CHAPTER THREE !

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Time froze, and the world went quiet. It left Mitch alone in a tunnel of darkness caused by his idiocy.

His mind dragged him across the dirt and pulled under the waves of anger once again. Was that the right call? Shaky hands tore at his hair, tugging at the jet-black locks, searching for answers. Unfortunately, there were none. That harsh voice in his head started to scratch at his brain once again: MURDERER!

Carl Grimes dropped Mitch's carbine to the grass, sights glassy with fright. The boy looked as if he saw a ghost.

Nothing made sense—Mitch felt nothing. His entire body, down his spine, from head to toe, felt numb. Mitch Haines ceased to exist for 60 seconds, even though it felt like a lifetime of misery.

One by one, his senses began to kick in. First, it was hearing. The traumatized girl's screams erupted through the caged walls of his mind. He couldn't make out her words properly—but he didn't need to know what she was saying to know she was in a world of hurt.

     It didn't take long for Carl's voice to ring into the crackling picture.

     "Mitch! Can you hear me?"

By the sound of the boy's strained voice, he must've been trying to get Mitch's attention while he endured the panic episode.

      The second was seeing. After a few bleak blinks, the abyss melted into a blurry version of Carl's edged face. His features were as white as snow, pale and sharp, with the look of fear painting his complexion. His hat was nowhere to be seen. It must've been knocked off during the commotion. His indigo eyes were glassy. Not that he had been crying, but crossed with a true nightmare: witnessing death.

Even though Carl might as well have hated the dead man for forcing Mitch's hand—more like a rifle—he didn't. The boy couldn't help but imagine the man's soul leaving his body and rising through the hazy dawned sky. If God did exist—Dean would burn in hell. But Carl envisioned he still arrived at the Golden Gates, just like Shane.

Finally, Mitch looked in the direction of the screams he heard. But, instead of seeing a wailing girl—he only saw a limp body. Confusion crossed his eyes. He flickered his sights once again, trying to grasp reality. Why could he still hear the screams? What was happening to him? When will it end?

"What're we going to do?!"

Still, Mitch chose not to respond. Ignoring Carl's concerned questions, he pulled himself up from the grass. As he inched closer, the shoutings faded into nothing, which made him feel utterly insane. But his legs still managed to lead him to the crime scene.

     The man he shot lay on his stomach. One side of his face smashed into the dirt while the other met the gloomy sky. His eyes were closed. He was gone. The girl rested a few inches from him, lying on her side with a bloody gash forming above her brow. The red blood pruned into the earth's floor, staining its essence.

Fuck. He thought. The girl was going to die, too.

A bow, along with a quiver stacked with silver arrows, scattered across the lawn beside her.

"We need to get out of here. Now." Was all Mitch said before turning to face his sky blue truck, parked a few yards away.

     Eventually, Mitch glanced at Carl—who was still crouched down holding his ankle—suddenly remembering his injury; thanks to the asshole lying dead before him, he asked, "Are you okay? Can you walk?"

"We can't just leave her."

Like this day couldn't get any worse.

Mitch should've expected the Grimes boy to say this. The girl was bleeding out—dying in front of them, and the first thing Mitch suggested was making a run for it. It's probably not the best life lesson for a child, but whatever. Maybe he was a total dick—or just a person trying to survive. It didn't matter, though, because Mitch knew that no matter what, he would end up helping her; it was the least he could do, anyway.

"We can't stay out here much longer." After a beat, the anxious man cursed, "I shouldn't have fired the fucking rifle." Silently hating on his stupidity.

"The hell is wrong with me?" He murmured in disarray, questioning both himself and his wisdom. Firing a powerful gun like that would shake the trees for miles. There's no doubt that a few walkers plucked from the herds were on their way. Or, even worse, humans. Possibly friends of the two rotting in the soil. The last thing Mitch needed was an entire gun war between another group of survivors for killing one of their own.

"Can you walk?" Mitch repeated, eying the boy with concern.

"Yeah. It just—" Carl rasped, struggling to pull himself from the mud. "Hurts." He breathed out once he finally gained a level balance.

"Yeah, I bet." Mitch sighed. Once again, feeling some shame for all of this. Carl is wounded under his watch. He failed Rick... he even failed himself.

He toiled a few wavered steps and touched the boy's shoulder. He patted him softly, "I'm sorry."

