and the remnants of civilization lay ravaged by looting. The streets were scattered with newspapers, wrappers, bags, boxes, and decaying leaves, their every step resonating with the chilling crunch of desolation.

Astrid and Rick persisted, still tethered to one another. Their voices, mere whispers, provided encouragement that kept them moving. Astrid, especially, clung to Rick as if he were her lifeline, knowing that without his hold, her legs would have long given in, and she would not have gotten back up again.

Meanwhile, Carl still stalked ahead, his steps quickening whenever he sensed the adults were getting too close.

Astrid's furrowed brow locked on the back of Carl's head. Her own anger had begun to brew at the boy's growing hostile treatment toward them. No matter, she found herself drained, unable to muster the strength for further confrontation. Even her footsteps faltered; she could sense her body protesting. Her gaze lifted towards the darkening sky, where the setting sun painted the faraway hills in somber hues. They would need to find shelter for the night soon.

Rick, seemingly attuned to the same thought, gradually brought them to a halt. "Carl," He called. Surprisingly, the boy complied, his bitter countenance turning to face the source of his father's direction. Rick inclined his head to the left, and there, a stone's throw away, stood a two-story house. "That one's as good as any," He insisted.

Carl exhaled in resignation, his footsteps carrying him towards the house, with Astrid and Rick following suit. Their arrival at the door was met with a grim sight—the unmistakable signs of more looting and abandonment. The once-cozy living room had been reduced to chaos: a flipped couch, decaying food fragments scattered about, askew pictures hanging from the walls, and an overwhelming flood of disregarded books torn from once beautiful bookshelves.

Entering the house last, Astrid rested her weight against the busted doorframe, her watchful eyes tracing the path of her leader's limping stride down the cluttered hallway. Meanwhile, Carl started toward the stairs to scan the upper floors, but it was painfully evident that Rick harbored reservations about letting him out of his sight for even a moment. The warning in his voice cut through the silence. "Carl," He cautioned.

"I've got it," Carl snapped over his shoulder.

"Carl, just stop!" Rick shouted, freezing the deserting boy in his tracks. The father and son locked eyes, an unspoken battle simmering beneath the surface. And then, with an eruption of pent-up frustration, Carl raised his fist and mercilessly began to pummel the wall. Each resounding blow sent shockwaves through the room—through the whole house—causing Astrid to flinch involuntarily.

"HEY ASSHOLE!" Carl bellowed between hits. "HEY SHITFACE! HEY—"

"Watch your mouth!" Rick reprimanded.

Astrid tightly closed her eyes, caught between their clash of wills. Finally, Carl scoffed, before retracting his fist from the wall. "Are you kidding me?" He demanded, exasperated. "If there were any walkers down there, they would have come out."

Carl bit back further unspoken words, his icy expression conveying a wellspring of emotions as he regarded his father. Rick, however, chose the path of silence, absorbing every verbal blow. Then, with a resigned shake of his head, the boy began his ascent upstairs, stomping down hard as he went. Astrid watched him go, still wanting to reach out, to bridge the chasm that had grown between them all. Yet, she was bound by her own dying body, incapable of climbing those stairs without risking a painful fall back down them.

Turning back to Rick, Astrid found him disappearing into the kitchen down the hall. The Lancaster woman was left alone in the ruined living room, and a wave of isolation washed over her. She sank to the floor, her back finding the cold wall. Her grip on her wounded side tightened as if she could stave off the throbbing pain.

In that moment of solitude, Astrid's thoughts spiraled toward Daryl once more. Her heart had never felt so heavy in her chest. Now, more than ever, she wished to be by his side. His very existence breathed life into her. She needed him—needed his love, his warmth, his strength to bolster her own crumbling courage.

How was she supposed to do this without him?

The weight of her unkept promise to her hunter pressed down on her, suffocating her. She had assured Daryl that she would come back to him, and she had ultimately lied to him. The reality loomed large—she might never see him again, yet it was a possibility too devastating to contemplate. She could not fathom a life without Daryl Dixon.

Unbeknownst to the Lancaster woman, tears had begun to trace their path down her cheeks. Her trembling hands, stained with her own blood and—likely Rick's, too—reached up to brush away the salty rivulets. But as one tear was wiped away, others quickly took its place.

