Knife Edge [Daryl Dixon]

Chapter Sixteen - Heart of Fire (1/3)

The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.
Tennyson

The prison was smothered in a gray morning mist, a legacy of the warmer, wet spring Georgia days. But it suited Rick fine. The drizzle that fell with the mist gave him and Daryl cover while they recce'd the prison, and it helped to soften his memories. 

What did he say when Carl helped him limp away after they were run off by the Governor? Don't look back. If only.

A sullen breeze stirred the trees and raindrops pattered the leaves on the bushes around him. He was on the rusted railway tracks near the spot where he first stumbled across the prison more than two years before. And Daryl was by his side, as he was then too. 

Like Rick, he was soaked through. The binoculars they used to watch the prison hung heavy in his hands. Water dripped from his hair onto his drawn cheeks. Whatever he was thinking about was hurting him.

Rick's gaze dropped to a puddle beside his battered boots as it spilled over, the water snaking away to disappear into the ground by Daryl's feet. He wanted to say something to make Daryl feel better but for the life of him he couldn't think what that would be. They were at the prison, there was enough hurt here for everyone. 

On the way down the road, he, Daryl, Michonne and Carol drew maps of what they could remember of the buildings in the main compound and the yard out front. It seemed like a good idea at the time but those careful, detailed maps taunted him now.

Sure, he could see cell Block C where they lived. Where Lori died. And Block A where they quarantined the infected during the flu outbreak. How many people did I lose that time? Ten? More? Even the tank the Governor used to break down their fence and attack the prison still sat, squat and square in the yard. 

But like bumping into an old friend you hadn't seen in years, the prison he remembered was still there, but time had laid down its layers. And time, it seemed, had been kinder to these men than to him and his group. 

Setting aside the solar panels that dotted the compound and the radios clipped to some men's belts, the prison was developed in ways he hadn't dreamed possible. 

An uneven dirt road now circled the entire compound, eating into the forest in places. The red brick wall at the rear of the prison was rebuilt, though the gable end of Block F inside the wall still remained open to the sky. 

He chanced the attack in his mind. Out of the forest, keep low over the road, scramble up the steep grassy embankment, and then find a way over the ten foot wall. All while keeping out of sight of the five manned guard towers around the perimeter wall. 

The cold air stung as he sucked it through his teeth. No-one was getting in that way. No-one alive anyway.

The front of the prison didn't offer better odds. Where the perimeter fence originally meandered to and fro following the lay of the land, this group had squared it off turning the yard into a large rectangle which was separated from the main compound by a solid six-foot metal fence.

And the fence around the yard? He grit his teeth in dismay. This group didn't need to worry about walkers pushing their way through the way he had. The old chain link fence was gone, replaced with buses and trucks parked end to end, their tires removed so they settled firmly into the ground. On top, a walkway ran the barrier's length, punctuated with sandbag bunkers every twenty feet.

His stomach churned. The changes showed how badly he had failed to protect his people, but it was the rough stones these men had laid over the grass, turning the yard into a make-shift parking lot that hurt the most.