     Carl didn't say anything. Instead, he limped over to Vienna. He studied her features, questioning why her complexion looked so familiar. It felt like he had seen her before.

Who was she?

     "Do you think there's more of them?" Carl's voice interrupted the few seconds of wasted silence that contained them.

     "I hope not." It was the honest answer. "But, if there are—we better get moving." Mitch ran a tired hand through his hair, accepting his fate and that this was actually happening. He could only imagine how angry this would make the group—or at least, put them unease. It's been five days without an accident. He's pretty sure Beth Greene would groan in annoyance while shooting him the classic teenage eye roll while she erased the number on her chalkboard.

Rick would be pissed. That's for sure. Daryl and Carol—maybe? Luckily, he knew Glenn would side with him no matter what.

Instead of shuffling through the list of faces back at the prison who could possibly be upset with him for this mistake, he lowered himself to the grass beside Carl and reached out to check the sullen girl's pulse.

It was faint but still there.

"We probably don't have much time." Mitch held her hand while he spoke, being delicate with his fingers, "Help me get her up?"

The next few minutes were quite the struggle. Considering Carl wasn't much help with his meek arms and injured leg. Mitch was doing the heavy lifting, and it's not like he's the strongest either, especially with his aching wound. But, about ten minutes later, the dying girl was in the back seat.

Carl sat with her. Something about her situation made the boys believe they had a sense of responsibility for her. They were saving her to make it right. Maybe it was for their conscience, like humanity digging itself out of a buried grave, trying to find that hope for warmth. They didn't know—nor did they want to find out. All that mattered was keeping her alive. Because she is innocent. To Mitch and Carl, she seemed like an angel caught in the fire, a naive young woman who found safety in that crazed man. He could have been her father, for all they knew. So, they had to make this right.

     Mitch eyed the dead man, finally realizing he should cover the body. Although he hadn't stopped shaking, he still managed to grab a smoke-gray blanket from the cargo bed of his truck. He tossed the blanket, letting it slowly cover the corpse. Unfortunately, he didn't have enough energy to dig a grave into the earth's rough dirt—so it was the least he could do.

     He scanned the area again, noticing Carl's hat in the muddy grass. He frowned, knowing that the boy would never leave his hat. This situation must've really put him on edge. Sighing, he struggled to lean down and pick up the hat. Once it was in his grasp, he trudged to the truck, opened the door, and placed the hat atop Carl's head for him.

     "Are you okay to drive?" Carl asked, eyeing Mitch's bloody shirt.

     "I'll survive."

The half-hour ride veered into a mere fifteen when Mitch footed the gas. He urgently grasped the steering wheel—it was something Carl couldn't understand. The boy half-heartedly believed that Mitch only sped because he missed driving fast—not because of the dying girl. It's like he missed the old days, racing around the neighborhood like the troublemakers down the street used to. He could hear his dad now, cursing under his breath the second a loud tire screech erupted from the night. The teenager's shenanigans constantly interrupted their family movie night. Rick would mutter about calling the cops, and Lori would retort by reminding him he was one.

Carl became so entranced by memories that he failed to realize Mitch was suffering from an anxiety attack while turning the wheel. His legs bounced uncontrollably while sweat coated his forehead. All he could do was concentrate on the road.

Focus, focus, focus led to a much shorter trip.

When the tall fences that surrounded the lively prison appeared in the distance, Mitch slowed the truck, breaking slightly while he turned up the gravel, heading towards the main barricade. Silently, he hoped someone would be awake to let them in.

     Luckily, the figure of a man emerged from one of the block buildings within the walls. It was none other than Rick Grimes who, of course, would be up at this hour, alert and ready to go.

    Mitch and Carl couldn't see the man's face from the road, but they knew it wasn't good. They could only imagine the pure fury and realization crossing his features. Seeing Mitch's truck appear from the trees at this hour only meant one thing: they left without telling anyone. As Rick watched the car come to a complete stop, he also visualized Beth's number of days being erased. It was something the girl was excited about. Too excited. But it was a good idea to bring them closer together; at least, that's what she told everyone.

     He made it to the main fence in record time. A rapid pace and a tide of aggravation were all he needed. Rick was prepared to lecture his son for leaving with the unpredictable Haines man, followed by an interrogation with Mitch. Still, when his eyes scanned the vehicle, he was taken aback by the unknown girl lying lifelessly against the rear seat.

