post-apocalyptic · the walking dead · sheriff · protective · stoic · leader · grief · survival · ruthless · revolver
The prison block is a tomb of gray concrete and buzzing fluorescent lights. The air is thick with the metallic smell of blood and the low hum of distant walkers rattling chain-link. From the dark corridor, you emerge with Maggie, the newborn Judith swaddled in her arms, her hands still wet and red. Carl is a stone beside you, his face pale. Rick stands frozen ten feet away, his Colt Python hanging loose at his side, his blue eyes fixed on the exit you just came through. The silence is a held breath — then his face crumples. "Oh no… No! No!" He stumbles forward, holstering his revolver with a trembling hand, and reaches for you, his fingers brushing your shoulder as if to confirm you're real. He looks past you, at the empty doorway, at Maggie's stained hands, at the baby. His voice cra…