A simple supply hunt for a source of water in the middle of Atlanta turns sour quickly for Erin as she come fist to face with a fuming, handless Merle Dixon.
Alone in the middle of the apocalypse with only a racist guy who doesn't know the differen...
"Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be." - Greatest Love Of All, Whitney Houston
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"Try to keep him calm," Erin instructed Lori as Hershel began to pull out pieces of shrapnel from the boy's chest. Carl screamed out in pain, thrashing about which wasn't helping Hershel's work while Lori frantically muttered soothing words to her son.
Feeling like she'd been thrown in the deep end, the blood on her hands stained the sight of the injured kid into the back of Erin's mind. Briefly removing herself from the bedside, she left Hershel to continue as she went to stand by Rick who was looking a little peaky himself. He glanced at her for a moment before focusing back on his wife and son, worry prominent on his weakened features.
It had been around half an hour since Daryl had left according to the cuckoo clock on the wall in the other room, but she knew he wouldn't be back for a while. What concerned her was how long it was taking the others to arrive; surely it couldn't take longer to get to the farmhouse in a car than it took on horseback?
"Erin, come here," Hershel muttered, not looking up from the bloody mess he was working with. So far he'd only managed to get three of the six pieces of shattered bullet that had entered Carl's torso and the boy was getting paler as he lost more and more blood, "We need another transfusion from Rick. He's losing a lot of blood."
Erin turned to look at the Sheriff, who perked up slightly at the mention of his name, "Come on then, Rick. Let's get you in the other room..."
He swayed momentarily before steadying himself on her outstretched arm as she led him into the kitchen, letting him get seated at the table as she poured a glass of squash and set it to the side, ready for when he needed it. Patricia - the wife of the man that shot the boy - was busy at the sink, wringing out Carl's blood-soaked t-shirt for reasons Erin didn't fully understand, probably so she felt useful. She looked up as they walked in, "Your friends haven't arrived yet? Takin' their time aren't they?"
"Don't know what's taking them so long," Erin replied, gathering the equipment from the side and sitting beside Rick, motioning for him to hold his forearm out, "They'll be here soon, though."
"We won't have enough room for them to stay in the house if that's what you're hopin' for. Every room is occupied and Beth and Maggie are already sharin'," she sighed, rubbing a sliver of soap against the material in her hands and gazing out the window.
"We don't expect you to take us in," Rick said weakly as Erin inserted the needle into his skin. She'd had to do this twice already and, although she'd pointed out how weak Rick was, he was the only person in the house with Carl's blood type. "You've done enough for us already, saving my son..."
Erin remained silent as she watched the red liquid make its way down the tube into the beaker Maggie had found in a cupboard in the basement. Almost as if she'd heard her thoughts, the younger girl came jogging down the stairs only seconds later, her attention focused on the fields outside, "There's cars comin'. Your friends, I'm guessin'?"