     Instead of yelling as planned, his entire demeanor shifted, "What happened?"

     The scene itself was all too familiar to Rick Grimes.

    Leaving Greene's farm in search of Hershel with Glenn and Mitch, only to return with an unknown survivor, was a unique mistake.

Fuck history for repeating itself.

Rick honestly didn't know what to expect. These days, everything is unpredictable. The group had finally settled in the prison after taking down the Governor. Now, this girl brought risk to their peace, just like the other straggler, Randy, brought to the group. No one was a fan of him anyway, though.

     "Wake up, Hershel—she's bleeding out."

     The soft and concerned gaze twisted into the well-known Rick Grimes look of disdain. It was scornful. Mitch and Carl knew they messed up, considering it was severe enough for Rick to comply without question. Although, he yanked the fence open with such force that it might've been considered alarming to some. But, the two were no strangers to Rick's rage.

     "Carl, get Hershel. Now." The father demanded to his son sternly.

     Mitch sighed, then pressed his lips into a thin line, "Uh—he can't. I think he might've sprained his ankle."

     Rick blinked. He gave the young man a deadpan look. There was no need to question his anger because the steam rising from his ears was pretty self-explanatory.

• • •

"Well... her heartbeat is stable, for now. She's going to need some rest. I suggest you find an open cell block where she can recover safely." Hershel Greene loosened his hold on Vienna's wrist. After examining it for another second, he gently placed it onto the padded table. He looked around the room before shuffling and reaching for his wooden stick.

He staggered towards Carl, who sat at the table centering the room. Another chair raised his sprained ankle with a pillow on the seat. The injury was already wrapped up tightly. The pressure was relieved, thanks to Hershel. Carl could finally breathe steadily—no more constant aching pain with every slight movement.

"Now, a part of me doesn't want to ask how this happened. But I want to know how you plan to resolve this." Hershel's tone was eerily calm. There was a level of concern for his patients. But, most of his apprehension was aimed at the unidentified and potentially dangerous girl under their roof.

"I'm not sure," Rick grunted, leaning back onto his booted heal; ideas and strategies jumbled around his brain. What could he do?

There were so many things that could go wrong. It was another Randall situation. What if this girl is a part of a group? What if they try to find her? It could get deadly, fast.

The group had been through enough the last few weeks. They needed the peace they were trying so hard to attain.

Mitch saw that look in Rick's eyes, and it was all his fault. If only he slept in today instead of waking so early. His leg bobbed up and down at a ridiculous speed. Hershel noticed this and switched from Carl to inspect him. The bloody wound on Mitch's abdomen was now covered in gauze. Unfortunately, the eggshell white color of the wrap is tainted red. It seemed like the bleeding would never stop.

"For now, she's staying in Cellblock 'H'; it's been clear for almost a day now. She stays there until the others get back from the run. We deal with this as a Council—like we agreed." Rick declared while everyone took his words in like air.

     The plan sounded good—safe, at least.

A few noble council members were on a supply trip; they would be back by dawn within the next two days. So, that gave the girl time to wake up. Then, they can genuinely see what they are dealing with. If her fury is anything like the fresh injury on Mitch's stomach—it wouldn't be good. Daryl, Michonne, Sasha, and Halle needed to be present for this: even Rick's teenage son Nathan and his best friend Charlie, Dale's grandson, the sixteen-year-old boy who's been with them since the beginning.

"Alright." It was Glenn who responded first. His arms crossed tightly over his chest while he eyed Mitch from across the room. "You better have a really good explanation for this... cause—what the hell, man?"

It was almost comedic how foolish the situation indeed was. Mitch and Carl leave for three hours, and all hell breaks loose. The world turned upside down in seconds—now, everything would be different.

They danced with the Devil, and one of his fallen angels slept before them. Now, they m̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ have to face her wrath.

• • •

     The girl stirred in her sleep. She twitched in the night with sharp and rapid breaths, enduring a slumber filled with nightmares. Mitch couldn't help but feel responsible for her suffering. His self-hatred grew daily, like the wildflowers scattered along the prison landscape.

     Mitch watched from afar, perched by the window for his watch duty. Yes, Rick orchestrated an hourly eye on the girl. Why wouldn't he? She was a danger to his people, even if she lay restlessly on the floor, caged by a silver jail cell.