"Astrid?" Rick's voice sliced through her reverie. Startled, she jumped at the unexpected sound, a searing jolt shooting through her injured leg and abdomen. A sharp hiss of discomfort escaped her lips. She raised her eyes to find Rick's concerned stare fixed upon her. His worry etched lines into his rugged features, but just as swiftly, his expression reverted to its customary stoicism. In his outstretched hand, he offered a small kitchen knife. "Here," He said. "Better than carrying that crowbar around."

Astrid reached up, her fingers brushing the cold steel of the blade before she placed it on the ground beside her. "Thanks," She breathed.

Rick nodded, and a series of descending footsteps on the creaking stairs drew their attention. Astrid shifted her gaze upward to see Carl approaching, clutching a long black cord in his hands. He moved with purpose, weaving the cord into what appeared to be a knot securing the front door. It was a smart move, considering their lack of a functioning lock.

Outside, the inky darkness of night had descended rapidly, obscuring the perilous world beyond. Rick strained to push the heavy couch in the living room against the door, fortifying their makeshift barricade. Carl, however, seemed vexed by his father's actions. "I already tied the door shut," He asserted.

Rick shoved the couch a few inches further. "We don't need to take any chances," He countered.

Carl's disbelief lingered, and he challenged his father with a taunting tone. "You don't think it'll hold? It's a strong knot. Clove hitch," He remarked before clicking his tongue. "Shane taught me," He added bitterly. "Remember him?"

Astrid's eyes narrowed disapprovingly. "That is enough, Carl."

The boy appeared oblivious to her intervention, his attention still fixed upon his father, awaiting a response. Rick swallowed hard, his unswollen eye wide as he met his son's cruel stare. "Yeah, I remember him. I remember him every day," He conceded, his voice growing cold and distant. "Is there something else you want to say to me?" His words dripped with an edge of harshness, demanding a reckoning.

Carl did not take the bait. Now silent and crestfallen, he abandoned further instigation. Instead, he crossed over to his father, their combined efforts pushing the couch fully against the door. Once they had completed their task, Rick was left hunched over, gasping for breath, his stamina depleted.

Astrid watched him with deep concern, a feeling of helplessness settling upon her. "Are you okay?" She asked.

"I'm fine," Rick managed to wheeze in response, slowly regaining his composure. "This'll have to do for the night," He said. He divested himself of his belt, which held his holster and tossed it to the ground.

"Where are we sleeping?" Astrid wondered.

Carl, in a quiet tone, offered his plan, already setting up several pillows across the room from them. "I'll take the floor."

"I can take the floor, too," Astrid insisted. "Carl, pass me one of those pil—"

Rick cut her off before she could complete her sentence. "We can share the couch," He decided. "It's big enough that we can both fit."

Astrid swallowed easily. The prospect of sharing a couch with another man, even for the purpose of rest, stirred an unfamiliar sense of discomfort. Rick was her closest friend, a trusted ally, but this situation pushed the boundaries of their bond. She grappled with her acceptance, her mind conflicted by the circumstances and her body weighed down by exhaustion.

Rick noted her hesitance. "It's not like that," He clarified. "You need this couch. But so do I."

After a pause, Astrid relented to the pull of her fatigue. With a reluctant nod, she complied, "Fine."

Rick turned his attention to their meager supplies and inspected the small bag of salvaged food from the restaurant. Turned out, there had been more than just condiments; they had managed to secure two cans of olives, a bag of stale chips, a few baggies of nuts, a couple of bottles of water, and—as Astrid hoped for—even a small bottle of alcohol.

Rick held up the bag of chips and addressed Carl. "You should eat."

The boy responded with a roll of his eyes. "We should save it," He corrected.

Unfazed by the attitude, Rick rose to his feet and crossed over to Carl. "Here," He said, offering the bag once more.

"I don't want any."

Rick's patience waned, and he took a more assertive stance, shoving the bag into his son's chest. "Eat it," He commanded sharply, leaving no room for argument. "Now."

Carl reluctantly did as he was told. Once he had settled in, Rick finally turned his attention back to Astrid, who still had yet to move from the wall. He extended one hand toward her. In his other, she noticed the small bottle of liquor.

"Come on," He beckoned. "We need to get cleaned up."

The Lancaster woman met his gaze, her weakness surely evident, and whispered in response, "I can't move."

