Andrea gave Rick a look. "From what Glenn's saying, it sounds like your kid's got more sense than you do."
Rick opened his mouth to correct her, but the words stuck in his throat. Let them think what they wanted.
"Either way, he's just a kid. I need to go find him and bring him back."
The group fell quiet. The anger that had been directed at Rick moments ago seemed to deflate slightly. Whatever they thought of his decisions, the idea that he'd inadvertently put his own child in danger clearly hit different.
Andrea's expression softened slightly.
Morales shook his head. "You should worry about yourself first, Officer. With those things outside, getting out of here won't be easy for any of us."
Glenn was the only one who seemed optimistic. He clapped Rick on the shoulder. "Don't worry. He's not going down that easy. I know this area pretty well, maybe after we figure out our own situation, I can help you—"
The sound of gunfire cut him off.
Bang! Bang bang bang!
Rapid shots echoed from above, coming from the roof.
"Shit!" Morales' face went dark. "That's Merle. That goddamn..."
He was already moving, sprinting toward the stairwell. The others followed. They hit the stairs at a run. The shots continued overhead, echoing down through the stairwell.
The rooftop door was already standing open. Heat rolled through it in waves. The air stank of gunpowder.
A man stood at the rooftop's edge.
White guy, late-forties, built like someone who'd done hard labor his whole life and had the scars to prove it. Buzz cut, dirty brown tank top, and a leather vest. He was holding a hunting rifle, taking potshots at the street below.
Another walker dropped. The man let out a whoop of laughter.
"Woo! Did you see that? Right in the fuckin' head!" He chambered another round. "Come on, you dead bastards! Ole Merle's got plenty more where that came from!"
Morales stormed forward. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"
Merle fired one more shot before finally turning around. He hopped down from the ledge with a swagger that was probably meant to be intimidating but mostly just looked drunk. Or high.
"Well now," he drawled. "Seems like somebody forgot their manners." He pointed the rifle in Morales' general direction. "When you're talkin' to a man with a gun, you ought to be polite. Common sense, ain't it?"
A big man stepped forward. Rick pegged him as someone trying real hard to keep his temper under control.
"We're almost out of ammo," the man said. "And you're up here wasting it like we got an endless supply!"
Merle's grin widened. He sauntered over, getting right in the man's face.
"Well, well, well." He looked the man up and down. "Listen to who thinks he can talk to me. When the hell did it become your job to tell me what to do, Mr.Yo?"
"You need to back off," the man said, his hands clenching into fists.
"Or what?" Merle leaned in closer. "You gonna do somethin' about it, nigger?"
Silence.
Then everyone started shouting at once.
"What the hell did you just say?!"
"Merle, you piece of shit—"
"T-Dog! Merle! That's enough!"
T-Dog, Rick caught the name from someone's shout, didn't waste time on words. He lunged forward, swinging, and his fist connected with Merle's jaw that probably hurt his knuckles as much as Merle's face.
Merle stumbled back, surprised more than hurt, and then his expression.
"Oh, you wanna go?" He dropped the rifle and came at T-Dog with both fists. "Alright then!"
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a beatdown.
Merle moved like someone who'd been in more brawls than he could count. He got T-Dog in a clinch and drove his knee into the man's stomach, then followed up with an elbow to the side of the head that sent T-Dog stumbling.
"Merle, stop!" Andrea tried to get between them.
Merle shoved her aside without even looking, his attention fixed on T-Dog. He grabbed the man by his shirt and slammed him into the rooftop surface, then started laying into him with punches.
"Think you can put your hands on me?"
Punch.
"Think you're my equal?"
Punch.
"I'll teach you your fuckin' place!"
Glenn and Morales tried to pull Merle off, but he was like a rabid animal, all wiry strength and meth-fueled aggression. He threw Morales back hard enough that the man hit the air conditioning unit with a grunt of pain.
T-Dog's face was a mess. He wasn't fighting back anymore, just trying to protect his head with his arms.
Then Merle pulled out a pistol.
He jammed it against T-Dog's forehead, the barrel leaving an indent in the skin, and stood up. His chest was heaving, knuckles split and bleeding.
"Alright!" he shouted, swinging the gun around to point at the group. "Let's have us a little meeting right here, right now! We're gonna figure out who's in charge of this chickenshit outfit!"
No one moved. Andrea had her gun half-raised but couldn't get a clean shot without risking T-Dog. Morales was clutching his ribs.
"I vote for me," Merle continued, grinning like this was all a big joke. He raised his free hand in a mock salute. "Hell, we'll even make it democratic. All in favor of ole Merle runnin' the show from here on out, raise your hand!"
Silence.
"I said raise 'em!" He pressed the gun harder against T-Dog's head.
Morales raised his hand slowly. Andrea followed. Then Glenn. One by one, the others joined in, until only a short-haired woman remained. She answered with a raised middle finger.
Merle didn't seem to notice. He was too busy basking in his victory.
"That's what I thought! Anybody else got a problem with the new management?"
No answer.
"I said..." Merle's voice rose. "Does anybody—"
"Yeah," Rick said from behind him. "I've got a problem."