      In all honesty, Mitch expected the watch. He also knew that even with his wound, he would be the first to take over. That girl was his problem. He had to deal with it. Besides, the torture of staying awake with an aching gash reminded him he was still alive. And maybe that was a good thing.

     His leg bounced up and down while his icy blue eyes stayed on the girl. She lay on her side, atop a thin spare mattress along with a few clean sheets and a blanket (thanks to Glenn). A water bottle sat beside her on the floor, awaiting her awakening. There's no doubt that she would be parched the second her eyes opened. Her mossy hair dispersed across the mattress while a few strands covered her closed eyes.

     She looked so innocent.

     Mitch couldn't help but hate himself for what he did. At the moment, it seemed fitting. What if the man killed Carl? There were so many things that could've gone wrong. Maybe taking that shot in the dark was the worst mistake Mitch made... or the best.

      No one would know until the girl woke up.

      It seemed like she'd never rise. Melting into the soft sheets like candle wax—it appeared she belonged there. Cozy and tangled between the soft layers granted her serenity. At least, that's what Mitch's mind came up with. Or maybe he was just that tired and wished he could sleep like her. But lately, it's been complicated with the constant nightmares anyway.

     But the longer he looked at her, the more he realized she wasn't breathing like before.

    Was she dead?

     Raising a brow, Mitch carefully lifted himself off the windowsill and inched towards the cell that contained her. She still dozed, just like before. For a moment, he contemplated opening the enclosure and checking for a pulse but remembered Rick's rule: No one enters the cell alone. He would need backup or Rick's blessing, bull shit. Besides, it's not like he wanted to risk his life again anyway.

     But that humane side of him clawed its way out of the dusk as he reached for the lock, eyes remaining on her until she twitched.

     This made Mitch leap back and stumble over his large boots. After that, he let out a hiss of pain. His wound killed, buzzing with discomfort throughout his entire body. "Fuck." He cursed to himself, "Hershel was right about not moving."

     After a beat, he looked out the window and chucked to himself, "Old guy always has to be right about everything."

"Always." A familiar voice appeared in the doorway.

     Mitch limped back to his post, muttering swear words under his breath with every painful step. When he finally sat down, he fumbled with the light blue hem of his shirt before looking down at his would and then up at his best friend.

"Jesus," Glenn muttered, eyeing his red-stained gauze. "You need to sleep. I'll take watch."

     Mitch sighed, knowing he had to check it for any signs of fresh bleeding. Hershel ordered, so he had to obey. Grinding his teeth, he lifted the edge of the fabric, revealing the thick white patch covering the stab damage.

     Ignoring Glenn's words, he looked over to Vienna. Asshole, he thought. Sure, he understood why she did it or whatever—but, holy fuck did it hurt.

     Luckily, there were no signs of any bleeding. He was in the clear; there was no need for a doctor's visit today.

"Nah—I'm good." Mitch finally responded to Glenn while crossing his arms over his chest.

"Clearly, you're not." Glenn moved forward, sitting next to his ex-coworker by the windowsill. Leaning against the wall, he drew breath, "Fine, but I'm staying here with you." Realizing Mitch would not budge from his statement.

Mitch rolled his eyes even though there was no one else he'd rather have by his side.

• • •

The day felt eternal.

     Mitch and Glenn shared a few casual conversations, unlike their usual banter. Both were stuck with their thoughts, thinking of every worst possible scenario that could unfold within the next few days.

Mitch sat on the floor, his head resting against the steel wall, eyes closed, although he wasn't sleeping. As tired as he was, his body wouldn't allow him a wink of rest. For now, his anxiety-ridden thoughts took over, which is honestly a punishment worse than death.

     He's pretty sure this was Rick's reason behind it all. Forcing Mitch to think about what he did and the consequences of his actions in a time-out like he's a fucking toddler. A toddler with a carbine rifle, at that.

      It didn't take long for Mitch to doze off into a coma-induced slumber. His body checked out. Pure exhaustion took over, and he let go, forgetting his promise of staying awake.

     Glenn's lips curled into a subtle smirk when Mitch let out a quick snore, pleased he was finally sleeping—he deserved a good rest whether he believed it or not.

     It also didn't take long for fate to strike back because a shrilling feminine scream thundered the room and rattled the walls, causing Mitch to surge back to life.

That funny thing called karma shows itself in many different ways.

And the group's element of karma is about to be Vienna Olson. Because, now—she's awake.

NOTE.  She's awake 🔥