Michonne stood at the edge of the wooden platform where the fourth wall of the little tree house should have been. Rick stood beside her. He took a handful of the tattered camouflage tarp that was half-covering the opening and pulled it loose.

Michonne held her katana out in front of her, blade pointed towards the center of the earth, both hands gripping the handle tightly, muscles tensed and ready for action.

The other end of the makeshift rope attached to the sword was tied around Rick.

Originally she had wanted to tie it to herself. It was her sword, after all, but Rick said, "No, I'm heavier. You focus on hitting the target and I'll focus on pulling it back up again."

The warrior woman looked to her right.

"Ready?" she asked.

Rick held the rope with both hands, preparing himself, several feet of slack between them. He nodded.

"Ready."

Michonne's keen eyes picked a target. It was easy; there were so many targets, but she still had to hit the walker's head directly with enough force to kill it.

She raised her arms high, keeping the sword perfectly vertical, adjusted her aim, then brought her arms down sharply and let go. The blade sung through the air and sunk deep into the skull of walker.

The corpse slumped down. For a moment it was held mostly upright by the pressure of the other walkers crowded around it, giving Rick time to pull the rope taut. The slain walker started to fall beneath the mass of clawing hands, pulling the white and black hilt with it.

Rick braced himself and heaved. The sword was weighed down, lodged firmly in the dead man. Rick tightened his grip, yanked again, harder, and again, leaning back. The sword slid loose and Rick reeled the rope back in as quickly as he could, before a walker could grab it.

The katana banged into the wooden platform and Michonne deftly grabbed it.

"Got it!" she said.

"It worked!" Carl exclaimed.

Rick rubbed his hands on his jeans. He was going to have some serious rope burn before this was over.

"Alright," he said, "This time, I'll give it a little less slack. We don't want your sword to get crushed under there."

"Okay," Michonne agreed. Now they had a better estimate of the distance and the amount of rope required.

"Carl, keep your gun ready. If a walker grabs the sword and I can't pull it up, you need to shoot it," Rick ordered.

Their plan was good, but it was still risky. The last thing he wanted to do was lose Michonne's sword.

Pretty soon, they had a routine worked out and walker after walker fell. They killed upwards of a dozen walkers before taking a break.

After catching their breath, the team started again; Michonne aiming carefully, the bloody katana plunging into another walker's skull, Rick straining to pull the rope back up, Michonne catching the sword and flicking off the excess brain matter...then repeat.

A couple times Michonne and Carl had to help Rick pull the rope.

Rick kept telling Michonne not to lean so far forward, to which she'd reply that she was fine, she was being careful, and he would sigh and make sure Carl was ready in case anything happened.

Michonne raised the sword high, poised to strike.

"Rick," she said, lowering her sword, "I think we have a problem."

He turned to look at her curiously.

"Look," Carl said, noticing it too, "Do they look closer than before?"

"Yeah," Rick answered slowly, worry edging into his voice.

The reaching, grasping hands and angry mouths definitely seemed about three or four feet closer to the tree house than before.

"They're standing on top of the dead ones!" Rick realized, "As soon as we kill one, the others climb over it."

"We have to stop," Michonne said, a sense of dread in her voice.

For a few minutes they all stood still, thinking about what would happen if they continued like this. There were too many walkers. There were probably a hundred gathered under the tree, easy. As many as they kill, the others would step over the bodies, pushed forward by the walkers behind them.

It was a bizarre, horrifying situation, but no less real. If the walkers reached the tree house, managed to climb inside...they could fight for a while, push them back over the side.

It wouldn't work. There were too many walkers. They would be trapped, cornered, and that would be the end.

Michonne stared at the problem below them. Part of her wanted to keep killing them. She wanted to fight! She would not go down without a fight! The practical part of her, however, knew that this plan wasn't working, not the way it was supposed to.

She looked at Rick again, afraid. Rick...what do we do now?

"We wait," he answered her unspoken question, "for now, we wait."

For what? Carl looked up at his dad. Wait to think of something better? Wait for a rescue that's not coming? Wait for the walkers to get bored and leave? Wait to die? There was a lot he wanted to say right then but when he opened his mouth he thought better of it and nothing came out.

The three weary survivors backed away from the edge. Carl sat back down near their small pile of gear. Michonne leaned against the wall, lost in thought.

Rick paced around the small area, looking at the situation outside from every angle. Michonne was watching him and he expected her to tell him to stop moving but she didn't. He re-hung the old camo tarp at the front of the tree house. It partially covered the opening.

They were quiet the rest of the afternoon. Carl continued sharpening sticks and Michonne, with nothing better to do, eventually joined him. Rick checked his revolver, counted their bullets, looked out the windows, counted the walkers, checked his gun again.

They were all hungry and thirsty, frustrated and discouraged. Darkness fell quickly in the woods.

"Carl, come here," Rick patted an unrolled sleeping bag, "It's getting cold."

Carl did as he was told, even though he didn't feel cold or even sleepy, for that matter. He took off his hat and got into a sleeping bag.

"I'll keep watch," Michonne told Rick.

He rolled out a sleeping bag next to his son. Rick gently brushed Carl's hair away from his face and kissed his forehead like he used to when Carl was little and Rick got home late from work. Rick lay down but he couldn't sleep.

The sky was clear and the moon was full. Usually whoever took first watch would wake the other about halfway through the night. Rick dozed off at some point and he didn't wake up to take watch, so Michonne let him sleep.

Michonne didn't want to watch what was outside so for hours she sat beside Rick, resting her chin on her knees, and watched over the two people she loved most in this world. Moonlight filtered through the tree branches and into the cut-out windows and fell on their faces.

Later, the sky began to lighten; Michonne watched the shadows gradually fall away from Rick and Carl.

Rick looked troubled, worried even in his sleep. The cuts and bruises from his fight with the Governor were almost gone, leaving only a few small scars that would likely fade in time.

Michonne leaned closer, studying him. She didn't get to do that often, when he was awake. Impulsively, she reached over and brushed a stray curl from his forehead, lightly traced her fingers over the ridge of his nose, along his jaw.

She felt sad but, somehow, at peace. Whatever happens to us here, this is where I belong. I only wish he knew...

Realizing that she had been thinking these same thoughts over and over, spinning them through her mind in the small hours of the morning, Michonne bent her head and softly kissed Rick.

His lips were a little rough but warm. She lingered just a fraction of a second longer than she meant to, not that she meant to do that at all until it was happening.

She pulled back and almost immediately froze, finding herself staring into a pair of blue eyes.