Merle started to turn, the gun swinging away from T-Dog toward Rick.
He never made it.
Rick moved fast. He closed the distance in two steps, grabbed the rifle Merle had dropped, and swung the stock in a tight arc that connected with Merle's cheekbone.
The impact made a sound like a baseball bat hitting a watermelon.
Merle went down, the pistol skittering across the rooftop. He hit the surface face-first, blood already streaming from his nose and mouth.
Rick didn't give him time to recover. He grabbed Merle by the vest, hauled him up just enough to get leverage, and dragged him toward the edge of the rooftop where a metal pipe jutted up from the framework.
"The fuck—" Merle tried to fight.
Rick slammed him against the pipe and pulled out his handcuffs. One cuff went around Merle's wrist, the other around the pipe.
The whole thing had taken maybe five seconds.
Merle lay on the rooftop, one arm extended awkwardly where it was cuffed to the pipe, blood running down his face from his shattered nose. He stared up at Rick.
"Who the fuck are you?!"
"Officer Friendly," Rick said flatly. He bent down and picked up Merle's pistol, checked the magazine, and tucked it into his own belt. "And we need to have a talk about acceptable behavior."
He crouched down next to Merle.
"Listen to me carefully. Things are different now. There's no room for your racist bullshit." He paused, making sure Merle was looking at him. "We work together or we die. Simple as that. You understand?"
Merle's face twisted. Blood and spit flew from his mouth as he snarled, "Fuck you. You ain't shit. Soon as I get out of these cuffs..."
Rick sighed.
He pulled the pistol back out, flicked the safety off, and pressed the barrel directly against Merle's forehead.
The rooftop went silent except for the distant moaning of walkers below.
"You were saying something about manners when talking to a man with a gun," Rick said quietly. "I believe the phrase was 'common sense.' That still apply?"
Merle's eyes went wide.
"You won't shoot me. You're a cop. Cops don't just—"
"Right now," Rick interrupted, "I'm a man trying to get back to his wife and son. And anyone who gets in my way is going to have a bad day." He leaned in closer. "You want to test me on that?"
Merle's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
Rick held his gaze for another few seconds, then stood up. He walked to the edge of the rooftop, spotted the small baggie of what was obviously meth in Merle's vest pocket, and without a word, flicked it over the edge.
"Hey!" Merle struggled against the handcuffs. "That's my... you can't just—"
"Already did."
Rick turned away from him, ignoring the stream of curses and threats that followed. He walked to the opposite edge and looked out over the city.
Atlanta stretched out before him. Somewhere out there, Lori and Carl were either alive or they weren't. Lucien was making his way back or he wasn't.
And he was stuck on a rooftop with a racist junkie and a group of strangers, trying to figure out how to survive another day in hell.
Morales came to stand beside him, one hand still pressed to his ribs where Merle had hit him.
"You're not from Atlanta."
"King County," Rick replied. "Other side of the state."
"Huh." Morales was quiet for a moment. "Welcome to the big city, Officer Friendly."
Rick almost smiled.
Behind them, Merle had apparently run out of creative curses and settled into a steady stream of muttered threats. T-Dog was sitting up now, Andrea helping him clean the blood off his face. Glenn was hovering nearby, looking shocked.
---
While Rick was dealing with one disaster after another, Lucien's solo journey back to the department store was proving to be its own special kind of hell.
He had been careful with his magic when drawing off the horde. He hadn't completely drained himself the way he had during some of his early practice sessions. Apparently, careful was not the same as conservative, because his reserves felt dangerously low.
And his body felt worse.
Kids weren't built for this kind of exertion. His legs were shaking, and there was a stitch in his side that felt like someone was jabbing him with a hot poker every time he took a breath.
The city wasn't helping.
Atlanta's streets had been chaos even before the world ended, filled with traffic jams, construction zones, and the usual urban dysfunction. Now they felt like an obstacle course designed by someone with a sadistic streak.
Overturned cars blocked intersections, and collapsed scaffolding sprawled across entire roads. Construction debris covered the streets. Concrete chunks, twisted rebar, and shattered glass formed barriers that turned what should have been straight paths into mazes.
When he'd had the horse, it hadn't mattered. The animal's height and jumping ability, combined with a light touch of the Levitation Charm, had let them sail over obstacles that would've stopped a person on foot.
Now that he was on his own, he had to either climb over each barrier or detour around them, adding precious minutes to his journey. He could levitate himself, at least in theory. With his wand and full concentration, he could manage almost a minute of sustained flight.
But the magical cost was brutal. He needed to keep reserves for emergencies.
The skateboard helped on flat stretches. He'd drop onto it, give himself a push enhanced with just the Levitation Charm, and coast for a while before his legs gave out and he had to stop again. It was exhausting. And every second that ticked by was another second the group might give up on him and leave.
He pulled to a stop behind an overturned delivery truck. Sweat was running down his face. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back.
He pulled out his water bottle, half empty now, and took a careful sip. Just enough to wet his mouth. He couldn't afford to run out.
The department store was visible now, maybe three blocks away. Close enough that he could see the walkers congregated around it.
He tucked the water bottle away and forced himself to focus.