Rick did not miss a beat. He bent down and his hands slid beneath her arms. With a careful, calculated effort, he lifted Astrid to her feet, and she clung to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck as he supported her weight. Every movement sent spikes of pain coursing through her battered body.

Together, they shuffled down the dark hallway, guided only by the moon's feeble glow filtering through a window. Astrid yelped beneath her breath as they reached the bathroom. As soon as the door was closed behind them, she hoisted her trembling form on the edge of the sink. Rick placed the bottle of liquor on the counter beside her.

"You're the doctor," He reminded her. "Just tell me what to do to fix us."

Astrid nodded weakly. "Hand me that towel. We can use the cloth for more bandages," She instructed. "Now, take off your shirt. You can find another one to wear after we're done here."

Rick complied with her request, his movements slow and unsteady. His tattered shirt came off, revealing a tapestry of bruises and contusions on his battered abdomen. Astrid's gasp of shock escaped involuntarily, her fingers betraying her by reaching out to touch his injured skin. Rick tensed under her gentle touch, his pain evident in every labored breath.

"Are any of my ribs broken?" He inquired, his voice strained.

Astrid's hands began a careful exploration of his damaged torso. The agony etched across Rick's face was almost unbearable to witness. Her fingers traced the bruises, seeking any telltale signs of fractured bones. She let her touch ascend to his chest, where a scar from a previous stab wound caught her eye. She wondered how he had gotten it.

Finally, Astrid withdrew her touch. "No, I don't think so," She answered. "There's no internal bleeding. Just a lot of tenderness because of the bruises. What the hell happened to you out there? One minute you were in that field, and then you were gone."

"I was hiding in the bus," Rick slowly explained. "Until I saw him. We fought. He would have killed me if it wasn't for Michonne."

Astrid perked up at the familiar name. "Michonne," She repeated. "Is she alive?"

Rick shrugged. "I don't know," He admitted.

Astrid's hope sank at the uncertainty that surrounded them. But she forced herself to shift her focus back to their injuries. Swallowing her reservations, Astrid stiffly removed her shirt, revealing her jeans and a bra. All her garments were soaked in blood. Her hands moved to the cloth bandage wrapped around her side, and she painstakingly peeled it away. Tears automatically pooled as she grappled with the sticky fabric.

The bloody rag dropped to the tiled floor, and she felt Rick's stare upon her. His eyes explored the contours of her body before meeting hers again, filled with a mixture of sadness and worry. Astrid hesitated to look down at her injuries, but she summoned the strength to do so. Her sob was audible as she looked upon the ugly wound on her side. Redness encircled the bullet hole, even in the subdued light. Infection seemed imminent.

With trembling hands, Astrid turned to Rick and held out the bottle. "Please," She said. "Do what I can't."

Rick accepted. "How much?" He asked.

"Only a little," Astrid replied. "Then pour some on my lower leg. Pour some on your own, too. This will help fight the infection and keep it clean. It'll hurt like hell, though—I'm warning you."

Rick nodded sharply. Astrid steeled herself for the excruciation that was sure to follow. Rick extended his hand, his cold fingers making contact with her waist, causing her to flinch involuntarily. Her anxious gaze met his, searching for reassurance.

"Don't look," He whispered.

Astrid obeyed instantly, turning away from Rick to confront her own reflection in the mirror before her. The image that met her was that of a girl she could hardly recognize. Her once lustrous chestnut-colored hair hung in stringy disarray, her once-vibrant green eyes dulled by their day's journey. Bloodstains marred her pallid face.

As the first drops of the disinfectant met the woman in the mirror's wound, her lips parted in a howling cry. The woman's thin, sickly-looking body was immediately racked with uncontrollable tremors and torrents of tears began to stream steadily down her sunken cheeks.

Then the woman in the mirror screamed again. And again. And again. Oh, that poor girl. Astrid's heart ached for the anguished woman in the mirror. She wanted to put her down, to release her from such unbearable torment. It felt inhumane to allow a woman to endure such agony.

And then, amidst pain so suffocating, in a moment of realization, as Astrid Lancaster reached out with bloody fingertips to finally touch the mirror—to brace herself for the next wave—reality struck her with brutal clarity.

The poor, screaming girl trapped within the mirror was none other than herself.

~~~~~~~~~~