“If they notice you’re gone before we’re far enough away, they’ll be able to run us down. We gotta get out of here without anyone knowing it for a long time.” Martinez looks at Alice, then back at Rick. “Now c’mon—let’s go!”
Rick takes a deep breath—a barrage of contrary emotions slamming through him—before giving the man a terse, reluctant nod. He looks at Alice, and then back at Martinez, who turns and starts toward the door.
“Wait!” Rick grabs Martinez on the way out of the room. “They told me there are guards posted at the door! How are we gonna get past them?”
Martinez almost smiles in spite of the adrenaline. “We already took care of them.”
“We?!” Rick follows him out the door at a fast trot, plunging into the corridor.
Left alone inside the room, Alice gapes at the open doorway.
*
Creeping cautiously down the central corridor, avoiding pools of light from hanging work lamps, descending stairs to the next level down, and making two quick turns, Martinez silently prays nobody sees them. Only he and the Governor know about this whole scam, and people like Gabe and Bruce are partial to shooting first and asking questions … well … never. Martinez silently raises his hand in a warning gesture as they approach one of the stalls. The two men pause in front of a security door.
“I think you’ve met my associate,” Martinez whispers to Rick, quickly opening the metal door.
Inside the dim enclosure, a pair of bodies lie sprawled unconscious on the cement floor. They are a couple of the Governor’s men—Denny and Lou—both of them bruised and battered but still breathing shallow breaths. A third figure, in riot gear, stands over them, fists balled, breathing hard, a nightstick in one hand.
“GLENN!”
Rick lurches suddenly into the room, and goes to the younger man.
“Rick, Jesus, you are alive!” The young Asian in the black SWAT-style body armor gives the other man a hug. With his round and boyish face, dark almond eyes, and short-cropped haircut, the young man could pass for a buck private in the army just out of basic training. Or maybe a Boy Scout, Martinez thinks to himself from the doorway, as the two men have their little tearful reunion.
“I thought you were dead, man,” the younger one says to the older one. “Martinez told me he saw you but I don’t know—I guess I didn’t believe it until now.” The kid looks at Rick’s stump. “Jesus, Rick, there was so much blood—”
“I’m okay,” Rick says, looking down, holding the bloody streaked bandage against his midsection. “I guess I’m lucky this is the only thing that freak took from me. What about you?” He pats the kid’s Kevlar shoulder pad. “They told me they let you go—that you told them everything about the prison, and they were going to follow you there.”
The kid lets out a burst of nervous laughter, which sounds more like a hyperventilating dog to Martinez. “Man—they never even asked me any questions.” Something changes in his face. Eyes narrowing, jaws clamped tightly, he looks down. “Rick, I spent a day locked in a garage next to another garage with Michonne in it.” Another pause here, the boy’s eyes watering with repulsion. “Rick—”
The young man pauses again, looking like he can hardly draw a breath, let alone explain what’s been going on. From across the room, Martinez soaks it all in. This is the first time he has heard the black woman’s name, and for some reason the sound of it—Mee Shaun? Meeshone?—makes him nervous. He can’t understand why exactly.
Rick pats the young man’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Glenn, we’re gonna get her and us outta here.”
“Rick, I love Maggie,” the kid finally says, looking up at the older man through wet eyes. “I don’t want to put anyone in danger—but the things I heard—the things they must have done to Michonne.” He stops again. He looks at Rick and says in a quavering voice, “I think I might have told them anything to make them stop.” He sniffs back the shame. “But they never even asked.” Pause, anger flaring. “It’s like they did it all just to fuck with me.”
It’s time for Martinez to step in and get this fucking show on the road. “That sounds about right,” he says, his voice going low and grave. He gives both men a sullen look as he continues, “Philip—the Governor—whatever you want to call him—he’s been slowly going over the edge for a while now. I’ve been hearing about the shit he’s been doing, whispers, rumors … didn’t want to believe it was true.” Martinez takes a deep breath. “You kinda choose to ignore that stuff—keeps you from having to do anything. After seeing you”—he gives Rick a nod—“I suspected the ‘accident’ that took your hand was related to him.”
Across the room, Rick and Glenn give each other a look. Something unspoken passes between them, and Martinez notices it but doesn’t react.
“He asked me to fill in for his guards,” Martinez goes on in a lower voice, “watch the garage he was keeping Glenn in. I didn’t know he was keeping prisoners in here. I mostly work security—all my time was spent on the fences.” Another breath. He looks at the two men across the room. “I couldn’t let it go on—I had to help put a stop to this fucking insanity.” He looks at the floor. “We’re still human, goddamn it!”
Rick is thinking about it, licking his lips pensively, the lines on his face deepening. He looks at Glenn. “My goddamn clothes.” He looks at Martinez. “My clothes!” He shakes his head. “We were wearing riot gear and when the doctor was working on me … someone had to see what I was wearing underneath.” He shakes his head slowly, looking at the crumbling mortar walls, the arteries of rust or blood veining the corners. “Christ,” he utters.
The younger man looks at him. “What do you mean?”
“The jumpsuit, the orange jumpsuit,” Rick mutters. “That’s how he knew about the prison. How could I be so fucking stupid?”
“Come on!” Martinez has heard enough; the clock is ticking. “We’ve got to get out of here.”