Safe haven | Rick Grimes

116. IT ALL BECOMES TOO MUCH

Chapter one hundred and sixteen

"It all becomes too much."

Standing before a concrete wall lined with rectangular windows, Scarlett stands shoulder-to-shoulder with six other draftees. They are dressed in matching consignment uniforms, holding long metal pokers, and wearing protective mesh shields over their faces. A few of the workers anxiously bang their tools against the structure.

"Every assignment leads you closer to enjoying the benefits of becoming a citizen of the Civic Republic," a woman's automated voice drones over the base loudspeakers.

On the other side of the barrier, a heavy gate groans open. The loud rumble of a military truck echoes through the courtyard. Scarlett turns, watching the vehicle drive past the perimeter windows, dragging a thick swarm of snarling walkers behind it. Observing the chaos just inches from where she stands, she can't help but wonder if this place is truly as safe as the higher-ups claim.

Shifting her gaze to the right, she spots the words Grimes 68 crudely etched into the wall. It is the designated clearing number Rick left behind, and the sight of his name instantly anchors her, reminding her exactly why she is standing in this concrete trap.

A sharp growl snaps her back to attention. A walker lunges directly toward her open window pane. Keeping her composure, Scarlett raises her metal poker and drives it clean into the creature's skull. She rips the weapon out just as a second corpse crowds the glass. Stabbing it through the eye, the dark, repetitive rhythm of the work triggers memories of fighting the Whisperers. Driven by the thoughts of her past and the mission ahead, she continues methodically putting the dead down.

Once the walkers are cleared, the draftees are tasked with loading the bodies. Scarlett works at the back of the processing area alongside another woman, lifting a corpse onto a metal gurney.

"Good work out there. We're two hours to transport to Richmond Power Station," the woman's voice drones over the base loudspeakers again.

The woman helps Scarlett lift the dead weight. "You cut through them quick," she notes, her voice muffled behind her face shield. "You out there a while?"

They roll the gurney toward a massive metal storage shelf. "It's the only way you stay alive," Scarlett replies flatly. "How about you?"

"Yeah. Cleo. Cleo Clifton," she introduces herself.

"Sarah Dixon," Scarlett says, using her cover name. "Didn't expect them to have us killing their dead for them."

Cleo shrugs, sliding the body onto a shelf. "Doorstep of paradise."

"Well, my husband preferred being out there, so I wouldn't exactly call this paradise," Scarlett shares.

"Well, before this, I was eating crickets and sleeping in a tree," Cleo counters.

Suddenly, a loud explosion rattles the facility. Scarlett jumps, her muscles instantly tensing as a traumatic memory of the night Carl died flashes in her mind.

"Oh. Disruption charges," Cleo explains, unfazed by the noise. "They drop them to scatter the stiffs if too many build up in one area. Second time this week." She turns back to the work area.

Scarlett takes a breath to steady her shaking hands. "Yeah... my oldest son died while bombs were going off in the distance. It just bothers me."

"I'm sorry," Cleo says sincerely, stepping up to the next pile. "So, what are you? Three-day or six-day shift?"

"What do you think?" Scarlett asks, keeping her tone guarded.

Cleo laughs. "Three. I'm just happy to be paired with someone new who actually knows their shit."